I can feel my pulse reverberating throughout my body, my bones themselves vibrating and limbs jostling as I open my mouth to scream.  I am in a tunnel, enveloped in my congested, wool marching band uniform, my heart thundering into my eardrums with the booming bass drums.  As my favorite cadence roars through our ranks at the beginning of the Veterans Day Parade, I can’t help the smile creeping up on my face and my cheeks flush as I yell out with the rest of my extended, three hundred-member family, the school spirit practically oozing from our black and gold seams.

Flashback to freshman me, overshadowed by my drum major sister and my lead trumpet older brother, not even known as the “little Majewski,” but the “littlest Majewski.”  I was plagued with the stereotypical high school nervousness but quickly found a niche in my fellow loud-mouthed, excruciatingly robust, blunt and comedic trumpet section.  Over the next few months my chapped lips frozen to a brass mouthpiece, shaking arm muscles, and sweat-soaked uniform were coupled with side-splitting laughter, surprisingly dangerous pinecone wars, and the type of goosebumps that only music can trigger on my skin.

And in an instant the season was over, the nine-month slump of exhaustion felt by all of us flying by until I was getting dropped off for band camp sophomore year, sunscreen and drill binder in hand, now without the crutch of my older sister by my side.  This was the year I fell into an ironic friend group surrounded by Asian woodwind players. We staked our claim on Band Bus #7 for every away game, walked along the highway to Monte Cello’s before countless games, even sprinted around Disney together, experiencing only a few weird looks along the way.  My social life and marching band were entwined, and like the green bean plants in my backyard I couldn’t stand up straight without the support of its teachers and friends.

Another season skidded by and I was suddenly driving myself to band camp with my newly obtained license.  By this point band is so integrated that I spend almost half of my day in the band room, voluntarily signing up to play in a second concert band and joining a jazz lab on the trombone.  I’ve laughed harder than I ever have, yelled, maybe even shed a few a tears, but the music and people here have held me together. This booming cadence that jolts me into reflecting on the past three years, on learning how to navigate the overalls and zippers, the drill charts and step lengths, the competitive underclassmen and chain of command, keeps a constant beat in the back of my mind.

A few short seconds later the moment is over, the music no longer echoing through the tunnel and the previously overwhelming, time-warp inducing sounds dissipating into the air as I’m blinded by the sun glinting off my trumpet.