Growing up in a military family, marching band was, well – military.  Precision and men in uniforms playing marches.  That was my idea of marching band.  My dad was quick to sign me up for band in 4^th grade and while I was hoping to play flute, the embouchure was alas, difficult to find, so the music dealer said, “let’s try clarinet”.  Not as cute as the flute and it had a nasty tasting reed, but it was what it was.

Band was fine. In middle school I sat in the first row, probably thinking I was all that.  As a ninth grader, I would listen to a friend who was a year older than I tell stories about all the great things they were doing in high school marching band. Marching band.  Yes, I remember my dad taking me to a high school football game once just so I could see the marching band saying “one day you’ll get to do this”.  I wasn’t so sure.  The uniforms weren’t pretty and it was at a football game. How boring could you get?

But band was fun, so when the time came to go to high school, I of course signed up for band.  Now, this was high school band in Kentucky and they take their marching band seriously, so it wasn’t like I had a choice.  Everyone did marching band in the fall, so like all the other Sophomores, I too boarded the yellow school bus for the loud, hot, bumpy ride to band camp. I’m pretty sure I still have the letters I sent home.  It was hot, everything hurt, I was tired like I had never been tired before, and we did nothing but march, eat and sleep.  In the sun, in the rain, on blacktop, in the mud, on the grass.  Why in the world would civilized people want to do this?  And in our band, you weren’t guaranteed a place until several days into camp, so if you wanted a spot, you had to do this AND pretend you loved it so much that you would always run back to your last dot.    

At the end of the week, we ran the show the last day and I. WAS. HOOKED.  It’s insane, I know.  I was sunburned, my knees were killing me, my teeth were going through my bottom lip and I freaking loved it.  I was now running back to my spot because I couldn’t wait to run it again.  Now I just had to learn how the game of football was played so I wasn’t completely bored.

I always wanted to be a dancer and take dance classes.  Money was tight and when I asked for lessons, I was told I was in band and couldn’t do both.  Marching band turned into my dancing experience.  Not only was I moving to music, but that movement enhanced the music.  I mean, can you name a dancer who plays the music they’re dancing to?  It was during that time that I attended my first drum corps show, the “marching arts” as we call them now.  Marching band, while still occasionally military in style, was a combination of art forms on the football field, music, visual art and dance. By the time I was in college, it really felt like dancing, made all the better because I was among others who felt the same way. 

I became obsessed with feet.  Well, not feet per se, but how the style of the marching needed to reflect the music.  As the years went by, teaching feet was my thing because it was my chance to dance.  Dancing on grass, moving to phrases, staying within the form with others, changing direction on a dime with complete control of your core. Months of work to create a seven to eight minute extravaganza. It’s completely crazy and there’s nothing like it.

If you were ever a part of this activity, you completely understand and it’s hard to explain it to those who have not.  Why in the world would anyone move around on a football field playing an instrument in the sun, rain, sleet or snow?  They do it to dance on the grass.