Be True, Stay True

A person with a physical impairment wants nothing more than to appear as normal as possible. They want to live their lives, blending in, yet experiencing all that they want to in life without being told they can't or that they'll fail if they try. At least that's the way I feel. I have a physical handicap and I'm okay with that. It's difficult for me to walk around sometimes (especially while holding a baby) but I do it, because I refuse to be held back.

Rewind time back to when I was an awkward freshman in high school. I wanted nothing more than to fit in, blend in, and be all I wanted. Having played the flute since 6th grade I of course brought it along with me to high school. I loved my flute and didn't want to give it up. In fact, that year I quit piano lessons so I'd have more time to devote to practicing my flute.

At our school, in order to be in band you must take marching band as well as concert band. That proved to be a problem for me because learning how to march required lots of practice standing, walking across the field over and over, etc. Nevertheless, I was determined to try because I loved playing my flute so much.

Band camp the summer before my freshman year proved to be fun in some ways. I learned how to march and did very well. I was the last underclassmen to be eliminated in a marching competition and I felt proud that my handicap wasn't holding me back too much. Even though I couldn't participate in all the activities I was glad to be there and be included, even if I had to mop the entire cafeteria during some relay games I couldn't play, due to my limitations. Why did I have to mop the cafeteria? Because my band teacher was a Band Nazi, no fooling. Anyone who couldn't conform to her standards got punished. I couldn't conform. I got punished.

Freshmen don't march other than in the halftime show for Homecoming and in the Christmas parade. I have a handicap but I went right out there on the field with everyone else to learn the PHS show because I wanted to show that I could march.I remember standing out there on the football field, doing the drills with the other kids. That year our band teacher had an assistant, a snivelly little brown-noser who caught onto the conformity spirit all too much.

Before I go on, I should explain that there are two different forms of marching in a band. The first is the traditional kind, lifting your knees up high in stilted movements. The second form is a more graceful and deliberate stepping of the heel and rolling onto the balls of the feet. Much to my misfortune, our band practiced the second form. Since I can't step heel to toe with my left foot this proved to be a problem. Now where was I?

Oh yeah, I can't remember the assistant's name so we'll just call him Mr. Snivelly. As I was doing the drills, I noticed Mr. Snivelly watching me a lot. I remember thinking, "Just blend in. Just blend in." Positive thinking failed me that day, however, as Mr. Snivelly strode over to me and said, "It looks like you're having a bit of trouble marching. You seem to be having some trouble with your posture."

"I can't march the way the others do, " I tried to explain. "My foot doesn't work that way." I was so embarrassed.

Mr. Snivelly then proceeded to pull me over to another part of the field, still within seeing and hearing distance of the other kids, and make me raise up on my tiptoes and slowly lower down as an effort to improve my wayward posture. Slight problem though. My left leg is almost and inch shorter than my right so I stand crooked no matter what. Also I can't stand on tiptoes with my left foot.

I was crying and trying to tell him why I couldn't do the things he was asking me to do. I did not want to be his special project! Mr. Snivelly kept saying "It's okay. You just tell those other kids that you're different and that's just fine. I'm just trying to help you look better out in the line." He absolutely didn't get it that he was the one singling me out, not my classmates. Bottom line: I couldn't conform to their precious, award winning marching band and I had to be fixed.

The next year, I opted not to attend Band Camp (can you blame me?). I knew that as now a sophomore, marching would be much more grueling as our school participated in competitive marching starting with sophomores. After being nearly unable to walk after some ridiculous practices that lasted until 10:00 on a school night the year before, I didn't want to go through it again, magnified many times. But I still wanted to be able to play my flute! So I got permission from Mrs. Hitler our band teacher (name has been changed) to practice the songs in the band room while everyone else was practicing marching out on the field.

I was bored to tears. I learned my songs quickly and soon found I had nothing to do. The only happiness I found from being made to sit in the band room day after day was a boy named Chase. He couldn't march either because he had a broken leg from playing football. He and I became great friends and still keep in touch to this day. Chase understood how lonely and boring that stupid band room was and we kept each other entertained.

Somewhere along the line Mrs. Hitler decided that I needed to be able to participate in the shows. I offered to sit along the sidelines and play my flute from there but that just wouldn't do in her land of perfection. No. If I was going to participate in her band to the best of my ability then I had to learn another instrument that was supposed to be on the sidelines. The xylophone.

I was willing to try although it didn't really feel right. I knew though that if I obeyed her wishes then come next semester I'd be able to play my flute again during concert band. I began attending practices and watching the xylophone players. Slight problem though. They'd all been playing since the 6th grade and I was brand new. There was no way I could learn fast enough to be of any use. Mrs. Hitler had the perfect solution. She suggested I give up my Sewing class once a week and attend the percussion class to learn more quickly.

At first I agreed until the ridiculousness of the solution set in. Now why would I give up my sewing class (a very useful skill) to learn how to play an instrument I had no interest in, just so I could remain in band?? After much praying and pondering, I knew what I had to do. I had to give up band even if it meant giving up my dream of qualifying for a flute scholarship to college.

It was with much terrifiedness (no lie!) that I warily made my way into Mrs. Hitler's office with a  "drop class" slip in my hand. I locked eyes with Chase for a moment before I went in. I knew that he knew what I was about to do and was totally sympathetic. I'll never forget that moment. The band room was noisy as students were warming up their instruments in preparation for the day's class. With tears streaming down my face I hesitantly held out the slip and said, "I've decided to drop this class." Mrs. Hitler sighed a huge, exasperated sounding sigh and snatched the paper from my hand, hastily singed it, and shoved it back at me, without ever looking at me. And that was that. I failed her conformity test and she wanted nothing more to do with me.

Luckily, that's not the end of my story. Try as they might, Hitler and Snivelly couldn't kill my desire to play my flute. Although they tried to tell me that being different meant I would never achieve my full potential, I proved them wrong. Although I didn't go on to be a world-renowned flutist, I kept on playing. I played in church, in my home, and for my family...

And I still do.