I am trying to improve my writing skills and several of these little websites give you topics that make one think and flesh out a couple of paragraphs. One I saw was "Your biggest regret". Here we go.
I can still hear Mr. Elliott yell, "Hit on the heel and roll off of the ball of the foot and glide...glide...". Here we were burning up, lugging our stupid instruments and working on marching execution in the August heat. We were exhausted and burnt and frustrated and done. So, as often happens in the mixture of exhaustion and hysteria, we got punchy. As a sophomore, I was no longer the tortured freshman at band camp. I had respect, and respite, from the upper classmen. The torture was no longer mine to bear. But as with all titles, when one outgrows theirs, it passes on to another. I was a saxophone player and one of the few girls in the midst of some pretty off color and fairly cruel guys. Not all of them, but quite a few. One freshman, an awkward, pudgy, geeky kind of guy, won the unlucky slot of tortured freshman in our section. A heat exhaustion discussion began with the topic of toe jam. Why? I don't know. Maybe 10 hours of marching a day with sock and shoes produced a lot. That then turned toe cheese and then "butt jam". Here I was, the lone girl sax player on my side and also the only one who had parents who hated the word "butt". So, why I said the term, I don't know, but I did. "Butt Cheese". Hysterical laughter exploded from the guys. Then the cruelest one of them all turned and, with an evil glint in his eye, looked straight at the poor freshman. "That's what your new name is....'Butt Cheese'". His face fell and my chest and head burned with the horrible feeling of conscience kicking. The rest of the week he was greeted in the dining hall, on the field and in sectional by his new name. The new name was placed into different well known television theme songs and popular music. They made him do a special dance, all under the blanket of "Acceptable Band Freshman Torture". The last night, before initiation-Hell Night activities, the parents were invited to come and see our progress. Being in the band I was in was a big deal. At that time, we were the best high school marching band in south east...probably the east. Now they are one of the best in the country. Even in the beginning stages of our program for the fall, we drew a big band camp audience. For some reason at this practice, our band director decided to recognize each of our freshman individually. When the poor freshman was mentioned, the one guy in our section yelled "BUTT CHEESE" at the top of his lungs for all to hear. A loud chuckle erupted and my head dropped. The boy's pale skin turned bright pink and then crimson. I wanted to be sick. The performance ended and then we dispersed for the evening's activities. Ignorance is bliss and I forgot about the shame of earlier and messed around with my friends. The next morning we had our last practice before going home. We were all at attention when our director, Mr. Fleming, said, "Hey saxophones...you missing anybody?". We all glanced around and noticed an absence. We were then notified that the humiliation of the parent performance AND the torture of the week was too much to bear and he had gone home. The sickness I felt then is one I still feel today when someone mentions band camp. He then took the next ten minutes to ream and cuss us out in epic style. Rightfully so. While I did not participate in the teasing, I did not stop it either. I, though not intentionally, had given him his name. I felt then, and still do today, the sickness of what went on...especially when, my child is the subject of cruelty. He did come back to band, well concert band, which I thought was pretty darn gutsy of him.
One of my biggest regrets? You damn well better believe it. I will never forget his name or will I ever be able to rid my chest of the burning heaviness I feel from the guilt of nonaction. I can only pray he is doing well and that he forgives the whole of us someday. Night all....
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
That took guts to write, especially where others can read it.
ReplyDeleteI remember the washes of emotion when someone else was the target & not me. Relief, it's not me, fear, am I next, & shame, why couldn't I have the courage to speak out. For me, fear was always the strongest. I always tried to stay unnoticed or escape.
I played sax in band, but our school's band was small & not very good. We were all band geeks to the rest of the school. Since we were all targets, we protected each other & there was little intra-band bullying. Also, my frosh year was my older sister's senior year (french horn) & she was pretty. All the guys that wanted to get in her good books were extra nice to me that year. There were a LOT of them!
I cringe when I think of the torture heaped upon a girl in our class in grade school, Martha. She was on the overweight side, and we took that and made her the brunt of jokes. Her Dad and mine were friends (they both were in the Trades), and I'm sure if her dad told my dad, well, it would not have been pretty.
ReplyDeleteI can't help but feel awful, too!