Eight marching drums menacingly stand surrounded by the dim light of flickering fluorescent bulbs dangling above. The new recruits enter the room and slowly walk to their respective drum—their new homes for the next hours. All members stand with wide eyes and unstable posture. They nervously wait for the tech’s commands. The room encompassed in a seemingly endless silence.
The tech sounded off and the new drumline members stepped off in perfect time and began the never ending, never moving march. Time passed by slowly. Eight hands struck eight drums with brutal accuracy to the metronome rattling though the ears of the novice players. I was one of those players. As a sophomore in high school my band director asked me to fill the snare spot …show more content…
After one day of band camp and hours of marking time and repetitiously slamming the snare drum my hands weak and my legs cramping. Pain shot from the tips of my fingers throughout my body. The drum sticks eroded from my fingers and the skin blistered, but these were no ordinary blisters. These were metaphorical blisters.
I was beaten up by these drums. And when the first week of band camp came to an end, the uncertainty of my future within the drumline grew exponentially. Every day the blisters got worse and my inconsistent skills on snare barley improved. Frustration took over and I spent free time during band camp sulking over my inability to keep up with the other, more experienced players. As a young learner, inspiration and motivation to continue playing did not come easy, before all else frustration took control of my mind, inhibiting my ability to learn.
On the weekend break I took my accumulated frustrations out on the floor. Spending hours of my own time slamming my drum sticks furiously into the carpet working on various exercises given to the new members of the line during the earlier part of the week. And occasionally my blisters would bleed. Finally I found drive and motivation, now focused hard on improving my playing, I found intensity. I found passion. I didn’t realize when three of my five fingers on my left hand were worn raw and red. But still I played on with a new sense
The tech sounded off and the new drumline members stepped off in perfect time and began the never ending, never moving march. Time passed by slowly. Eight hands struck eight drums with brutal accuracy to the metronome rattling though the ears of the novice players. I was one of those players. As a sophomore in high school my band director asked me to fill the snare spot …show more content…
After one day of band camp and hours of marking time and repetitiously slamming the snare drum my hands weak and my legs cramping. Pain shot from the tips of my fingers throughout my body. The drum sticks eroded from my fingers and the skin blistered, but these were no ordinary blisters. These were metaphorical blisters.
I was beaten up by these drums. And when the first week of band camp came to an end, the uncertainty of my future within the drumline grew exponentially. Every day the blisters got worse and my inconsistent skills on snare barley improved. Frustration took over and I spent free time during band camp sulking over my inability to keep up with the other, more experienced players. As a young learner, inspiration and motivation to continue playing did not come easy, before all else frustration took control of my mind, inhibiting my ability to learn.
On the weekend break I took my accumulated frustrations out on the floor. Spending hours of my own time slamming my drum sticks furiously into the carpet working on various exercises given to the new members of the line during the earlier part of the week. And occasionally my blisters would bleed. Finally I found drive and motivation, now focused hard on improving my playing, I found intensity. I found passion. I didn’t realize when three of my five fingers on my left hand were worn raw and red. But still I played on with a new sense