Love it or Hate it

 I often wonder why some find themselves in situations where they will engage in things they don't particularly like for a desirable outcome. Responsibility and obligational pressure could be a factor, or even societal expectations. But I suppose that motivation and self fulfillment inspire me exceedingly. I believe that sometimes you have to hate something in order to understand what makes it special to you. A constant state of excitement is dull with nothing to compare it to.

In my case, I hate marching band. But I don't hate it, not at all. I love marching band. Although I don't necessarily enjoy practice. Long hours under the summer sun, shin splints and pulled muscles. It sounds horrible, and oftentimes, it feels horrible. Many tears are shed as I wonder if I will make it through each day. But everything depends on this, everything I put my mind, body, and soul into, makes this moment worth it.

It's the first competition of the season. I march onto the bright green field, arms sore from lugging my flags, uniform digging into all the wrong places. I walk swiftly, weaving in and out of other band members double checking they’ve set their props right, tension and excitement circle the air. I exchange countless smiles and fist bumps as I set myself into place for the top of the show. 

I try to focus on my breathing, in and out, in and out. My eyes are centered on the drum major, I lock in; I feel the tempo in every bone, “five, six, seven, eight.” In a split second this past summer flashes before my eyes as I remember the countless hours of practice and preparation it took to get here. The moment I have been waiting for all season is finally here. 

The show has started, I dance mysteriously across the field, my hands caressing the crystal ball I hold. I begin with a solo and I try not to focus on all the eyes watching me as I glide through my bandmates. The almost fifteen minute performance goes by in an instant, all of a sudden I've already struck the last hit of the show, in perfect unison with my fellow color guard members. The exhilaration I get gives me an all time high as I hear the cheers and screams of support from the crowd. I am captivated by the warm and accepting atmosphere that emerges after every band performs. This sport unites people in the most genuine way possible. 

I hear the “duts” from the drumline and know it's time to march off the field. I have put all my effort into this performance and I feel more fulfilled than ever. After my adrenaline wears off I am abruptly reminded of the burning in my arms and the sting in my lungs, my throat dry and breath short. Although, seeing the smiles on my friends faces makes it all worth it. I catch up with the guard and we walk hand-in-hand to watch the other performances. After spending too much on concessions we sit in the stands and watch the beautiful Virginia sunset.

The ride home is peaceful and hushed, weary students resting heads on shoulders. I sit with my head against the window alone with my thoughts, reflecting on this marching season. I think about the word “hate”. Although there are parts where I struggle, the uncertain path of mixed emotions lead me to a feeling of longing. The thought of not having these loud bus rides, or learning new choreography, or having a safe community to fall back onto, makes me wish it would never end. Even though this great thing must come to an end, I am neither relieved nor ready, but so happy with the experiences I’ve made along the way. The thing I hated the most turned into what I wish would never end.