The Band Room

A Personal Narrative

   Surrounded by unknown faces, trembling with insecurities, and radiating with awkwardness, my eyes cautiously scan the unknown hallway and my heart beats as I hope to see a friend, but no luck. My left hand is stuffed into my black jacket pocket and the other has a cobra's grip on the one thing I wouldn't trade anything for; the one thing that's got me through middle school so far: my golden trumpet, held in its hard-back, heavy, black securing case. My hair is an organized mess as always, and my outfit—consisting of 'my style' or a jacket, t-shirt, and jeans—hardly matches. Do I care? Normally no, but today I care more than I ever have before. Now, I'm halfway down a hallway decorated by countless trophies and halfway to an unknown band-room where I will spend most of my high school life, but for right now it's an unknown territory owned by a band director who's not like the one I know. This is when everything changes—the summer of 2014. For the better? Soon, yes, but for now, I just want to be home.

   Still gripping the uncomfortable handle of my trumpet case, I stand awkwardly near an unfamiliar wall of the weirdly bright, white band-room, still no friend in sight. There isn't one person not smiling other than myself, and the room is filled with so much laughter that I can hardly hear myself think. 'Look, they're having fun and talking to their friends, go be social,' my brain tells me. Unfortunately, I'm not one who likes to mingle. 'Then go take a seat, you look weird and you stand out a lot standing alone.' So I clumsily make my way into the sea of empty chairs, unable to find one, just one that I could sit in. 'What if someone wants to sit here?' I wonder, 'What if I get in someone's way?'  I stumble through the chairs, blindly trying to find one. Still without a friend in sight, my heart still sinks lower; I slouch even more, and I kneel my head down as loneliness fills the room. I sit in a cold cloud as everyone else enjoys the sun.

   But then my friends one-by-one come to my rescue. The uncomfortable, unknown room is finally welcoming as we enjoy small-talk; simple "Hellos," and "What did you do over summer?" fill the room. For the first time, the room finally feels like a bandroom, not a just room. The difference between the two isn't apparent to anyone except those who practice here and live their lives within its walls; to those of us who make life-long friends and those lucky enough to meet their significant other within these walls.

   The difference? A room is simply a few walls enclosed by a roof and floor. A room simply provides shelter, and occasionally comfort. However, a bandroom is a home; it's a home for those who need it, for those who have nowhere else to go; it's our home-away-from-home for our family-away-from-family.

   For some of us, it's a better home than the house we live in; for some, our Bandfamily is a better family than our relatives. This is an awful thing to live with. At its best, you feel how I felt on my first day of Marching Band every single day. At its worst...

   I'm so happy that the bandroom—a simple room with a few walls, enclosed by a roof and floor—can be so much more to so many of us, even if it takes some time to get used to. Now, it's where I feel happiest, where I'm surrounded by people I love, and where I met my best friends for life; more than that, it's where I met my girlfriend. It's where my love for music grew. It's where I truly understood the beautiful phrase, "Music Unites Us All!" and where I became me.

Everyone needs a bandroom, no matter where that simple room, with a few walls enclosed by a roof and floor is. I found mine. Have you found yours?

END.