When It Began

Hornung Elementary School: Mrs. Winklepleck's Class 1982

I was in first grade the first time I heard it. We filed in lines, neatly sitting on the dusty gymnasium floor indian style, waiting expectantly. It was a moment frozen in my brain, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. They came in the hundreds, marching to a thunderous cacophony all covered in orange and black polyester with feather plumed hats. I felt the chills racing through my small limbs, every hair on my arms and neck standing at attention. They faced us, standing proudly and a wall of sound hit all of us as their feet marched in time to the white gloves conducting. I wasn't sure which sound came from what instrument, but I knew in my deepest chambers that I had to belong to them one day, and that somehow I already did. I guess it was at a young age when I first recognized my own kind.

No one had to push me into music. I simply needed to make it to middle school so I could join the band. My grandpa used to play Benny Goodman and he'd dance the Charleston with my Grams in the kitchen. I loved it so much that he made me a handful of mixed tapes from the 1940's, and from them I learned to adore the clarinet. That clean, strong, reedy sound that wove itself through the brass and drums; that star shining just a bit more brightly for my ears; that solo that drove out of "Begin th Beguine" and flowered in my heart.

The first days of middle school are muddled now, but I remember clearly being lost. I gripped a sweaty hand around my backpack and walked with trepidation through brilliantly painted orange doors. I fumbled with my locker combination and wondered where my first class was located. The day was long, and when lunch came I didn't know where to sit or with whom. It didn't take long for the hierarchy to form, and I certainly fell below the cool table but above the kids playing magic cards with glasses. My teeth felt sheathed in iron; I wondered when my braces would come off. It seemed like forever. Then seventh hour came around and I was safe. The stale smell of spit and dirty middleschool carpet rose out of nowhere. Rows of lost kids like myself were squeaking and squawking on foreign objects. The flourescent lights flickered overhead, and our band director took a deep inhale. It was a sound that I would learn to listen for for many years to come.