Saturday, March 3, 2007

And the shorts get packed away again.

Good-bye, warm weather. Hello, cold front!

My skinny, tan less legs were just getting used to sunlight, when the temperature decided to drop from 75 degrees, to 57 degrees. Funny? I beg to differ. Although I would always rather be cold than sweating, this is too much. Thanks to this weather, I am cooped up inside, forced to work on an extra-credit project for chemistry 1 honors, while some weird balding plumber fixes my parents shower.

And all my friends had plans to go to the beach...

I almost laugh, because somehow I knew I would not be able to join them. Somehow I knew something would come up to postpone our plans. Well, actually, something came down to postpone it. [In a childish tone] Stupid weather. *pouts*

Well, I suppose I should get started on that project. It is 10 test points after all. (Thank you Mrs. Priddy.)

Sincerely yours,

Cold and Contemplative

Friday, March 2, 2007

Another day in the life...

I thought when I quit marching band that it would be such a blatant release that I could not possibly miss it... And yet somehow, I do.

I see "all those band kids", huddled together, blissfully unaware of the cold reality of a lonely high school student's life. Huddled in the library, taking comfort in knowing these authors will not torment me so. Then again, I certainly was not expecting the events that led to my leave taking to occur at all...

I spent my freshman year in the rush of learning the tricks of the trade; in other words, learning to run complicated marching steps while playing even more complicated 16th-note runs on a tenor saxophone-that was 10 percent of my body weight, I would later find.

It was not until my sophomore year that I realized how harsh the system worked. This was the Holocaust of the 21st century: Director Kevin Ford was Adolph Hitler, the upperclassmen in leadership were the Nazis, and we, the trembling "noobs", were the Jews and gypsies and gays and blacks. They molded us, forced us to conform. We were not allowed to express ourselves. It was George Orwell's 1984 and I was Winston Smith.

Now, if you will recall, I was carrying an instrument quite large compared to myself, and yet essential to the band as a whole. This caused painful tendinitis in my right wrist, my right knee and my right ankle. Tendinitis, for those of you unaware of the problem, is sort of like arthritis, however, instead of affecting the bones, it affects the tendons- the parts that attach the muscle to the bone. Naturally, the pain in my leg threw off my gate and eventually the tendinitis spread all the way up my leg through my hip and into my lower back. When in runthroughs- a quick run of the part we just went over in marching band practice-my eyes would water, I thought to myself, It will all be worth it. Like the great Stephen King says,' everything is eventual'.

After a while, that optimistic attitude wore off. During breaks, I was forced to give up my water runs, for my injuries caused too much pain and exhaustion for my to cross the football field for a drink of which would only last but 30 seconds thanks to Hitler- I mean, Ford.

And all the while, I was constantly told that I was letting the band down. I was told that I was not working hard enough. I was even told that I sucked and- and I quote- "sound like a goose when I play". Even the instructors caused emotional anguish. I was brought to tears on more than one occasion by are drill teacher, Johnny Zollo, or as I liked to call him, our Drill Sargent.

My parents spoke with the Furer on numerous occasions of this abuse, yet I continued to be martyred to the point of emotional breakdowns in the school restrooms. My physical exhaustion caused me to puke and faint as they continued to badger me to "get back on the field!"

But I did not tell my parents the full extent of this abuse until it was too late, the marching season was over, the scars were there and would not heal easily. My pride and wish to please kept me from voicing my opinion and I was eventually left no choice but to leave the environment, granted many other circumstances contributed to said leave-taking.

I end this with one question: Was I wrong to leave?

Sincerely yours,

An anguished teen