There's something about music that speaks to the soul. It fills you with feelings and can make you happy or sad; want to conquer the world or sit and ponder what's coming next. Music truly is a language that crosses all barriers and lets you speak to anyone- it's almost like magic, but different.
Maybe that's why I liked it so much, growing up. I was kind of awkward my whole life, and although I had friends, books were usually better than people. When band became an option in middle school, I began learning the trumpet, and although it helped me meet people, it also let me focus and spend hours in my room perfecting my new skill. I got a private teacher, and whereas books had been my best friend, now music was. Of course, now I also had real friends to actually hang out with- the trumpet section was full of loud, rambunctious, funny people who I normally would never have known.
When high school came around I joined the marching band, and actually developed something of a social life. I went to football games (to perform, of course) and when several trumpets got together, we practiced some (but there was usually food and fun involved). I lived in Jule, Tennessee, attending Jule Alair High School (named after the town's founder). The only downside was that I had committed the unforgivable sin of being an Alabama fan. Mr. Edsel (the band director) was a staunch Tennessee Volunteers fan, and heaven forbid you walk into his office wearing any other teams' colours. Once I wore an Alabama shirt to school and walked in with a question about the music, and he pointed right at my shirt with a glare and said, "What on earth are you wearing?" Needless to say, he wasn't happy about it.
We went to band camp every year I was in the band. Cumberland University was a small university, but one of its majors was the arts-both visual and performing. It was about 100 miles from Jule, offering us a small vacation from our parents and an entertaining time. We showed up Sunday and left Saturday, stayed in some dorms on campus, ate in the cafeteria, marched on their soccer field (we spray painted hashes), and had sectionals in their classrooms. It was great, and every night we had an activity- Sunday was orientation (yawn) Monday was the senior party (whichever theme they picked, followed by a nice, welcome-to-band-camp prank) Tuesday was the male beauty contest (yikes), Wednesday was the talent show, Thursday was a pizza party(you're almost finished) and Friday was the dance. Saturday morning we performed, and then went back home.
Our sectional teacher was easily the best while we were there. His name was Scott Calder, and he'd marched at the University of Tennessee and was a band director at a middle school in another county. We all called him Scott, and routinely shouted his name, poked fun at him, and other things you'd expect trumpets to do. Although I was never the ring leader, I usually ended up getting pulled into it, and the punishment (usually just a scolding) was always worth the fun we had doing whatever mischief it was.
Then I graduated. I got accepted into the college of my dreams- the University of Alabama. My major was music therapy. I always loved music and knew it had a powerful effect on people, and so the idea that music could help people recover from injuries and help get well was perfect for me.
I had an apartment off campus- that way I could own a car and could avoid awkward dorm mates and scary sororities. My parents helped me move in, and once they left, I got my first real taste of freedom. That first night, I Skyped with a few of the trumpet players, who were now at Tennessee. They were dorm mates and had decked out the entire room in orange, which I loathed but they loved. My own apartment was furnished with stuff from Ikea, and they didn't find that nearly as impressive. But I had privacy and my own kitchen.
The Million Dollar Band accepted me into their trumpet section, and I began marching with them. The section was all boys and had about 35 members. It was a huge scandal that I made it at all, and an even larger one that I tested into the highest concert band on campus and made first chair, beating the section leader (he was second). Talent aside, most people were pretty nice to me and I made more friends. The drum majors regarded me as a prodigy, as did Dr. Ozzello. It was nice, but they kept high expectations of me, and if I couldn't play something near perfect the first time, their lips always turned down a little.
That summer was also the year Scott left. He moved to take care of his mother, and Mr. Edsel called me up. The position was open; I would be paid a pretty nice sum of cash, and get to instruct band camp. I was 19, and although I had some concerns about the seniors respecting me, they knew me. Last year I had marched with them, and hopefully, that would mean they would listen and we could all have fun together, like old times, only a little different.
All the instructors showed up at Cumberland Sunday afternoon, while the students wouldn't show up until five. We sat around one of the lounges, talking about our summers so far, how college had been, and so forth. One of the girls I knew, Danielle, was also back helping with the bass clarinets. She tossed her hair with an evil glint in her eye.
"So what's the University of Being-A-Traitor like?" She, like most of band, was Volunteers fans. I laughed, like she'd intended, and answered despite the insult.
"Alabama is pretty nice. The band is awesome, although I am the only girl in the trumpet section." She stared at me.
"Seriously, the only girl? I pity you; at least there are two of us at Tennessee. Although, being girls, I think they enjoyed initiation more..." At the mention of 'initiation', every ear cocked to our conversation. Initiation was a big deal in college bands. You do something embarrassing or unseemly and your section or the band accepts you. If you refuse, you're an outcast for the year and most likely encouraged not to come back. Just at the thought, my cheeks turned red.
"What was initiation for you?" She tossed her hair again, a habit when she was planning something, nervous, or just acting unnatural. Whatever it was, it couldn't be as bad as mine. The bass clarinets were a small section, so whatever they did, they would want their members returning and would encourage participation.
"We had to eat some dog food. It was pretty gross, but we didn't have to eat too much so it was horribly awful. And after we did it they forgot it ever happened and we all went on with our lives. I pity the rookies, but I'm sure they'll get over it. What was initiation for you?" My eyes focused on the carpet, catching the pattern. I noticed the stain of Coca-Cola, where a piece of furniture had been moved. Tension swooped in as I took longer and longer to answer. She gave off a nervous laugh. "Come on, what was initiation?" I bit my lip.
"Well, I mentioned how I was the only girl in the section..." She laughed just a little bit and tossed her hair, scooting closer to me.
"That's not answering my question. Cough it up, we're all friends." I raised my eyes and realized that the instructors, who had been here when I was a student, and Mr. Edsel, were not looking at me to tell for a good laugh. They had concern written in their faces, more concerned about hazing and my well-being. This couldn't be pretty.
So I squeezed my eyes shut and forced it out of my mouth. "They make everybody strip." The small smile wiped off her face, and Mr. Edsel rose from his chair and strode across the room toward my seat on the floor. My eyes opened to stare at my shoes, too ashamed and embarrassed to look at anyone's faces.
"Megan, tell me they didn't make you do that." My arms locked around my knees, my head stayed facing the ground, and it was so silent you could hear a pin drop. Tension was thick in the air, and my face was as red as a tomato. "Megan—"
"Can we not talk about it?" He finally seemed to notice all the other people in the room, the people obviously staring at us. He pulled me up by my arm and hauled me out the door, and as the door closed behind us, the conversation turned to the weather.
Once we were outside, his eyes bored into my skull, and I knew he wouldn't repeat the question. I focused on a line of ants, carrying bits of a discarded potato chip to their ant hole a few feet away. Without lifting my eyes, I answered.
"Yes, it happened." He slapped a hand over his mouth before a swear could slip out and ran his fingers through his hair. This was the inevitable explosion.
"I can't believe they did that to you! I'm calling Dr. Ozzello; this has got to be reported." He paused for just a moment, and when I opened my mouth to protest, he spoke again. "Please tell me they didn't do anything besides look. Tell me they didn't...they didn't touch you." The blush I had thought was going away came back with just as much ferocity.
"God no! And you can't tell Dr. Ozzello, or we could end up going to court or even losing the band. We're the University of Alabama, and a few incidents aside, we don't have scandals. This doesn't happen to us. Please don't tell anyone, this really is all fine. It only happened once, and it won't happen again. It's just initiation; it's the thing that happens. The boys have never voices a single complaint, and it's just like what the fraternities and sororities do." He sighed again, having realized the consequences of trying to do the right thing. It was true- besides some issues with a few coaches and the football team; we didn't really have problems at the school. Out of most scandals that could happen- like the sex scandal at Penn State, or the resignation of President Hoffmann at the University of Colorado, a few qualms in our football team could be easily overlooked. And Mr. Edsel knew that.
"You're right; I can't report it without risking the band program. But I hate to think about that happening to you- or any of the other freshmen." I shrugged and focused on getting a small piece of gum off of my shoe.
"I have no power over it. Now can we not talk about this again- the students should be arriving in about half an hour and you know they'll be some kids showing up early." He nodded and clapped his hand on my shoulder as we went back inside.
Thankfully the conversation had shifted to what had happened over the summer, and Danielle was chattering excitedly about her trip to Missouri. She couldn't even finish before we saw the first car pull up, and we all grinned at each other. The chaperones filed out from a room down the hall where they were having a pre-band camp meeting, and we began helping unload. After the first car, there was another, and then the floodgates slowly opened. Other students helped their friends, and we all became the dam to help control the flood.
The instructors at band camp stayed in the dorms as well. They had five floors, and the students were split up by grade, while the instructors had the first floor (seniors had second, juniors third, and so forth). It meant they knew where our rooms were, and sometimes we were subject to pranking, but no one knew which instructor was in each room (unlike the students, we didn't put names on the door). We also didn't have a Boys Hall and a Girls Hall. If Mr. Edsel trusted and respected you enough to let you come back and instruct band camp, he trusted that if your room connected to someone's of a different gender, nothing was going to happen. Of course what you do at night is your business, but we were at band camp and most of the same rules applied for instructors/chaperones as they did for students. No smoking, no alcohol, and no PDA (public display of affection). It didn't matter what age you were.
Orientation started that night at seven. All of the instructors (aren't we cool) got to sit down on the stage as Mr. Edsel (who insisted we call him Chris or Christopher) say hello to everyone, welcome them, and let them listen to the show all the way through. Then he introduced the chaperones (who stated the rules by acting out a skit) and introduced all of us. As soon as he got to me and said I attended the University of Alabama, there was a huge sound of protest from the crowd. We were in Tennessee, and I laughed as he hushed them up and said just this once, it would a forgivable sin. After we were done there, most of us took an early night, storing up as much sleep as we could for the week.
Monday we all started out with coffee. The students technically weren't supposed to have any (for every cup of coffee, you have to have two cups of water), but the instructors weren't marching or anything. So while they all held attention and waded through lines, we got our breakfast first and chatted.
We started morning block at nine. The rookies had learned how to march at pre-band camp the previous week, and now they were putting their skills to use. The show theme this year was 'Reflections' with three pieces on reflections of form, light, and sound. Together it was a little more than seven minutes and had 57 total sets, a Grade 5 show. We started off learning how to read drill charts and then setting, and we got five pages on before lunch at noon.
Lunch came before two hours of sectionals. It felt off to be in charge of it- I had always been in one, not running it. But I tried to remember what I had observed from Scott and people who came to work at Bama. The freshman had no idea who I was, and the sophomores barely remembered me. The juniors and seniors, however, gave off a mixed feeling of being happy to have me back and slightly hostile that I was replacing Scott and so young. After all, I had just marched with then last year and was barely into college (at a rival school!). Could I really know that much more than them?
After getting them under control and introducing myself, I did manage to teach them a few things. The underclassmen listened pretty well, and those were the ones who needed a little more guidance anyway. Hopefully it would get better as the week went on.
Free time was for two hours after that. I stayed to practice the show music-there was some complicated notes, and I wanted to be able to play it perfectly for the section when it came time. I wouldn't be a hypocritical teacher, asking them to play something I couldn't. So I sat and practiced for a little while.
Then I heard a timid knock on the door. I would never have known a soul was there until I heard that knock, and once I stopped playing, a girl slipped through the door.
"I'm sorry if I interrupted something." I shook my head and she continued. "Mr. Edsel said you might be willing to help me with my concerto audition." She clutched her trumpet case with both hands, awkward and nervous.
"You're auditioning for a concerto? That's pretty impressive, but you weren't in my sectional just now." To be successful enough to audition for a concerto, when you're all alone on the stage playing a piece by Mozart, usually meant you'd been playing the instrument for a very long time. Most people also marched their first instrument, which was the one they were most talented on and most comfortable. Even though I'd learned French horn, I only ever marched trumpet, and it had always been my favourite.
"Trumpet is my first, but I march saxophone. I like the saxes as a section just a little bit better than the trumpets." That was understandable. The trumpet could be played by anyone, but the trumpet section was definitely not for everyone.
"Of course I'd be willing to help you. Which concerto is it?" Her eyes shined at my agreement, and she pulled up a chair and a music stand. The music she placed on the stand on was Trumpet Concerto in D Major. She began taking out and assembling her trumpet as she filled me in.
"I've been working on it by myself, and with my teacher, but he takes July off and we only just got it in June, so I'd like some more insight. Auditions are in December and the performance is in April." I nodded, reviewing the music set before me and remembering when I had memorized this exact same concerto just this year. This girl certainly had her work cut out for her. Wait, this girl?
"We didn't have a proper introduction. I'm Megan." She smiled, a smile that was warm and happy and lit her entire face. She pressed down and oiled her valves.
"I'm Elizabeth. Mr. Edsel said you're extremely talented." I turned away at the compliment, suddenly a little shy, and pulled out some scales. We both had them memorized, but it signaled for practice to start. And I wasn't used to flattery and adoration, especially not from someone so close to my age that looked at me as if I held the keys to a magical, music-filled kingdom. Yet I'd only known her for a few minutes, the quite seriousness that overcame her when she saw the scales and the look in her eyes when she began playing the music, made me think that she was like a sponge. Anything I told her, any pointers or advice, would be filed away in her mind so that she could be perfect. She already had discipline and talent, and perfection was what every musician strived for. I told her she had potential, and she just looked at her shoes and thanked me for my time and energy. The show music didn't need that much practice anyway.