Those Rare Moments When Life As You Know It Changes

On Monday, August 11th, the world stopped and held its breath as we heard of the death of Robin Williams. Many of us took to social media to collectively share our grief in what we hoped was some sick joke. In disbelief we stared at our computers, smart phones, and t.v. screens as the details emerged of his suicide. I sat with Facebook open on one device, while Twitter was open on the other, watching collective grief unfold. I myself couldn't type a status update for hours, because I simply couldn't find the words. I don't think anything I could say here on this blog could match the brilliant and touching words spoken by many others around the world, but just like everyone else, I have spent the week trying to make sense of a death that made no sense and here is what I discovered during this moment of reflection.

Somewhere between the years of childhood innocence and middle age, every person, every single person, whether they like it or not, finds that the world as it was explained  in fairy tales and Disney movies was a lie. We start to find that the magic of marriage, the romance of babies, the patriotism of the American citizen, the honesty of religion, and the heart of man, is not what "they" said it was and once we grew up and realized that Santa wasn't real, we realized that life; the world we live in, was a constant puzzle to unravel until the day we die.

It takes a moment like August 11th to shake us to our core, to wake us up to a reality we don't want to see. As children of the 80's, we saw nothing but sunshine and roses. The Gen Xers grew up in a time where money flowed freely to the middle class and war was a conversation our parents had about a time we knew nothing about. Our grandparents had Pearl Harbor and the Great Depression and our parents had hippies, Kennedy, and Vietnam. Nothing defined us. I can actually remember sitting with my friend Chris on top of the elevator of the music building, late at night on the campus of the University of Tennessee campus asking each other if we would be the forgotten generation of history. We didn't realize then, that our longing for "big life moments" would come to us in waves as the world kept getting scarier and scarier.

I have found that in life, the moments that define us are the ones that shake us to our core. As a nation; as a world, those moments are rare, but when they do happen it takes us sometimes from cradle to grave to truly understand. In the world we live in today, the moments I'm referring to are becoming more frequent. I remember the first national core shaker in my lifetime was Columbine. I was 29.  After April 20, 1999, we no longer lived in a world where children went to school safe. I was at work when it happened and watched as teenagers ran from the school and we all wondered, "What type of world are we living in?" Then came 9/11. Then came Katrina. By the time Katrina happened, Columbine seemed a distant memory of something we were just used to. Then came the first black President. Then, with all levels of horror, disbelief, and grief I can write, came December 14th, 2012. I remember watching the news flashes come across my computer at work and I couldn't breathe. We were now living in a world where elementary school children were shot to death as they colored and learned their ABC's. I stood with my co-workers in the break room watching the news and cried with them. The world would never be the same. We would separate our lives using the phrase, "Pre Sandy Hook and Post Sandy Hook." The concept of childhood innocence was gone. The world was truly frightening.

As time passes, many of us are realizing that these moments are coming to quickly. They are happening too often. The world is at war with itself and it makes Vietnam look like a party. We have a government that is bought and sold to the highest bidder and a nation that rears the head of hatred and bigotry more than we ever believed existed. As a guard director and judge, I have found that the activity shields me from the horrors of the world. Walking into the gym to teach a round of drop spins or sitting with friends to design the "next big thing" allows me to escape from the nonsense the world brings us. I have found that I can go through an entire winter season and never engage with the horrors of life. And if we are all honest with ourselves, we will admit that a side benefit to the pageantry arts is the disconnect to real life. Maybe, that's why so many hide in it for as long as they do.

When I heard of the suicide of Robin Williams I was devastated. I couldn't however, place my finger on the reason why. I mean, I never knew him. Never met him in my life. Hollywood gives us these brilliant artists often, just so we can watch as they die early. You would think after Marilyn Monroe, Janice Joplin, and Elvis, we would all be use to it by now. I remember the first actor's death I was truly disturbed by. It was Heath Ledger. Oh my God was he brilliant and I was stunned.

"How can someone of that level of talent die? We need him," I remember thinking.

Then, on February 2, 2014, we lost Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Another side of brilliance. I think I've seen everything he's ever done. I remember watching him in the movie, Copote, engrossed in the fact that I was watching art come to life. After thinking about it, I realized that when we lose such levels of talent, we feel like art dies. It's a part of us dying. We wonder if life is worth living, because in a world that practices violence and hate so blatantly wanton, it takes the death of an artist to wake us up to the beauty of life. Robin Williams, whether we realized it or not, helped us forget that we live in a world where people kill other people. He played characters that personified the human condition and those characters helped us heal. His movies helped bring us from whatever hell we were living and gave us something to smile about. After Sandy Hook, I remember watching the movie, Hook. I needed to see it. I needed to see a movie about childhood and the adventures of the human imagination. Twenty children lay dead and I needed to know that there was still good in the world. Coincidentally, Hook was the first marching band show I ever taught and designed.

When thinking about how I would write this, I knew I wanted to pay tribute to the things in my little corner of the world that has helped me heal over the years. In our activity called the marching arts, I have had many. We all have. Those shows were of pure brilliance and was a brief reminder that life was good. They had beauty that we seek with all our hearts to find, whether we realize it or not.  I remember watching Blessed Sac change life as we all knew it, when we saw a block of white flags enter from the back leaving an arena full of people breathless. There was Emerald Marquis dancing an Irish jig. There was Escapade presenting R.E.M. There was Pride bringing Alcatraz to life. There was the Blue Devils performing to Summertime. There was also however, San Jose Raiders presenting their tribute to the movie, Good Morning Vietnam. It was 1992 and it changed the activity.

If you didn't see San Jose in 1992 live, then you didn't really see it. I sat in awe, watching a movie come to life, hearing Robin Williams voice wake an arena.

"The Mississippi River broke through a protective dike today. What is a protective dike? Is it a large woman that says "Don't go near there! But Betty- Don't go near there! Don't go down by the river!"... No, we can't say "dyke" on the air, we can't even say "lesbian" anymore, it's "women in comfortable shoes. "

I went to the bar with friends repeating the phrase, "Women in comfortable shoes." It was Robin Williams voice speaking to an arena full of people in Ohio, making a bunch of silly guard people feel happy. It's something I bet he never knew existed, but I would do anything now to tell him how he made us all feel.

We are so lucky in this activity of ours. We have the ability to create art. We can analyze it, critique it. debate it, and emulate it. Art is pure and when performers bring it to life, it takes us to a place that is uniquely genuine. It is the reason we live. To feel passion through art is rare, but a rarity we must always strive for. It shows us that the human soul is truly good.

To Robin Williams, you were the embodiment of art. You touched our souls and it was pure. You could make us laugh and cry all within one movie. When we left the theater after watching one of your movies, we left a better human being. We left a human being that felt human again. When San Jose ended their show, they ended with the song, "What A Wonderful World," by Louis Armstrong. When I think of you Mr. Williams, I will think of that song, because it is a wonderful world and you helped us feel that.

Thank you for helping us see the world in color and helping us dream and if I may quote you, "Only in their dreams can man be truly free. 'Twas always thus, and always thus will be."

The Intoxicating Aroma Called Drum Corps

DCI Atlanta has come and gone. For those of us in the most southern parts of the United States, it’s the only chance we get to see live drum corps without a significant amount of expense and travel. For those of us in Florida, we long for the days when DCI finals was in our back yard of Orlando. We miss shows that use to be in Clearwater, Daytona, and Miami. The times have changed, though. For most of us down here in the alligator swamp land, we only get the one show in Atlanta. We get the corps as they are starting the finishing touches headed into the push for Indy. By the time we see the shows live, we have already watched them on our computers and the big screen. Nothing is truly “shocking” by the time you get to the last weekend in July. 

Saturday night as I sat in the Georgia Dome, a place I’ve watched my share of the marching arts, between BOA and DCI (and in one exciting instance the SEC Championship), it occurred to me that it had been four years since I had seen a live DCI event. It wasn’t out of a lack of interest, but a weekend that unfortunately falls traditionally on a busy work week for me. This year, I made the decision back in May that I would go to Atlanta and figure all the work stuff out later. I’m not sure I went because of a thirst for live drum corps, as much as it was the thirst to see old friends. Regardless of the reason, I went. 

Seeing old friends all along the journey from the moment I checked into the hotel, to the first cocktail among the randomness of the activity, and even at a gas station in the middle of nowhere Georgia at 11 at night, made the reason I attended immediately apparent.  Before I even made it inside the dome I was having a true drum corps experience. To me though, it wasn't very different than a weekend at WGI or BOA. Friends, cocktails, laughs, and memories make up any one of our many activities of pageantry. It wasn’t until I stepped on to the big escalator heading down to the entrance of the Georgia Dome when I got my first scent of drum corps. It was sun screen. It was the smell of sunscreen. The escalator was packed full of people and somewhere in the midst of the eager drum corps fans I got a whiff of sunscreen. Living in Florida this isn’t a scent unfamiliar to me, but there was something about that smell of coconut that brought my senses to life. Research has shown that smell is the most significant memory trigger out of all five of the senses. In an instance, I was transported back to summer days on a practice field in the middle of some no name town in the midwest. I was 20 again and I could taste the smell of drum corps. The smell of drum corps woke me up to a journey I made a lifetime ago.

All of a sudden, all around me were people wearing drum corps jackets in 95 degree heat…a tradition I never could understand, but none the less, there it was. There were people in tee shirts representing drum corps of days long ago. Drum Corps I had never heard of were still being represented. There were the hordes of marching band kids standing with the band moms, having just finished a week of band camp. There were the girls who follow the Cavalier boys around and there were the old timers in heated debates trying to make sense of an activity that has left them behind. After four years of being gone, it was clear that nothing had changed. As I approached my seat in the dome, I felt alive again. I felt alive in a way that I hadn’t in quite some time. I watched corps after corps, having strong opinions about what was occurring on the field below. I would turn to friends between corps and debate what we saw. No one ever agreed with each other.

"I loved that. Did you see that moment when...?"

"Girl please. It was trite." 

Even the debates had been stalled in time. 

It wasn’t’ until a shot on the Jumbotron above showed a guard member performing her heart out. Her face was sweating and her eyes had a look that drew me in to a world that was once mine. Her eyes were sunburned right below the line to wear she clearly wore sun glasses. It was that red burn mark that you get when you consistently forget to put sunscreen on. It was the mark of a summer spent rehearsing in places like Lisbon, Iowa and Elko, Nevada; places no person in their right mind would ever go to on their own. Her eyes brought me back. It was intoxicating. It was visceral.

For a moment in time, she was me. Twenty some odd years have gone by and I could still feel the soul of the performance. I could feel her. I could feel the adrenaline that raced through her body and the thrill of performance. My pulse raised with her and for a brief moment we were one. The performer and audience member became one as if time had stood still like a caricature of the never changing times called drum corps. I realized then that the shows might evolve (thank God) and the criteria they are judged against might change, but the activity remains just an amalgam of all of us who stood on that field with a painful sunburn.  Fans still bought their favorite corps tee shirt. People still rose to their feet when they witnessed something incredible and the crowd roared when their faces got blown off by a wall of sound. 

Nothing had changed. 

Later in the bar, there were complaints about the judges and the old curmudgeons grappled with shows that just seemed a bit too “artsy.” For me? I just drank my cocktail. Things hadn’t changed, because the cocktail conversation was still just a part of the culture as the corps were and the cocktails were still the same. Drum Corps was still the same. We were still the same. The passage of time might have changed what we see, but it hasn’t changed who we are and for that I’ll be back.

When I got home, I went into the garage and took out something that had been in a box for twenty years. I opened the box and removed my old corps jacket that had been folded neatly with my memories from so long ago and placed in the past. I held it up, with my name embroidered on one side and “colorguard” embroidered on the other and I took a deep breath. With the touch of the jacket and the fragrance of old times, it was 1990 again. I could smell the bus fumes and years spent passing through no name towns. I remembered friendships formed in the battle of victory and defeat and could taste the bad food and feel the long hot summer days. Mostly though, I could smell the sunscreen and thought about that young performer on the field Saturday night as she pushes through to the end and hoped she could feel the echos of the past through an old drum corps guard girl sitting in the stands enjoying the moment with her.

Exit Stage Right

"Time is a companion that goes with us on a journey. It reminds us to cherish each moment, because it will never come again. What we leave behind is not as important as how we have lived."

Anyone who has ever met me, known me for longer than 8 minutes, or followed me on Facebook knows that I have two Hollywood heroes (so to speak). The first is Winnie the Pooh. I've loved Pooh ever since I was a child. I loved the movies, his sweet voice, his animal friends, and his gentle nature. When I was taking a basic psych course in college, part of the curriculum was to read, "The Tao of Pooh." It was my first introduction to Eastern philosophy and in one book, took Pooh from the childhood Disney(ized) two dimensional character, to a wise shaman guiding my journey through life. The ultimate goal, according to Pooh, is to live life on a daily basis without concerning yourself with the past or living for the future. Live for today and all your worries will take care of themselves. Pooh also believed in friendship. He valued the trust that comes with friendship. He knew that there is no life without the friends around you to build you up and help you out. It seems silly, but the symbol of Pooh means more to me than a yellow stuffed animal with a red shirt. 

My second Hollywood hero is Jean Luc Picard from "Star Trek: The Next Generation," who is probably one of the wisest, most complex, and well acted characters in television history. Right about the time Pooh became my guiding spirit, Jean Luc Picard entered our lives with the return of Star Trek. Anyone who is considered a Trekkie will tell you that Star Trek is based on Eastern philosophy. The series is an embodiment of a world where people seek nothing in life, but to better themselves through the foundation of knowledge and to live for the betterment of society.  It was inevitable that I would eventually start to see life that way. With Pooh guiding the present and Jean Luc guiding a future utopia, I transitioned from child to grown up. 

Last year I attended my 25th high school reunion. As everyone else does who participates in this middle aged rite of passage, I did a little soul searching. On the drive from Florida to Tennessee, I thought about my 25 years since high school. I thought about a hard earned career that was starting to finally take off. I thought of the people that had come into my life. The friends. The lifelong soul mates. I thought about the adversaries and unintended enemies. I thought about adventures. I thought about the people I had lost and mistakes I had made. Mostly though, I thought about the pageantry arts. A career that started when I was 14 and took me on a journey few would understand or even believe. 

When I look back on 30 years spanning hot days on a football field and long nights in a gym, I can't help but think that our activity as sprinkled with a hint of Pooh and a twist of Picard. People living for the day, striving for perfection, seeking to find answers in music and dance, and friendships born from struggle and defeat. It is a life I have wanted to live ever since the first day I stepped on a practice field with flute in hand. 

To me, life is meant to be lived. It is meant to be explored. Humans should be challenged and pushed beyond their comfort zones. It was the world that made sense to me when I would be confused about what "normal" people did on the weekends. While standing around on Monday morning at the water cooler, my co-workers would regale me in their weekend tales of dinners at Cracker Barrel, the pride in the work they did around the house, or the family staycation. They would then turn to me standing silent and ask, "So Shelba, what did you do this weekend," all while I was still wondering how in the world a person lives a "normal life. 

"Ummmm...well...I did that guard thing I do." Not disclosing that I flew to some exotic location such as Springfield, Mo on Friday night, to judge a show all day Saturday, to fly back ass early Sunday morning, just to get into my car and drive to rehearsal in Orlando. To me, as crazy as it sounds, with the exhaustion, stress, and guilt...THAT is living. 

In my time in the activity, I have met some of the most interesting, creative, and intelligent people on earth. For a while, I believed that no one would ever replace that level of three dimensional interaction. These people are brilliant artists. Sometimes confused. Frequently broke and oftentimes tortured. There are many people in the activity who, just like all other forms of art, repair their souls and find their voice in a medium not understood by many. The torture at times plays out on the football fields and in the gyms around the country. I have seen arguments, fights, interventions, drug addiction, sexual promiscuity, marital affairs and other insecurities take the stage in the form of pageantry with flag in hand and music as the backdrop.

This is not an activity for the faint of heart. It is a watered down version of the Hollywood tales that play in an A&E Biography. I have seen "isms" that I'm not happy about. Jealousy and envy rears its head more than it should, but those emotions are real, and as much as we would like to pretend that we are "above" the actions of mainstream society, we are not. We have biases that stay hidden under the table, that are only talked about late at night over a glass of wine with our closest friends. 

With all of are faults and all of our craziness however, we are what we are and what we are is still a group of people living for the day, striving for a better world. A more colorful world. The pageantry arts is life. It is the embodiment of what life should be. Life should be a rainbow of emotions without fear of expression and fear of mistakes. It is the very essence of competition and the arts. 

It is time though, for me to live up to the bargain I made with my soul when I entered into this world. Life is meant to change and there are many of us in this activity who hide in it and for me, the comfort zone has become too comfortable. As Captain Picard once said, "Buried deep within you, beneath all the years of pain and anger, there is something that has never been nurtured: the potential to make yourself a better man. ant that is what it is to be human. To make yourself more than you are. Oh yes, I know you. There was a time you looked at the stars and dreamed of what might be." 

In the thirty years of doing this activity, I have been a performer, instructor, director, board member, and judge. I've done it. I've seen it. I've lived it. It's time however, to see what the next 30 years can bring. How can I take all that I learned in this activity and use it for a life I can barely imagine right now?  I realized recently that I have a voice and am not afraid to use it for the causes I hold dear. I realized that I'm stronger than I could have ever hoped to be and I know I'll need that in the fight for a peaceful world. I realized that fear is not something that haunts me, but pushes me. I realized that the good I can do in the world can extend beyond the confines of a gym and a flag. I can be anything I want to be and you know what...It was the pageantry arts that taught all of this to me. That is its greatest gift.  So I say goodbye to the guards I taught and I say goodbye to a past that taught me what passion really means. I thank every single person who sat in a gym with me and the late nights of laughing over ridiculous show ideas that would never come to fruition. I thank you all for the cocktails and conversation. I thank you for the life lessons! I say goodbye to listening to music for the sake of an idea, but say hello to music that doesn't necessarily have to be spun to. I leave on the table show ideas that I will never see come to life and counts for others to clean. I take one last look around, turn out the lights, close the door, and hopefully I leave it a little better than when I entered. 

Oh I'll still be around. I'll still find my way to a tape recorder now and then. I'll enjoy a cocktail or five while sitting in the bar waiting for my friends to finish up with retreat. I'll still board the plane to Dayton and when it's over, will leave hungover with bloodshot eyes. It's time however, for the gym door to close and the counts to cease. I wouldn't underestimate me, though. You never know where I'll pop up. If this activity taught me one thing, it was that you never quit and you keep striving to be the best you, you can be and that my friend will happen until the day I die. 

To close, I would like to draw from and out right steal the words of Captain Picard:

"So, five-card stud, nothing wild. And the sky's the limit."

From Performer to Performer: Stop Whining!

In my short guard career, as a performer, I have come to accept that there is always good with the bad. Thankfully, I was given the chance to march with Paradigm this past season and we had a phenomenal season. As with every colorguard however, we had our share of issues and struggles. I have been on both ends of the spectrum serving as both a performer for an independent team and an instructor for a high school guard simultaneously, and both have their share of headaches. This post is being written in the hopes that maybe it can alleviate problems for both members and staff.

First things first, whether it be independent or high school, if you commit to it, nothing about it is optional. Nothing! Synchronization can only be achieved by countless hours of cleaning and repeating so that training styles match and that can only be achieved if everyone is present. Competitions are the whole purpose for rehearsals, so if you somehow manage to miss those, you've wasted a lot of time for performers and staff. We all know emergencies arise, and when it is a true emergency, we can all relate and understand, but missing a rehearsal because you forgot you had class or work on a rehearsal the day of is not considered an emergency, it's a careless mistake. Learn to plan ahead!!!

Secondly, along with your responsibility to be present, be on time! For high school kids, that means getting there fifteen minutes early and making sure you're prepared for practice. For the independent performers, we have all known the struggle of pulling a floor and setting up with less than everyone present. As a team, everyone should be present to help. One of the things guard should be teaching all of us, is what teamwork is all about and being a team, means not just working on the show, but working together on the not so fun stuff as well.

Also, missing stretch makes you more likely to get injured at rehearsal. No one needs that headache! So, be proactive with your time. Stretch is also the time when everyone should come together to get focused and mentally ready for the day.

Third, realize that unless you have forty other members on the floor with you, your attitude will  affect the staff and your teammates as well. You can literally suck the life out of your fellow teammates and not realize you're doing it. I've had the chance of working with several different kinds of people over the years and I have had a real appreciation for those who were going through struggles and still managed to smile during through the pain. We all know injuries can be painful, but you cannot let it defeat you otherwise it will defeat everyone else around you as well. Which leads me to my next point:

Make smart decisions while away from rehearsals and shows. I know I am guilty of failing to exercise everyday and always eat right, but roller skating the night before a show isn't exactly the best idea! Take care of soreness as best as you can in between rehearsals and treat your body like an athlete would, because that's what we are...ATHLETES.

Do us all a favor and don't simply join because you want your name on the back of a shirt. If you're there and you're paying money to work your butt off, WORK YOUR BUTT OFF! Don't be that person that gets called out all of the time for giving half the effort at rehearsals and all your effort in performances. Try to be consistent in energy, performance and technical training so that it is easier to get into character for shows.

Lastly, while working your butt off, you may find that things are not so easy. Progress and perfection is never easy. Realize that nothing in life is ever easy, but remember that you've already started something, so why not make it worth it and achieve what you're pushing for? After all, there are other people around you doing the exact same thing, help them by helping yourself!

The Never Ending Question...Why

When this blog was created in 2013, it was created with the intent that any person in

the activity could write for it...performers specifically. This is a touching look at the life of a current performer of Paradigm, Nicole Goldberg. In this post, she speaks of the struggle to get her parents to understand colorguard. It's a look at what many of us have faced in the fight for pageantry. Also, it is a look at what young people in our culture face, specifically young women, for the right to individualism. 

The first time I ever saw my brother spin his bow in sparring class, I knew I wanted to spin. I didn’t know exactly what I would be spinning, but I was enthralled by watching that bow and I knew I would do something similar one day. Growing up, I preferred bugs and books to Barbies and beanie babies, which was a disappointment to my beauty queen mother, but she coped, hoping I would grow out of my tomboy phase as I got older. My favorite movie growing up was Cadet Kelly on Disney Channel. It’s a movie about an expressive and very eccentric young girl who gets sent to military school and becomes a feature on her schools drill team. So, when I was younger and my mother approached me about possibly starting baton classes. I showed her a scene from Cadet Kelly in which they spin rifle and told her that is more of what I wanted to do. I must have seen smoke come out of her ears. The first question out of her mouth was “Why?” and my answer was, “Because it looks cool!” That was the end of that conversation. 

As I got older, dance became a passion; hip hop specifically. I cringed at the thought of ballet and after finally agreeing to take my first ballet class, I left after three months because of the constant abuse I was getting from the teacher for my turnout and my point. After 6th grade, I quit dancing and gained 30 pounds. I became super lazy and eating became my outlet. So, when high school rolled around, I swore to my mom I would get involved in a club or sport to keep me busy. Being captain of her cheerleading squad, it was only proper for my mom to keep bringing cheerleading up as a (biased) option. I brought up spinning a gun again and her fist clenched so tight I thought she would cry. Again...

“Why” she asked.

"Because it looks cool!" 

“Why not something more feminine?”

To avoid the argument, I told her I had cheerleader auditions and went to color guard auditions for my high school instead. She was a little surprised when I walked out with a flag instead of pom poms, but she didn’t say a word besides “How much is this going to cost?” The first year was extremely trying for me. Let’s just say, my nickname for flag tosses was "Catapult." Of course, being 13 and a girl, my reaction to my frustration was to cry to my mother. She responded by asking me encouraging me to give up.  "Maybe it’s just not your thing,” she would say.  If anyone knows me personally, they know that comments like that make me work harder. The end of my freshman year, I got the award for most improved. So, it was only fitting I wanted to go back sophomore year. “Why?” my mother consistently asked. After much arguing and begging, sophomore year came and went. Junior year was the hardest year I had in high school. I was marching captain, taking seven regular school classes, two online classes, three college courses and head of my youth leadership team at my church. I had my hands full and was always tired or cranky from all of the stress I put on myself. As per usual “Why stay with color guard if you’re so stressed?” We came to a deal. If I got at least a B in every class I was taking, I could continue guard through senior year without the questions. Don’t get me wrong, my parents came to football games and competitions because they wanted to watch, but they didn’t understand what kept bringing me back. Senior year, I was head captain. We broke 70 that year in FFCC championships and for my team that was huge. I graduated with honors and as a thank you to my high school guard, I went back to help the year after.

 “Why?" My mother asked once again. "I thought this was over for you once high school ended.” 

I told her I was getting paid to come back so she didn’t believe I was completely wasting my time. I told her I wasn’t marching, only helping, so I was making money instead of spending it. Let me just say, helping but not marching when you’re physically able to march is like putting wine in front of my instructors and telling them not to drink it. It killed me that I wasn’t marching again. I fell into a huge depression that spiraled out of control and found Paradigm in the nick of time. When I proposed marching again to my parents, it was like I told them I shot the dog.

“Here it goes!” I thought to myself. “Why spend money you don’t have for something that won’t benefit you later? Why waste time when you could be working?" I had heard these questions adnausiem. 

Why why why why why! 

At times, I even started asking why and didn’t have my answer until I went to Dayton this year. 

Why, because I am the girl who hides behind her books and her desk and avoids holding a conversation because I feel awkward. 

Why, because I am the girl who hates confrontation because I don’t want people looking at me. 

Why, because I am the girl that tears herself apart for everything that I am not. 

But when I am out on the mat or the field, I feel like someone. I feel like I am a part of something greater than me and I am bringing happiness and smiles (hopefully) to the faces of those watching me. I push myself to my limits for a reason. I don’t pay my fees for the memories! I do it because it makes me feel alive. I know it’s hard to explain why anyone would want to spend money to sleep on a gym floor for a couple of weekends, but if you saw the passion in the eyes of the performers at Dayton, you would understand why we all do it. We feel alive and the family I have found in winterguard makes it that much better. I am not scared to be myself, or whether or not my teammates always like me. they are stuck with me and they will get over it. I may not always like what my staff members say to me or make me do, but I’ll get over it and I’ll thank them in the long run because they’re teaching me life lessons I’ll need to know later on. Like being on time and forgiving myself when I make a mistake. 

Before winterguard, I didn’t feel like I had a purpose or anyone to really turn to. In this sport and in the program I call home...Paradigm, I found people who totally get it and want nothing more than to help me be successful. I know my mother is right when she says I’m losing money, but I don’t care! Money truly cannot buy happiness. Happiness comes from putting in work and seeing results while having people there to support you and THAT why I march. So now, when my mother asks why guard? I say because money cannot buy happiness.

The Lie of Success

There is a strange sort of reasoning in Hollywood that musicals are less worthy of Academy consideration than dramas. It's a form of snobbism, the same sort that perpetuates the idea that drama is more deserving of Awards than comedy.--Gene Kelly

Tonight while flipping the stations on a boring, post winterguard season evening, I noticed that Singing In The Rain was on tv. The American Film Institute ranked Singing In The Rain fifth out of one hundred of the best movies of all time. It is considered a masterpiece in almost every creative circle you encounter and I had never seen it.  I remember as a little girl hearing my grandmother talk about Gene Kelly just like my generation talks about George Clooney or Brad Pitt. She adored him. So, I popped some popcorn and poured myself a glass of Bordeaux; perfect for a night of old movies, and sat back to see what all the fuss was about. While watching the movie, I was taken aback by the brilliance of the acting and elegance of the dance. I was enamored by Gene Kelly and every time he entered the screen, all I could think was, "My God! He could act circles around almost every actor in Hollywood today." It didn’t take long for me to realize why this movie is revered as an American classic.

It was 1952, when Singing in the Rain graced the silver screen, receiving reviews that were considered marginal at best. It was only nominated for two Oscars and neither were for acting or directing. Gene Kelly wasn't even considered and in fact, Gene Kelly never received an Oscar for any movie he ever acted in or directed; not Singing In The Rain, An American in Paris, or even Hello, Dolly! Yet, Gene Kelly is considered an American icon and undoubtedly one of the most brilliant artists of the 20th century. Gene Kelly won numerous awards in his career, but never an Oscar, and if he did nothing else in his life, what a contribution Singing In The Rain was.

Watching this movie made think about success and what it means to our activity. Success can be defined in a lot of ways, but let’s be honest, making finals in Dayton or having a medal around your neck at headquarters helps solidify the concept of "successful." There are a million ways to define it and many define it by status. When I was in my 20’s, success was defined purely by placement. I had no body of work to fall back on, so making finals or winning a show was vitally important to my concept of success; as well as my ego. As time went on and I matured, success redefined itself over and over. 

It was Shaktai 1999, when I realized that that placement did not mean success. We were 5^th that year in Independent World and going into Dayton, some people even used the dreaded word “medal.” It was the most successful show that I had been a part of to date, yet I deem that season incredibly unsuccessful. Internal struggles, financial issues, and membership problems all lead to a Saturday night show that bordered on “average.” Ranking fifth that night should have brought a lot of celebrating, but really all it brought us was a lot of drinking. It was then that I learned that placement didn’t make you happy. Over the years in Dayton I have heard people complain about their placement or score and one year, one world class instructor moaned and cried in their cocktail about just being third place, while still wearing their medal around their neck. Needless to say, I wasn’t sympathetic. It was clear that the two of us defined success differently and placed our priorities on different shelves. Neither of us were right or wrong.

Success. What is it? How do we define it? Is it a yearly placement or a body of work? If you read Facebook enough you will inadvertently start to see success through the eyes of lies. No one in their right mind is going to post this as their status: 

"Today we scored a 56.2 and well, we deserved it. The kids dropped 15 times, I couldn't finish the show in time, and well...these kids are really brats." Instead what we see is, "Today we scored a 56.2 and although it wasn't the score we had hoped for, these are the hardest working kids I've ever had and looking forward to next weekends show!" 

Sitting in critique as a judge I often ask an instructor what the goals of the guard are and in my best estimate, about 95% of all people respond in this way.

“Well, you know. We want the best for the kids and well…you know. The top 5 of the class would be great, but we are just hoping for a great championships run and being in the big show would be just the icing on the cake. Now I realize that the stars have to align and the President has to declare world peace, but we are hopeful.”

My internal response:

“Oh for the love of God! What is it you want? Do you want to be in the top 5, finals or hope for world peace?”

The answers are always slightly different based on whether the guard is nationally based or locally based, but they all have similar tones. I myself do it with my own guard when asked the same question, except I have gotten too old and have been doing this for so long, that my answer goes something like this.

“Well, I’ll be happy if I can get to the end of the season without taking the entire bottle of Xanax.”

It’s difficult to state our goals to strangers out loud, because if they seem too lofty, then we look stupid. If they seem to low, then we sell ourselves short. Either way, saying them out loud sets us up for a potentially unsuccessful ending to our season. This past February I was judging a show in North Carolina and asked a young guard instructor the question about their goals, but instead of asking about their goals, I decided to ask about their success. I asked, “So how would you define a successful season for your guard?” The dialog that followed was rich and full of honesty. They told me about feeling lost after last season and the freshmen class they hoped to hold on to. They talked about their difficulty with a particular section of the show and hoping to make it out of prelims at Championships. After that, with every show I judged, I started asking many other guards the same question. The answers were amazing and afforded a dialog that many instructors and judges never get to have.

A successful season for some people can mean finals or a medal. For others, they are happy to make it to the end without being financially ruined. Some people define success by improving upon the season before, while others see the kids they have and calculate the progress from beginning to end and are just happy with the kids being happy.

I have noticed over time that even non instructors calculate their success based off of competitive standards. Judges for example are looked at as WGI or local. The WGI manual even addresses the local judge vs. the WGI judge. WGI judges are given credence in the activity if they “are going in,” and if they get “in,” they are valued by which class they judged once they are “there” and if it was a finals show or not. You don’t have to look far for this evidence than the Facebook statuses on Saturday in Dayton. Local judges can be accepted by others based on their experience in the activity. How many times have I heard, “…and who have you taught?”

This year I noticed for the first time that status for the volunteers is also a big deal.

“What’s your assignment?”

“I’m working IO semi-finals. I didn’t get finals this year.”

“Huh??”

“I’m at the top of the tunnel. Not the bottom.”

“Ummm…ok. Well my assignment is in the bar. Stool number six. I didn’t get stool number three this year.” (I actually said that to someone)

We all want to be successful; in the marching arts, work, marriage, money, and life. From the moment we are born we are defined by our success and it doesn’t stop until you die. I remember when my son was born and people started in on his success.

“Is he walking yet? Well my little Natalie started walking three days after she was born. She’s now training for the marathon.”

For many of us, our success is defined by looking at others, as opposed to looking in the mirror. As a woman, I never feel thin enough or pretty enough. I look in the mirror and see me. I don’t see a magazine ad trying to sell bra’s only a size 2 teenager would wear, and although I know how those models are touched up, I still see just me and question my looks.  As a professional at the age of 44, I thought I would be further ahead by now.  Forget about that little blip in 2008, called the Great Recession that forced jobs to go away and kept an entire generation from retiring, thus freeing up jobs for my generation. Regardless of the facts, I’m not as successful as I had hoped to be by now. As a mother, Oh dear Lord! As a mother, I’m never going to feel successful. It is Not. Even. Possible! Someone’s kid is always going to be smarter, prettier, more talented, and be able to beat the house in Vegas. How do you compete with that?? As a mother, I’ve resigned myself to being happy if I can simply remember to feed him daily. (To hell with the vegetables)

If in life we can’t feel successful, then how will any of us ever feel successful in an activity where our very fiber is to compete? I use to be medal obsessed. I would see people with a closet full of medals and wonder how I missed that memo from the Universe. I wanted desperately to be in “that crowd.” The older I get though, I realize that my youthful, immature version of success meant achievement. I have never medaled. Not once, but I would hardly call myself unsuccessful. At WGI in 2013, a good friend and much respected member of our pageantry community told me over drinks that he had never medaled. My jaw dropped.

“How is that possible? You’ve done this and this and this and this.”

I listed his accomplishments as if I were reading his bio on Wikipedia. All of those great shows and not one medal. I realized then, that Bob Costas isn't sitting in Dayton every year reporting for the masses our personal medal count and that medals don’t define success. Every year, every season comes to an end and for every one of us, we wake up on Monday morning, look at ourselves in the mirror and define success and for most of us, it wasn’t whether or not we made finals or judged finals. We look at ourselves in the mirror and weigh our success by the progress we made. We define it by our personal endurance to keep going in a time, when all we wanted to do was quit. We define it by passing on this activity to a new generation in the hopes they will love it as passionately as we do. 

After much soul searching I realized that this season was probably one of the most successful I have ever had and we barely made it out of prelims in Independent A. I realized that I had the ability to start again and go through those pain staking efforts that new programs go through. I started again with a program that was once World Class. I left my ego at the door and shut out the rest of the worlds judgment. I started all over while trying to manage work, home, and daily life. I can honestly say, that I did what many people couldn't and for that I walked away from the cruel mirror of judgment that once told me I was unsuccessful. 

One day my hope is that we all get to a point where success is not defined by the judgment of society and the accomplishments we place on a resume', but on the fact that we created a life with a good family, good friends, a good job, and people around us who share the same passion for the arts. 

The Bully Inside Us

Yesterday, my seven year old and I were playing the game Connect Four. If you have never played the game before, it's basically a childhood game that teaches children about the very basic concepts of creating and building strategy. When we play games I never let him win. Sometimes I give him clues, but I never let him win. I don't feel like I'm helping him if I let him win. When we were playing, he said to me that he never wins at anything and that he was stupid. I thought, "My God! Where did he learn that?" I have never told him he was stupid and he doesn't always lose. I thought about it and decided that those messages must be taught through the ridiculous standards society places on us and how we take pride in this country at raising people to the top, to just take pleasure in watching them fall. I thought about this all night. Never once did I put the blame on myself.

Later that night after my son went to bed, I was going through my nightly ritual of looking for a job in the hopes of taking my career in a different direction. I found a great job that I was not only qualified for, but would be absolutely fabulous at. I didn't think twice about applying. I wrote a well worded cover letter, attached the resume, and pressed send. Then it hit me. The minute, no the second that resume went into cyberspace my biggest critic attacked me from the inside. It said, "You know you won't get this. Someone is better. Someone has more experience. They won't even acknowledge they received this. You are stuck where you are. Get use to it. You will always be less than."

It took less than a minute for the bully inside me to tell me I'm less than and then I realized something. My child didn't learn about self doubt from society. He learned it from his mother. My heart sank. Since I could remember I have had a voice inside of me telling me that I wasn't enough and you know what...we all have and only a few of us have learned to tame it.

I've been teaching in the pageantry activity for a long time (a very long time) and the only thing I'm certain about, is that with every new batch of kids, comes a new set of bullies. They are bullies that live inside the kids we teach that tell them they are less than. They tell them they can't throw that quad or that they will never be a soloist. Their bully tells them that they will never get acknowledged by the staff. Their bullies tell them they suck and with that, they drop the rifle, lose the solo, and never get acknowledged by the staff. Their bully wants them to quit. The bully inside of them takes pride in every failure and missed opportunity. They say, "Quit. Come on. It's too hard. You will never make it. You should have never been here to begin with. Remember that day you tried out for cheerleader and didn't make it? Well, you made this, which clearly means you will eventually fail."

The inner bully.

The inner bully looks back at you in the mirror as a young girl of ten and says that you are fat. At the age of 44, your inner bully is still looking back at you in the mirror telling you that you're fat. Now it also tells you that you're old. It tells you that you are failing as a mother and professional. The bully ages as you age and its job is to look for new ways to bring you down.

This year in Dayton someone came up to me in the bar on Friday night and said that they had always wanted to meet me. No shit! Someone actually said that to me. My response? "Ummmm...ok. You want to meet...me??" That's what I said.

"Me? You want to meet me??"

The bully inside was laughing at me, wanting to take my moment and it won. I have found that colorguard people are some of the most fascinating, talented, creative, and intelligent people I know, yet they have bullies living inside of them the size of Hercules. Why wouldn't they?  As artists we put our thoughts and creativity on display year in and year out for all to judge...and judge we do. We judge with scores, our catty remarks, our body language, and our thoughts. We all do it. Pageantry people aren't always nice and are judgmental. It's not a bad thing or a good thing. It's reality. It's called competition. It's called human nature. It's our American culture.

We also have a way of using mediums such as Facebook to highlight our successes...and highlight we do.

Holy crap! If I see one more Facebook post about how such and such just had 5,000 kids show up to auditions I'll slit my wrists or how the "I'm the most fabulous designer, tech, and choreographer, plus I just got my pilots license and flew my entire guard to Dayton myself" just medaled for the 15th time in 3 years... I'll throw myself off a bridge. There is no shortage of people throwing themselves into social media for all of us to look at and be jealous of and with their success, we see our failure, regardless of our own success. It's the vicious cycle I call, "Less Than."

In pageantry we live week in and week out experiencing new ways to feel bad about ourselves. We beat ourselves up with phrases that go something like this. "My scores are too low."  "My kids aren't talented enough." "My program doesn't bring in enough money." "I'm a bad designer." "I'm a bad tech."  "I'm burned out. I'm over it."  Personally, I start every season with the feeling of, "Dear God. Just let the kids come back next week." Once again the bully telling me that I or my program isn't worthy.

I also feel old, fat, incompetent  in an ever changing activity, and unsure of myself as a judge and if we are all honest with ourselves, at some level my feeling is mutual to an entire activity. My bully tells me that I'm not perfect and there is always someone better and she reminds me of that every...single...day. I'm comfortable in using the term bully, because in my career I'm a bullying expert and the definition goes as follows:

"Bullying is an ongoing, consistent level of abuse that zero's in on its victim and uses mental torture to gain a reaction from the victim."

It's an ongoing, consistent level of abuse. Abuse. Inside of us lives an abusive asshole, trying to tell us as guard instructors we aren't good enough and you know what? It also wants us to bring friends to the party. It wants us to tell the kids we teach that they aren't good enough either. Bullies thrive by the nature of the attention we give it. They want their victim to quit and cry. They DO NOT want the victim to fight back.

Inside of all us lives a bully. Inside the kids we teach lives a bully. The young girls are being told that they look fat in their uniform and the young boys are being told they are too gay. Our kids stand on the field rehearsal after rehearsal and show after show, beating themselves up for every mistake and every missed cue. They look at themselves in the mirror before a show and wonder if they are pretty. They hope that someone will notice them as they perform and they pray that their parents will see their accomplishments. Their bully tells them that they are less than. Their bully will tell them that it is them and them alone that causes a score to be lower than it should.

It is up to us to tell them their bully is an asshole!

One day, a long time ago on a hot day in Hershey, Pennsylvania, I was kicked off the field during a drum corps rehearsal for talking back to the staff. I was told that I was rushing the tempo while we ran a 32 count phrase over and over. I will never forget this. I asked where in the phrase I was rushing. I was told that I was rushing the entire phrase. Over and over we ran that phrase. Over and over I got yelled at. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

 "Shelba! You are rushing!"

I responded in the only way I knew how in my adolescent, frustrated mind.

"Well I must be a f****** idiot then! I don't understand!!"

"Shelba! Get off the field!"

Sauntering off the field, pouting all the way to the sideline as I threw my flag to the ground, I held back every tear that was building up inside of me. My mind was screaming that I sucked and didn't deserve to be in a top 10 drum corps.  I deserved to get kicked off the field, but not because I talked back. It was because my bully told me that I would never make it as a world class performer. I never should have responded in the way that I did. My response however, came not from me, but from my bully. My bully wanted me to believe that I was in fact a f***** idiot. It wanted me to believe that I sucked and the more it took control of my mind, the more I truly did suck. My inner bully made me rush and the more we ran the phrase, the more I screwed it up. That day in Hershey was a victory for my bully and although it doesn't have the power it use to, sometimes I see it rear its ugly head.

It reared its head in Dayton when it made me believe I wasn't worthy of someone wanting to meet me. ME! They wanted to meet me and I couldn't for the life of me understand why. It rears its head in the morning when I look at myself naked in a mirror and realize that I'm no longer 24, but 44. It rears its head at work when I get congratulated on a project and then dismiss the compliment by saying, "It was nothing." It rears its head when someone asks me for advice. "Me? You want my advice?"

The point to it all.

We have one chance with the kids we teach. It's April and marching band and drum corps is starting its cycle of training and design. Recognize the bully inside your kids. Acknowledge it. Push your kids to be better than their bully believed they could ever be. Tell your kids that they are worth every catch, every performance, and every moment that the activity has to give. Remember this. Their bully is strong and is as strong as yours ever was. It's working against you as an instructor. It's tearing the kids down from the inside and its goal is to win. Remember that before you scream at the kid for dropping, their bully already has. It told them that they suck and will never live up to your standards. Push your kids, but push their bully out of your rehearsal for good and while your at it...kick your own bully to the road as well.

I decided to write this today, because I was asked in a meeting if I would be interested in being an adjunct professor for a local community college. My bully said, "They must have not been able to find anyone else." As I told the person that I was very much interested and even as we were setting up our first meeting, my mind told me that this wouldn't happen. Writing this today puts me on the line. Putting myself "out there" is hard, because it means that criticism is on the horizon. It means that failure could be just around the corner. However, it could also mean that I might inspire someone. It might mean that someone will read this and see themselves in this post and see how they beat themselves up for being "just not good enough,' but the irony to it all is that you are good enough. We all are. Look at this fabulous activity we created!

If nothing else, writing this today tells my bully to go to hell and it tells the kids that I teach that they too, can put themselves on the line and survive and be better for it. As I write this, I have playing loudly in the Ipod, "Perfect," by Pink and this is my favorite part:

The whole world's scared, so I swallow the fear

The only thing I should be drinking is an ice cold beer

So cool in lying and we try, try, try but we try too hard

And it's a waste of my time.

Done looking for the critics, cause they're everywhere

They don't like my jeans, they don't get my hair

Exchange ourselves and we do it all the time

Why do we do that, why do I do that (why do I do that)?

And as I write this...I sit here drinking a cocktail. In a bar. By myself. Because I'm just that confident! 

(Oh...it's a gay bar, because...I'm really not that confident, but I'm certain my straight friends think the opposite.) 

Aren't our perspectives in life just interesting?? 

The idea for this post came from a great person and inspiration Dr. Kathleen Griffin, who lives her helping people fight their inner bullies and for who the bully idea came from.

Finding Ghosts Among The Ruins Of Dayton

When you wake up on Sunday morning in Dayton and look out the window of your hotel room, you see a city that is brown and lifeless. The buildings are crumbling and the roads are under construction. Dayton, Ohio is not a place where one visits by choice or just for fun. Dust covers the ground on any given Sunday in Dayton, but when you wake up on Sunday morning after WGI, you see a city that came to life among the ruins. For four days, four very special days, the dust and dilapidated buildings shine with the glitter of ten thousand colorguards and within that glitter, are the whispers of the past, the exhaustion of the present, and the Dayton's yet to come. When you wake up on Sunday morning in Dayton and look out the window of your hotel room, the glitter is all gone. What you are left with is this indescribable feeling that the world all of a sudden seems a little less interesting and a little less fun and with that, you say goodbye to your heart. The best people you have ever known will board planes that will take them from the center of you. 

When WGI is over, all that is left is a file of recaps to study and a drawer of videos that are tucked away like a favorite charm given to us by a special lover from our youth. Old arm bands, programs, ticket stubs, and photos end up in boxes lost to our memory of once was and in the ruins of Dayton, our memories gravitate to a time not many can grasp or can even attempt to understand. If you listen closely, you can hear the ghosts of Dayton's past whisper their legacy. 

Sitting at World Class Finals on Saturday night I was struck by how many people continue to come to Dayton year after year. I met a great new friend this year in Dayton...another wonderful benefit of attending WGI. His name is Denny and he marched Emerald Marquis. He had not been to a WGI in about 15 years and watching his reaction to the World Guards was truly an unexpected gift. Where many of us have become jaded, Denny was overwhelmed and excited. It must have been like stepping out of a time capsule that left space dock somewhere in the late 90's, and all of a sudden he spies cell phones, the internet, and flying vehicles.  On the breaks between guards, I would think about guards past and the impact those guards made on the activity. I thought about a time when on Saturday night the World Class performers walked around dressed to the nines, while they watched an event called, "Triple Finals." I wondered how many in the arena remembered Triple Finals and how many actually grasped a time when finals was on Sunday. 

I thought about the guards and the people that made up those guards...many who were sitting in the audience watching their legacy come to life. They are the ghosts. The performers who stood on that arena floor in a time when it was not sold out in the round and a time when the activity was a little bit less commercial. 30 years I've been coming to WGI and in between guards, I thought of the wonder of our activity and the impact it has had on thousands upon thousands of people. As I watched the guards pull their floors to set for what would be their final performance, I thought of the shadows left behind. I remembered a time when we heard the phrase, "Let the ceremony begin," and then the rain fell and the house came to its feet.

There was a time when we saw an Irish jig and couldn't believe the immense talent that flowed from performer to performer. When a colorguard would present a final flag feature, my mind would gravitate to a flag feature that left us speechless. It was all white, developed from the back, and it was the first and changed the activity forever. On Saturday night if you closed your eyes and opened your mind, you could hear colors and their personalities being described to you and a rifle line entering on the color red. If you watched closely, you could see a gypsy caravan coming out of the tunnel. On Saturday night, I saw the flags of guards past. I saw Marilyn Monroe's skirt fly and paint being thrown. I heard the song, "Summertime," and then a score that would blow the minds of everyone in attendance that night. On one special occasion, we saw peacocks bring the arena to life, thus offering a new definition to the phrase, "Production Value." 

Each year on a Saturday night in April, we watch as the present merges with the past and wonder where the future will take us. The ghosts of the past grace the arena. They sit in sections 313 and 212. Some are sitting in the center with a recorder in their hands and others are standing at the top of the tunnel welcoming the present to finals. They are everywhere. They are in the tent and outside listening to the smokers mull over present day colorguard. They are in warm-up holding the hands of the performers as they struggle to get their nerves under control. They are on retreat waiting to place medals around the necks of the next generation of winners, asking those performers just one simple request. "Remember this moment and thank those that came before you." After the show, they are waiting at headquarters with a drink in their hand saying, "Welcome back. We've missed you." They are the voices of the past and all they want is to welcome us back to Dayton. 

At some point during the weekend, we pay tribute to those we have lost by a simple toast of our cocktail and wish they were sitting with us. We tell old war stories like old men sitting on the front porch of a nursing home and we remember. Late Saturday night we say goodbye to our friends, give them a hug, and hope beyond all hope to see them again in this place we call Dayton. 

On Sunday morning upon the ruins of Dayton, we say goodbye as we pass the arena on our way to the interstate and say, "I'll see you next year." And with that, we say goodbye to the present and welcome the future and if you look closely, you can see a small piece of glitter glistening in the wind. In it is its echo, it simply says, "Thank you for your passion, your creativity, and you friendship for this thing we call winter guard. I will see you next year my friend."