As a senior student of Gilmer High, I’ve seen the ups and downs of the school in my now four years of being there. I’ve seen teachers come and go, I’ve made a handful of close friends dear to me, I’ve lived through the “anthrax scare of 2010”, the unending piles of homework – and I’ve pondered what a real high school experience is supposed to be like. Is it late night parties? Not for me; I’m afraid of crowds (especially of the rowdy/possibly drunk teenager variety). Is it riveting tales of relationship struggles? I don’t think so. Is it the itch of betrayal, the drama more befitting of a Spanish soap opera, and backstabbing-happy ‘friends’? Not for me it isn’t, not once. My days are filled with mindless running down the halls to get to class in order not to be late, while simultaneously carrying a fifty pound backpack strapped to my back and dodging the other students trying to do the same. My days are the magic of enjoying a classmate making mundane comments about the teacher’s personal life – “so, I heard one of your thirty cats had kittens!” – in order to waste time, and rolling my eyes at the jocks in the back of the room laughing loudly over instruction.

I’ve walked into the bathroom and saw girls furiously straightening their hair and applying make up in between classes, and I’ve walked in on them crying over something. I’ve felt the strain of balancing a social life with homework and projects, I’ve nearly melted off my tongue from the school lunches, and I’ve survived standardized testing and the dreaded ‘math 1, 2, 3, and 4’ curriculum.

High School is the place where growing adults find themselves and stumble through some of the most important choices they can ever make – or so our teachers say. I myself am not entirely sure if I believe that, but hey, maybe they’re right. A good and proper education never hurt anyone, and I’ve made plenty of memories through my school career.

In middle school, I learned how to play the saxophone through the band program, headed by Mr. Pflueger. It was exciting, and the proficiency of knowing how to play an instrument has followed me all throughout high school.

I can say that the first semester of every bandmate’s year is a monster. It has fangs made out of flutes, a trumpet for a tongue, and clarinets claws. Its roar is an explosion of bass drums, and its eyes are the wild conducting of the drum major. This monster rises from its slumber, called out by the ever-looming threat to public safety known as ‘football season’, and snatches up teenagers left and right from their well deserved summer break. It drags them by the ankle and shoves an instrument or flag pole into their arms, and leaves them headlong in a battle between the heat of the sun and the welcoming desire to fall asleep right on the blacktop where practice is held.

The shouts of “band, ‘tend hut!” ring out, and everyone freezes in a ridged position lest he or she wishes to be yelled at for moving at attention. “At ease” is a relief, and band members wipe the sweat off thier brows and fall back in line when attention is called again. Strict discipline and memorizing every single step of imaginary paths of straight lines becomes second nature to over a hundred kids involved in the marching band.

There is laughing, there is crying, and there is sweat. Lots of sweat. Sometimes if we’re not so lucky, there’s the occasional occurrence of blood, but it’s never anything serious. I can only remember a member of the color guard having a nose bleed and being sent home for the day. So there is not so a great deal of blood; however, there is a great deal of sweat.

Practices are usually two hours long, from 3:30 to 5:30, and are punctuated by the cheering of kids who can not wait to go home, relax or do homework for the remainder of the day; until they have to wake up in the morning for school and the routine repeats itself all over again.

I can run down the football field to a specific spot twenty feet away from me while playing a rapid flurry of sixteenth notes, and only do it in eight steps. I’ve seen someone accidentally bite off their own mouth piece, only to chunk the $30 thing into the woods because it’s useless. I have the ‘band tan’, which looks ridiculously awkward when you’re out in public and you want to look decent.

Marching band is serious business. It’s enjoyable and worthwhile, and I can’t imagine high school without spending hours upon hours just to hear the impossibly loud cries of the crowd after a well preformed halftime show, or winning trophies for everyone’s collective hard work at a competition.

It’s fun. It’s demanding. It’s a beast that consumes a good portion of your days as a high schooler, and I’ve meet some of the most colorful people one can imagine. There are times when I’ve wanted to quit just so I could have a break, but there’s been times where I’ve wanted it to never end.

Actually, it never does end. With me leaving as a senior, there’s a new batch of freshmeat, freshmen arising to the challenge, and the old juniors take our places and become the new leaders of the band. They can know the joy of teaching someone how to march in step, and they can understand the stress that not everyone gets it.

I don’t even know of competitive marching counts as a sport or not.

There’s many good memories from marching band, and a part of me will miss it. The other part will, however, be so relieved that I’ll have free time to actually, you know, do stuff that normal high schoolers can do. Still, I don’t see any wild parties coming up in my future any time soon.

Article written by Samantha Cox