This One Time at Band Camp
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My oldest child is in sixth grade this year, which means he has moved up from the cozy and comfortable elementary school that is decorated floor to ceiling with ladybugs to the more utilitarian and intimidating middle school that looks like a cross between a small community college and a correctional facility.
This transition brings with it fears and uncertainties, but also a whole new world of possibilities. Students can wear oversized hoodies and jeans when the heat index is literally 110 degrees, and they have access to a variety of new subjects like How to Become a Cog in the Capitalist Machine (official course name: Career Exploration) and Beginning Band.
During the first few days of my son’s band class, the teacher introduced all the instruments, and then, the students were given the chance to try them out to find a good fit. The first instrument they tried was the flute. My son said there was good news and bad news. The good news was that he made a sound that was pretty consistent. Better than many of the other kids in his opinion. The bad news? He almost passed out.
Much to consider, but I think we’re placing the flute in the maybe pile.
My son’s recounting of this experience reminded me of the brief encounter I had with middle school band. Am I going to tell you about it? You better believe I am.
I did not participate in band at the middle school or high school level, but I did attend summer band camp before my seventh-grade year (my first year of middle school) that lasted, I think, one or two weeks. A couple of my closest friends who lived in my neighborhood joined me at this illustrious event. Each morning when the sun was hot, the air was wet, and it felt like the rest of the world was sleeping, we piled into the minivan or car of whichever parent was driving that day. To me, it felt a bit unfair. Why should anyone be subjected to additional days at school? Particularly middle school.
The band room smelled like wet socks and baking bread. Not the good kind of bread, school cafeteria bread. The large room was covered in thin, rough, 90s school carpet that looked like rug burn. Chairs were set up in rows along the big, wide steps in the floor that descended to the teacher’s podium (or desk? … I’m not sure) that was drowning at the front. I don’t remember much about the camp except that I hated it because I wasn’t a professional-level trombone player after two or three days of practicing for like ten minutes, and I was extremely embarrassed to play “Hot Cross Buns” in front of everyone. I think I mostly pretended to play and didn’t actually blow into the horn much. I prayed silently the whole time that the clock would run out on the week and my life. It probably didn’t help that I was assigned the trombone after failing at the trumpet. I believed the trumpet was my family legacy because my older brother played it; coming home with the ridiculously shaped case that housed the unwanted stepchild of the brass family felt like treason.
After my less than stellar band camp experience, my musical career ended. If there is one thing I excel at in this life it is quitting at the first sign of resistance. I quit band after two weeks, baseball when I got beamed in the head at the plate by errant pitches one too many times, high school basketball after a few days of summer conditioning that left me on the verge of vomiting and annoyed by a coach who belittled incoming freshmen, Honor’s College at my university because the classes were too small and interactive, and law school about four weeks in after moving four states away from home. This is an incomplete list, but you get the idea. So far, I’m hopeful that my son will be more resilient. At least band seems to be going better for him so far.
In my case, band instrument assignments came after a short period of testing and a very long period of discussion about lip shape and other eugenics-adjacent topics. The band teacher seemed to be fixated on lips and by the end of the first day of camp, all of us were surreptitiously staring at each other’s faces, trying to determine who was worthy of the trumpet and who would be relegated to trombone, or even worse, tuba.
Things seem to have changed for the better in the past thirty years; my son hasn’t mentioned lip shape even once. And he seems to be relatively unfazed by the entire instrument testing process. Perhaps his school is more progressive and welcoming than mine, or, more likely, he is simply far less neurotic than I am. After his class moved on from flute and woodwind testing, he reported that he was “really good” at the brass instruments except for… get this… the trombone!
One other thing you might not believe: my son entered band class wanting to play the trombone! What an amazing time it is to be alive. I never thought I’d live to see the day that a child would aspire to play the trombone. That anyone at such a young age could refuse to kowtow to the cult of the trumpet is almost too fantastical to believe.
I’m hesitant to make sweeping generalizations after experiencing glimpses of about a week of middle school through my child’s eyes but allow me to do just that for a moment. Is it possible that middle school is a more accepting place now? Or that kids today are more comfortable being themselves despite weirdo politicians’ attempts to make them act otherwise? Maybe it’s just my kid or maybe he just hasn’t hit the true adolescent angst phase yet, but if there has been some larger change for the better, I can only attribute it to YouTube. I don’t know how, exactly, but I’m going to workshop some sort of thesis about adolescent empowerment driven by streaming video content. Stay tuned for that one. Smash that subscribe button.
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