In honor of Marching Arts Day this Mar. 4, I decided to go down memory lane and share my experience as a first-season color guard performer and the impact it had on my life!
I was no more than three, maybe four, years old.
Love Stings: NOW. Flash-forward to the summer before freshman year. My friends had somehow found a way to drag me to a football game one night after countless volleys of whines and moans and a bit of charm. I didn’t even like football at the time. Not only did I barely understand any of the rules, but also the thought alone of running from one end of the field to the other, quite frankly, seemed asinine. I finally caved, though, and little did I know that that game in the high school stadium would spark the beginning of a new dream I’d never before imagined.
I tried to pay attention to the game as it started but failed miserably. My eyes were deadlocked on the timer instead of the ball and I felt like a damsel in distress being rescued at the buzz of halftime. Once the football team exited the field, another army stepped forward with chins pointed at the sky: the marching band. I’d never seen them perform live and I was itching to get closer, so my best friend joined me as I raced down the bleachers and up to the fence guarding the track. There was hushed chatter between members as they set up their equipment and found their positions. There was a moment or two of silence and then the flick of the drum major’s wrist unleashed a world of music that tugged at the strings of my heart. The notes tickled my eyes and the pulse running through my veins rose until it filled my ears. I leaned over the fence, in utter awe with my mouth agape, as I watched a performance like no other.
My focus suddenly diverted from the music to the color guard section. They were a group of all girls except for one lone guy and they were flawless, their movements effortless. Their costumes were exquisite, the dark shimmery fabric hugging every body perfectly. Their makeup was dramatic and classic with minimal sparkles on the lids and thick liner widening each pair of eyes gazing into the crowd of spectators. I remember how my breath pitched at the first sight of flag silk in gorgeous colors weaving about the darkness, synchronized. Flashes of red, matching the gloss on their lips, and grey snapped in the air as each performer tossed and caught their equipment. Their collective facial expressions told a story I was hearing for the first time and I didn’t dare to look away.
A lump formed at the base of my throat and a knot full of longing twisted in my stomach once the band silenced. I was mesmerized as they left the field in a uniform line with their chins remaining lifted, just as they had when they entered. I knew at the end of the night, as I fell asleep dreaming of flags and rifles ripping through the air, I wanted more than anything to be in the color guard section.
I was finally able to sign up for the next season of marching band after painfully waiting for a few months to pass by. The first color guard practice was scheduled after school one day and the number of emotions raging through me seemed impossible to count. A swarm of bees, their wings fluttering with fury and excitement, suddenly replaced my nerves and I felt as if I was vibrating from the anticipation.
I arrived at the gym with confidence and left an hour later with anxiety dotting my lashes. I was in tears because even though being a part of the section was something I was determined to earn, that practice tested me. I knew I looked like a fool trying to dance the way the instructor showed us, pointed toes and all. I knew I looked like a fool trying to catch my practice flag and rifle, the loud echoes of failure surging through the room and my chest at every disappointing drop. I recognized, though, that I wasn’t foolhardy for what I was feeling. The first day I tried something new was always going to be the hardest to push through because I lacked experience. By getting past that practice and refusing to quit, I established a starting point for the progression I was committed to achieve.
As the school year ended and summer began to blossom, practices became more frequent and more vigorous. I rehearsed with my band family under the scorching sun for hours at a time, and beads of sweat rolling down my face proved that all the work we were putting in was paying off. I grew more confident as a performer and became even more comfortable with my equipment. I was pleasantly surprised by how much my skills improved and I knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that joining color guard was the right decision.
I blinked and suddenly I found myself warming up for our first football game performance. Gone went the summer and routines we endlessly repeated. We zipped each other up into our costumes and took our time painting our faces: golden sparkles on the lids and thick liner outlining our eyes that would soon gaze into a crowd of people much larger than the one we were used to. Two thick slanted lines of liner linked the inner corners of our eyebrows to the middle ground of our foreheads, our “antennas.” Our costumes stood out against the grass behind the high school bleachers as we quickly ran through our choreography. Each of us wore a slim-fitting bodysuit made of varying patterns and materials of the recognizable black and yellow bumblebee. There was a textured skirt attached to each costume covering our backsides that whipped at every moment we made beneath it. It was mature, sexy even. Dramatic and classic.
I wasn’t wearing a costume that consumed me whole like The Bee Monstrosity had when I was just a toddler. I was all grown up and I beamed at the transformation.
I blinked again and I was no longer in warm-up but in a single file line, my arms wrapped tightly around my three flags and wooden rifle. The heads in front of me started to ascend toward the field, our stage, and my expression mechanically mirrored everyone around me: chin pointed at the sky and eyes filled with concentration. The short blades of grass kissed the bottoms of my bare feet, wishing me luck, as I set up my equipment and found my position.
There was a moment or two of silence and then the flick of the drum major’s wrist unleashed the story of “The Queen” swarming in our hearts. The instruments surrounding me began to play and I began to dance. At every slow stretch within the music, I moved with ease and fluidity; when the notes were fast, mimicking the pace of a hive in full action, I was light on my toes, jumping in the air with a smile or a sneer. The orange, grey and purple flag silks waved in unison as the color guard moved to one end of the field and then back to the other. I’d given all my effort possible and was left breathless at the death of the final note. Another flick of the drum major’s wrist dismissed us from our positions, and as a group in a uniform line with our chins tilted up as before, we exited the field. I marveled at the realization of my goal to perform with the marching band rather than simply watching them from the bleachers. That was where it all started; where I fell in love with the marching arts for the first time.
Another blink and the season was over: more than 10 performances in football games and competitions passed me by, our show improving a little more with every reunion of our band family. The goodbye we had to say was definitely one of the hardest I’d ever spoken. A knot full of longing twisted in my stomach and has been thriving there since, craving for the next story and dream. It was my dream from the very beginning that changed my life entirely and exposed me to an experience I’m more than grateful for. I am forever at a loss for words when praising the opportunity that graced my fingertips and fell into my palm. To this day, I believe joining color guard was one of the best decisions I have made thus far and I couldn’t imagine who I would (bee) without it.
