Reflections of a Band Nerd

Some are born to be sports champions and pop stars, cowboys and supermodels. Some were destined for greatness.

Some were born to be in marching band.

The band nerd is a strange, elusive creature. Often traveling in packs about campus, propelled jerkily forward by the weight of bulky instrument cases. If you're not musically inclined, don't even try to understand their humor. Jokes about fermatas and embouchure techniques are better off unexplained.

In the Winter, they're pale from long hours in practice rooms, poring over complex manuscripts of hastily-scribbled notations. In the Summer, they willingly wrap their skin the the suffocating embrace of wool coats and double-lines pants, sticking a bundle of feathers in their leather hats and calling it tradition. They readily submit to fashion faux-pas (i.e. white shoes, black socks, purple pants) for the sake of a social scene quite separate from convention. Sock tans and neck-strap tans are legit.

Not to memtion that in every band rehersal, there's a string of perfect "That's what she said" moments waiting the conductor's excited instructions to play harder, faster, and louder.

They're a zany bunch. They make beautiful, sweet music together. And in case I forgot to mention, spend way too much time doing so.

My best memories from middle school to high school were from the concert and marching bands, and the people who shared my passion for music. I can look at a musician and often guess their instrument based on their personality and mannerisms. I conduct to pop music while waiting at red lights, I roll my heels when carrying heavy loads. From the Golden Band in the fall to Bengal Brass in the spring, band has defined my first-year experience in college. I was even initiated into the LSU band service fraternity this past Thursday. As I've come this far, my memories and experiences have been bound to this sole, substantial truth:

There's no friend like a band friend.

And no matter how bad the times get, I have my music and my French horn to turn to.

The first time my friends called me a band nerd, I cried. In 6th grade, that kind of peer pressure makes life rough for the socially awkward. Now, I have a blue-ribbon, big-band smile waiting. I've come to terms with my my quirky affinity for band kids. It has made me who I am today.

At 19, I'm no longer riding out the stereotype of the band nerd-- I'm embracing it.

"Pissing" off the handicapped

Imagine this. 

You're running late. It's Friday night, and you've got a date waiting at the movie theatre. 

You can almost taste the buttery popcorn kernels sticking gloriously to your gums. You long for the feel of that stiff, high-backed chair-- holding hands as the stale theatre odor engulfs you in reveries of sex, scandal, action, comedy. 

Your ear drums are bursting from the thought of high-definition surround-sound; your pupils are dilated and engaged. 

You're ready.

But it's opening night and the theatre parking lot is full. Your chances of finding a spot are nil. 

Damn.

Until you see them. The front row VIP section, open and ready. That red-carpet experience. Calling you to break the law.

The handicapped spots.

With that lovely blue hangtag, there are so many possibilities. 

But that was just a tangent. Here's when things get interesting.

My parents drove up last week to visit my brother and I at LSU. However, it was the drive up that made the trip a memorable one.

Traveling from Houston to Baton Rouge is a tedious venture. After a couple hours, my parents stopped at a gas station outside of Lafayette to fill up the tank. My dad dropped my sister and mom off in front of the convenience store so they could stretch their legs. 

My dad's a quadriplegic--paralyzed from the armpits down. Unable to find parking to accommodate the lift on his van, he waited for a handicapped spot to open up. After a few minutes, a car pulled out in front of him. As my dad began to drive towards the spot, he was intercepted by a truck. 

No handicapped plates. 

A group of men climbed out of the truck bed and waited. One man decided he needed to relieve himself.

He unzipped and did his business. Right in the handicapped spot. Right in front of my dad.

I guess I should go ahead and make this story come full circle. My dad and I agree that people often use their menial medical problems as an excuse to be lazy. We've seen it happen, watching the "physically impaired" donning handicapped placards like they would a backstage pass at an exclusive nightclub. They're cheating the system. However, there are some rare cases when those limited parking spaces are necessary. Some people are dependent on them to successfully and independently function in the real world.

Some people deserve to be treated like human beings, and given the due respect.

I could go on: using the handicapped restroom stall when the normal ones are open, parking in front of a ramp, parking in the yellow-lined area between handicapped spaces... 

Frankly, they're pissed off. And they should be.

From leaving shopping carts in the middle of a sidewalk to taking a leak on that blue-stenciled wheelchair, people are dehumanizing those who are striving to function like normal, professional members of society. 

Perfectly able beings, be aware. Your laziness might be ruining someone's day.