The words were: “Who do you think you are?” They landed on
my spinal cord with a load of past memories that made the weight initially
painful. These words, spoken by a marching band director, came over the field’s
public address system, making me initially complicit. I was part of the public,
after all. We had arrived at this place to watch a rehearsal of our steadfast
friend from high school. She was taking this moment to relive a bit of her
youth, appearing in the color guard of the alumni drum and bugle corps with
whom she had spent summers with so many years ago. She was back, as were her
friends who had marched with her back in a previous century. In high school. A
place and time that had brought us together initially.
The sound of a director’s voice gave us all a twinge of
post-traumatic stress. We had all grown used to that sound as members of a high
school band. Marching band. I have often referred to this period as the time I
was involved in a paramilitary organization, one that brought me closer to a
group of folks who continue to hold very special places in my life. Including
the woman I married. All of which does not fully explain the trauma part. That
was a function of being led through our learning experience through high
expectations and competition. I didn’t play team sports in high school. Except
for band, and that was plenty when it came to the ritual humiliation of
adolescents who were already on shaky ground. They were in marching band, for
heaven’s sake.
When I grew up and went to teacher school, one of the things
I was taught was that students learn best when the compliment to criticism
ratio is kept at a pretty solid five to one. Five encouraging things to one get
to work on that. Building confidence aids learning. This was not something our
high school band director had encountered on his way to being in charge of a
group of teenagers. Or if he had, he had made other choices about how to handle
them. Breaking those fragile egos in the service of getting a core group of
like-minded members seemed to be his ethos, and constant haranguing seemed to
be his best hope of getting our spirits broken. The intent, it seemed to come
out the other side a lean, mean, marching machine. Clipboards and bullhorns
were thrown. As were tantrums. Not by the kids, but by the nominal adult in
charge. “That’s wrong! Can someone please tell me when we will start getting
this right?”
And so it went. We shed our uniqueness for a uniform
determination to be the best of die trying. We won some of our competitions. We
came in second or third in others, and each result was met with sparing
approval. We shouldn’t ever get too proud of ourselves. There was always
something we could improve.
As I sat there in the stands, watching this group of
dedicated grown-ups perform with drums and flags and horns at a level I had
never attained myself, I was struck by the notion that their dedication was
never in doubt. These were folks who had shown up years after they had aged out
with the hope of leaving one more great show on the field. What made this guy
think he was going to get better results by hollering at them?
The good news is that after that rehearsal, some of the
adults took it upon themselves to speak to the adult “in charge.” They didn’t
like being talked to that way, especially after donating their lives and limbs
to the cause one more time. Knock it off with the “Who do you think you are?”
jabber. They knew. They would be successful. On their terms. It made me happy
to know that someone had spoken up, if not for me, then for the bandies who
came before and after me. Who did he think he was? My high school band
director? Too bad. That past is buried now.
1 comment:
Yep.
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