The summer before my freshman year, I decided I would try out for the UW Marching Band. Was I a student at UW-Madison? Nope. Was I going to...tell the directors that..? Nope.
I got a three month summer gym membership (uff-ta...) and BEGGED Cale to teach me the marching style. Cale had just finished his last in the UW Band in rank seventeen, and it just seemed like a HOOT of a group to be in. I wanted in.
Cale, of course, always thinks it's hilaaariious to mess with me, as older brothers do. He showed me like, one second of him marching. Very helpful, Cale. It was mid-summer, way too hot out, and I was not in a good mood. I, uh, went back inside to my dearest couch. I probably had to catch my breath on the way there. THAT'S the kind of shape we were workin' with...
Nonetheless, I showed up to the ill-awaited "reg week." I had no clue what to expect.
There was a meeting in the UW Humanities building for prospective members the night before the first day of reg week. I showed up with a full face of sparkly makeup, my overly worn in mom jeans, and a bright yellow shirt. I did not fit in. I was surrounded by seemingly intimidating college students in red band shirts who told me I would be losing toe nails and getting blisters. Ruh-roh, Scoob. I guess I'll...still show up...?
And I did. Holy fuck did I wish I didn't. Reg week was late August, 9:30 am-12 pm, 2 pm-5 pm every day at the UW Marching Band field. It was hours spent on heat reflecting turf, under the relentless sun, and drinking out of warm plastic water bottles. I had to have my mom drop me off every morning because I lived in Waunakee, not Madison. Talk about an awkward conversation starter--catching me hop out of my mom's SUV on like, the first day of college while she hollered words of comfort and goodbyes through the open window...basically, I was a high roller already.
The first day was, well, terrifying. I didn't utter a word the whole drive there. The only comfort I found was that all of us freshman had no clue what was going on together, but I was still terrified. And anxious. Deep breaths, deep breaths.
Lock your back leg. No, more like this. Remember to point your toe! Make it a sharper movement, more robotic. Wait, wait you forgot the toe point. Do it again. More hesitation this time, sharper movements. Stop at the top, damnit!
It felt like all eyes were on me at all times. Mike Leckrone, the famed director, walked around with a clipboard. Oh my god, wait, everyone had clipboards. AND my picture on them. Uh oh.
After almost six hours of being told what I was doing wrong, sweating half my body weight, and forcing my body to move despite sore muscles, the first day was done. I took ibuprofen and crawled into bed. Only...a week left.
The whole week, day after day, I didn't speak one word to my mom in the car. THAT'S definitely how you know I'm upset; if I finally shut the heck up. There was one day where I was so genuinely defeated, I came home, wrapped a blanket around myself, walked out to watch the sunset over the field at home, and cried. I was miserable. I wanted to enjoy the last bits of summer, spend time with my friends, and make the last of my summer count. I missed the calm of my daily life.
But, I went back. I think that's what was most important in all of this. Just showing up and trying.
I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, my freshman year reg week was the hardest week of my life at that point. I had NEVER put my body through something like that. Lordy KNOWS I couldn't catch my breathe walking up the stairs, now I have to play ON WISCONSIN, for like, the fiftieth time??? And then they have the nerve to label it my, "favorite song"?! Mentally, it was the most enduring and resilient thing I had ever done. It was six hours of intense mental pressure and trying to perfect a movement your body was just too exhausted to do. And then blow the last breath your lungs are so DESPERATELY begging you to keep and savor, into a dang trumpet.
Saturday morning would be when we found out whether or not we made the cut. I had my parents drop me off at Humanities while I waited seated on the cement outside, anxiously discussing with other freshman. Lots of conversations were about putting ourselves down and saying we would be happy if we were even "sweatered." I think we were all trying to soften the blow to our egos if we didn't make it. After what felt like hours, out came the lists, taped onto music stands, set right behind the windows. Pushing, shuffling, hands everywhere. Chaos.
I saw my name. Bold, capital letters.
CASEY ANDERSON.
YES! YES! YES! Wait...what the heck does that mean? No way...full uniform, full spot?! My heart was elated. I felt like I was on top of the world. I was proud of myself. Throughout the week, my toe nails had began to fall off, I had more blisters than skin, and my body ached with every move. I had pushed myself further than I ever thought I could, both mentally and physically. And it paid off. I made it. Now...how the heck do I tell them that I'm not a student here?
I got a three month summer gym membership (uff-ta...) and BEGGED Cale to teach me the marching style. Cale had just finished his last in the UW Band in rank seventeen, and it just seemed like a HOOT of a group to be in. I wanted in.
Cale, of course, always thinks it's hilaaariious to mess with me, as older brothers do. He showed me like, one second of him marching. Very helpful, Cale. It was mid-summer, way too hot out, and I was not in a good mood. I, uh, went back inside to my dearest couch. I probably had to catch my breath on the way there. THAT'S the kind of shape we were workin' with...
Nonetheless, I showed up to the ill-awaited "reg week." I had no clue what to expect.
There was a meeting in the UW Humanities building for prospective members the night before the first day of reg week. I showed up with a full face of sparkly makeup, my overly worn in mom jeans, and a bright yellow shirt. I did not fit in. I was surrounded by seemingly intimidating college students in red band shirts who told me I would be losing toe nails and getting blisters. Ruh-roh, Scoob. I guess I'll...still show up...?
And I did. Holy fuck did I wish I didn't. Reg week was late August, 9:30 am-12 pm, 2 pm-5 pm every day at the UW Marching Band field. It was hours spent on heat reflecting turf, under the relentless sun, and drinking out of warm plastic water bottles. I had to have my mom drop me off every morning because I lived in Waunakee, not Madison. Talk about an awkward conversation starter--catching me hop out of my mom's SUV on like, the first day of college while she hollered words of comfort and goodbyes through the open window...basically, I was a high roller already.
The first day was, well, terrifying. I didn't utter a word the whole drive there. The only comfort I found was that all of us freshman had no clue what was going on together, but I was still terrified. And anxious. Deep breaths, deep breaths.
Lock your back leg. No, more like this. Remember to point your toe! Make it a sharper movement, more robotic. Wait, wait you forgot the toe point. Do it again. More hesitation this time, sharper movements. Stop at the top, damnit!
It felt like all eyes were on me at all times. Mike Leckrone, the famed director, walked around with a clipboard. Oh my god, wait, everyone had clipboards. AND my picture on them. Uh oh.
After almost six hours of being told what I was doing wrong, sweating half my body weight, and forcing my body to move despite sore muscles, the first day was done. I took ibuprofen and crawled into bed. Only...a week left.
The whole week, day after day, I didn't speak one word to my mom in the car. THAT'S definitely how you know I'm upset; if I finally shut the heck up. There was one day where I was so genuinely defeated, I came home, wrapped a blanket around myself, walked out to watch the sunset over the field at home, and cried. I was miserable. I wanted to enjoy the last bits of summer, spend time with my friends, and make the last of my summer count. I missed the calm of my daily life.
But, I went back. I think that's what was most important in all of this. Just showing up and trying.
I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, my freshman year reg week was the hardest week of my life at that point. I had NEVER put my body through something like that. Lordy KNOWS I couldn't catch my breathe walking up the stairs, now I have to play ON WISCONSIN, for like, the fiftieth time??? And then they have the nerve to label it my, "favorite song"?! Mentally, it was the most enduring and resilient thing I had ever done. It was six hours of intense mental pressure and trying to perfect a movement your body was just too exhausted to do. And then blow the last breath your lungs are so DESPERATELY begging you to keep and savor, into a dang trumpet.
Saturday morning would be when we found out whether or not we made the cut. I had my parents drop me off at Humanities while I waited seated on the cement outside, anxiously discussing with other freshman. Lots of conversations were about putting ourselves down and saying we would be happy if we were even "sweatered." I think we were all trying to soften the blow to our egos if we didn't make it. After what felt like hours, out came the lists, taped onto music stands, set right behind the windows. Pushing, shuffling, hands everywhere. Chaos.
I saw my name. Bold, capital letters.
CASEY ANDERSON.
YES! YES! YES! Wait...what the heck does that mean? No way...full uniform, full spot?! My heart was elated. I felt like I was on top of the world. I was proud of myself. Throughout the week, my toe nails had began to fall off, I had more blisters than skin, and my body ached with every move. I had pushed myself further than I ever thought I could, both mentally and physically. And it paid off. I made it. Now...how the heck do I tell them that I'm not a student here?
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