Two years ago, I stepped onto a football field for the first time

A freshman who missed band camp already at a disadvantage

Left and right swirled in my brain,

I could not keep my feet straight.

The counts of eight beats that everything rests upon

Were eight beeps of a buzzer yelling “ERROR, ERROR”.

I didn’t play a single note that year;

I was too busy trying to salvage my movements,

The part that people could see.

There were one hundred yards of places I could stand,

I always chose the wrong one.

There are lots of things to cry about your freshman year:

Strict teachers, hard classes, mean girls,

But I only remember crying over marching band.

Afraid I would never figure it out.

One year ago, the whole thing started again:

My sophomore season.

I’d survived the first year, so surely I could do another

I stood on the turf, nervous, but not in tears yet

Ready to try and get better.

Slowly but surely, my feet straightened themselves out,

My body and the counts of eight began to line up,

The yard lines and hash marks and diagrams

Began to look less like a spinning compass,

And more like something I could navigate.

I discovered I had actually had enough brain space

To march and play at the same time.

Standing at attention, tall and proud,

Didn’t hurt anymore, it was comfortable.

Then October rolled around and the season came to a close.

I looked around and saw that I was miles ahead of where I started,

I saw new friendships that only band could have built,

And I decided that I could do this.

This year, as a junior, I am a different kind of rookie.

I am a section leader now.

I have 12 precious flute players to lead

They remind me of my younger self:

They lose their gloves and can’t find their spots.

And suddenly I cannot be nervous or confused

I must teach them where to put their feet and how to play well

I watch these girls grow just like I did

They go from stumbling along to marching proudly,

And I grow with them.

My voice gets louder, my instructions more confident

Suddenly, all the things that used to feel like they were crushing me

I am standing over them, triumphant

The marching band field has become the place I am my best self

I grind my heels against bits of turf;

Inevitably they find themselves in my socks.

And it is a comforting kind of hurt.

Next year will be my senior year,  my last marching show

I can guarantee I will cry more than I ever did my freshman year

Not out of frustration anymore;

Instead because a part of me is coming to an end.  

I will look up into the stadium lights for the last time,

Out of breath and full of pride,

After marching my heart out.

I will take my last bus ride full of sad music and sweet tea.

My girls will gather close and laugh together

Embracing the ridiculously cold seven a.m. rehearsals  

New bittersweet friendships will emerge  

I will grow even more confident,

And leave this town with years of memories,

Looking back on high school

And finding rock solid proof

That I am capable of more than I thought,

Of learning to do what seems impossible.

It’s all thanks to marching band.