Bright colors.
Shiny poles.
Rotations.
Bruises.
Catches.
Drops.
Performance.
Those all come to mind when I think of the flag.
Not the Stars and Stripes.
I mean the flag that I spin more than four days a week.
The flag that I have five of for one show, four full sized flags and one swing flag, plus a rifle I still struggle to master.
The flag, to me, represents…me.
Not to sound conceded or anything.
It can be both beautiful, and dangerous.
Beautiful when it and the other flags are in time, flashing jewel tones and shimmering silks, stadium lights glinting off of the metallic poles.
Dangerous when you miss a catch and it slams into your head or arms, dangerous when you loose count and nearly take out the flute section, dangerous when you accidentally drop the flag and make someone trip and fall.
Beautiful when it spins alone, when all others are stripped and all that accompanies it is the mournful sound of a baritone, or the bright and gay sound of a flute, or the sharp staccato of the snare.
Dangerous when you're going through the rifle line and there's specific sets of work that you have to do at specific counts and if you don't do everything exactly on time you get a rifle in your stomach and you have to continue on, gasping through your smile and trying desperately to get back on count.
Beautiful in the intensity of the first movement.
Beautiful in the compassion of the second movement.
Beautiful in the spirited and fun third movement.
Dangerous in the precision of the angles, the sharpness of the turns, the intensity of the drill.
Dangerous in the length of the shimmering purple silks, showing exactly when you're not with the others and entangling you in the notes and the jewel tones of the behemoth that took the mothers ages to sew together.
Dangerous in the still dirty third movement work, the unsureity of the counts, the weak angles, the instructors yelling at you as you do the work sloppy even though you just cleaned it a half hour ago.
When I think of the flag, I think of the commitment that I've made since the late spring of 2006, the one that I will keep till the late spring of 2011, unless I join a drum and bugle core or get accepted into a college with an outstanding marching band/colorguard program.
When I think of the flag, I think of the endless hours that I've put into the sport (yes, colorguard IS a sport), and the countless hours I will put into it in the years to come.
When I think of the flag, I think of the bruises that I've discovered all over my body, particularly on my forearms and hands.
I think of the friends I've made and will make through guard and marching band, and of the enemies I've made and will make through the same.
I think of the amazing times I've had.
I think of the worst times I've had.
I think of scorching hot summer days, sweating for hours on a hot parking lot learning drill and work and putting them together on a gulp of water an hour, if we're lucky.
I think of freezing cold rainy nights, when your fingertips are frozen because your gloves don't cover them, and your silk keeps on getting tangled and weighs a ton with all the water in it, continually loosing your grip on slippery poles and having to pick up your dropped flag and get back into the spin of things.
I think of gyms where the air's like soup, and of cafeterias with Swiss-cheese ceilings.
I think of having to run like the wind to make sure all of your equipment's set perfectly, being the last one set for the final run through, or worse, a competition, and still finding that when you go to pick it up it's not there, and you have to airflag (or airrifle) it and be submitted to the instructors and your teammate's yells.
I think of practices running way over the nine 'o' clock end time, because the band wants to do that 'one last run' and we the guard's ready to murder them, because all they have to do is walk calmly back to their starting set and assume the ready position, and we have to run helter skelter across the field, switching equipment and stripping silks, continually yelled at over a crackling loudspeaker to move your butt and glared at by the band when you nearly slide into your position, panting heavily and then you have to have your head up and perform, connecting to the crowd and increasing their energy, making them want to watch you (and not because you were the first one that made a mistake), making them stand up and cheer through the sheer emotion of the show.
I think of long bus rides, struggling to keep your lunch down even though nerves, the bouncing, and the perfume someone sprayed making you want to see it again.
Of the nighttime bus rides, where everyone is exhausted and you keep on wanting to lean against your friend in the seat next to you and fall asleep, but you can't because you're still in uniform and PDA's not allowed.
Of the whispered conversations that you vaguely overhear as you become involved in your own whispered conversation, trying to pass on all that you know to an 8th grader that isn't even in your section, just because she reminds you of how you were in that grade, and in the grade before, and in the grades before that.
Of the crack of dawn (alright, nine 'o' clock, sometimes ten) report times, when everyone is still asleep and cranky, except for those few individuals who actually like being up early and are annoyingly cheerful, those that just make you want to shove something in their mouths to shut them up.
Of the drumline terrorizing everyone on their scooters, doing various stunts and tricks before and after practice.
Of the pit taking their instruments up to the field, looking like a parade, especially the ones riding the carts pulled by the ATV.
Of the flutes continually being yelled at to do it right, of the high pitched notes that are mostly out of tune, of the missed step offs and out of time marching.
Of the clarinets, with their abnormally tall male leader and mournful notes.
Of the saxophones, who no longer have your best friend in their ranks.
Of the mellophones, who you sometimes mix up with the baritones, even though you know all of the baritones.
Of the baritones, who you're close with, and who rival the flutes with their feet being out of time. (Sorry guys)
Of the trumpets, who have had various cracks made about them because all nine of them are male, and who think they are superior to every other section in the band, even though they make mistakes just like every other.
Of the three girl tubas, even though one of them is actually a guy and plays the sousaphone, who have to have the strongest arm muscles on the field bar the guard, simply because they must carry their behemoth instruments on their shoulder, play said behemoths, and go from one end of the field to another in eight counts.
Of the colorguard, the thing you have pledged years of your life and practically all of your free time to, the thing that has made you in the fittest shape of your life, the thing that sometimes makes you come home glowing because you got the new work perfectly and had a perfect run through, the thing that sometimes makes you come home crying because you kept on hitting yourself and couldn't get any of the new work, how catty the girls can be, how unfair it is that the two new girls get treated better than yourself and the three other guard sophomores…But yet, the feeling of comrade, the sweaty exhilaration when you finish the show and strike a pose, throwing your flag up and letting it fall behind you, knowing you gave it your all and that's all you needed to do.
Knowing what needs to be worked on will be worked on.
What needs to be fixed will be fixed.
That however that practice made you feel, withier it made you walk on air or made you want to die, that there will always be someone to share in your joy or comfort you.
Guard is more than just spinning bright colors and wooden rifles and metal sabres.
Guard is more than just uniforms that vary in attractiveness.
Guard is more than just something to do.
Guard is more than words can explain.
Guard is…indescribable.
Guard is like me.
Guard IS me.
It is what I do.
It is what goes through my head when I'm trying to go to sleep on a battered and bruised body.
It is what helped me bloom, making me confident in all that I do.
It is what helped me smile, proving that I am more than just a nerdy girl.
It is what changed my entire outlook on life.
It is what made me who I am.
And to think, I never would have been writing this if four of the indoor guard hadn't come to my middle school, performing on the stage and accidentally knocking a microphone cover off, impressing a seventh grader in the spring of 2006, making her join up into the cult, making her join the activity that would change her life.
The activity that has given her too many bruises to count.
The activity that made her go to the emergency room on the thirtieth anniversary of Elvis's death, first casualty of band camp, to get six stitches in her eyebrow.
The activity that has made her stronger.
Swifter.
Passionate.
Intense.
The activity that involves the spinning and tossing, never twirling and throwing, of flags and rifles and sabres, of dancing and performing, the activity that is indescribable.
Simply put.
It's colorguard.