Marching Band: An Unconventional Cult

Beyond the D-wing and beside the bus ramp lies a strange building that only a select few may pass through. And within that strange building lies an even stranger room with just as strange people holding shiny instruments milling about.

I am one of those strange people with a shiny instrument milling about. On our own we solely use our given names, but during marching season, we collectively become known as marching band members. Our matching outfits, flashing instruments, boisterous music, and distinctive smell of sunscreen and sweat make us the most conspicuous extracurricular by nature. However, we represent more than just an extracurricular. We manifest a cult.

Our cult headquarters lie in the strange building. While technically named “The Fine Arts Building” as stated by the sign on the door, the vast majority of outsiders just lump the entire infrastructure

together as a singular fine arts entity and call it “the Band Hall.” It fits fine because the building more often than not teems to the brim with the band anyways. We take up not only just the designated band room, but also the main hallway, the choir, orchestra, and theater rooms, the practice rooms, the auditorium stage, the restrooms, and even the bus ramp behind us. If we need more room for whatever reason, we will take it. In essence, the Band Hall serves as our second home for the duration of marching season.
Since I spend so much time around the Band Hall, I connect with my band family more so than with my actual family. After a gruesome day at school, we hustle our way to the Band Hall to change into a white shirt and athletic shorts for rehearsals, and then into a starchy, red and black, polyester uniform for a 7 PM football game every week. We help each other carry hat boxes, uniform bags, and instruments off the bus. We help test each other over vocabulary words while in the stands for tomorrow’s English quiz. We give each other rides home at 10 PM when no one at their house will pick them up. Everyone has their troubles outside of band, whether it be a test in APUSH or an essay to finish by 7 AM. The measly $200 entry fee pales in comparison to the amount of time sacrificed for our membership. We understand each other’s plight. We do what we can for each other. Likewise, the directors also try to help us out where they can, but more often than not, they add on to the stress.
The directors run our humble organization with an iron fist that no one can resist.

The Big Three. The triumvirate. What they say (even if false) always goes. The pictures we form on the field do not just fortuitously happen on the first try. Unluckily for us, one toe out of line or one inch off a specified dot means getting publicly roasted from up above. The drum majors correct what they can, but Lord have mercy on the poor soul that forces one of the directors to step down from their two-story high tower to rectify the issue. After all, dictatorships have to rule with a healthy dose of fear. At the same time, their occasional kindness and humanizing characteristics make plenty of us worship the ground that they walk on. Despite any diatribes they might send our way, many of us still remain.

In fact, those of us that stay for more than a mere two years might just be the epitome of Stockholm syndrome sufferers. Maybe the textbook definition of masochists. Sure we make it sound great when we recruit new people to join for next year, but it sounds terrible when we cut the many layers of fluff

away.