Define

Man I am bad at this. Sorry, March.

Anyway, I'm taking a creative non-fiction writing class. Here is my attempt at some. (For fun.)

~

Trumpet or snare drum. Trumpet or snare drum. Trumpet or snare drum.

My back turned to the music man, legs straddling a cafeteria bench, I am listening to the two instruments, trying to imagine myself skillfully performing in front of thousands of people with both. I knew that I could succeed at either. Fact was I had to pick one and only one, then and there, and tell the music man.

I was eleven years old. Fifth grade is a crucial time in a child's search for identity. Of course, I didn't know that at the time. All I knew was that the letter 'A' was becoming more prevalent to my vocabulary and that it needed to stay that way, my older sisters had seen to it. I also knew that chasing girls on the playground was a thing of third-graders; fifth graders held girls' hands and wrote them innocent love letters.

To me, this day was just another part of my advancing childhood, another part of growing up. It was expected. I could never have known then, in my elementary school cafeteria, that I was staring down two separate paths, two separate identities by which I might define my entire life.

They had called me and my friend John down to the cafeteria to listen to a selection of instruments, from which we would choose one to stick to in band class. All fifth graders had this opportunity, few went for it. John and I weren't like most fifth graders. So together we sat there, on the bench, listening - but not looking - to the company musician sampling a half-dozen or so instruments.

John narrowed his choice down to the trombone and snare drum. His older brother had played the trombone.

I narrowed my choice down to the trumpet and snare drum. My older sister had played the trumpet.

We had to pick one.

Part of me thinks we both just wanted to rebel from our families' expectations. Maybe we were just incredibly bent on our parents' paying extra cash to acquire new instruments. I'm not even sure now if we peer-pressured each other into it. To me, all I remember was how dominant, how masculine that snare drum sounded. It didn't have a range of pitches, but it had a world of rhytmic potential screaming at me to give it a go.

We both went for the snare drum.

His parents picked up a used one from a family friend. I snagged a hand-me-down from another fifth-grader who went with the trumpet.

That year we had a private teacher who took us aside during band class, clapping out rythms. 1,2,3,4...1,2,3,4 - it's incredible how hard that can be. Then there was sheet music, only now we weren't counting, we were reading. A couple months of that and we were backing up the rest of band class. Practices turned to recitals.

Turned out I was ok at the drum. Top three musicians in my class, they claimed. They stuck me in front of a gym full of parents, hammering out a simple song with the other two elites, both trumpeters. To this day I don't think anybody knows how badly I screwed that song up. Somehow I managed to stop when the other two did, even though I was still a half-page of music behind my finish.

Elementary school turned to middle school. A new teacher, younger and more idealistic. Snare drum, apparently, was only the beginning. Now I was playing bongos, tambourines, and other percussive instruments with a band twice as big. Band was becoming more and more fun.

Seventh grade presented even more of a change. Percussion became a separate class, devoting more time to the drummers and helping to expand our musical boundaries. Xylophone, marimba, kettle drum, all entered my musical world. The snare drum, to me, was becoming increasingly boring. I wanted the good stuff, the difficult stuff.

John found it before I did.

He found the drum set in the classifieds. It was old and beat up; a led weight held down the floor tom. The mounted toms were different colors. The cymbals were cracked, the high-hat broken. He showed it off to me and our friend Will, delicately slapping the cymbals and thumping the kick as he tried to coordinate his limbs. The set, to us, was the king of percussion. We were more than jealous. I asked my parents for one for Christmas that year. I did so half-heartedly, knowing deep down what kind of investment it was.

Come Christmas morning, a heavy wrapped box sat in my lap. As the wrapping paper peeled away, my mind couldn't process the contents beneath. Cymbals. What am I supposed to do with cymbals? But no, Dad says, there is more, in the basement. Sure enough, in the back corner under the window, a sheet covers the rest. My first drum set.

Mom and Dad have a disclaimer: I have to practice. It is a huge investment, and they want it to count. I agree, and set about justifying their purchase.

It takes a month for me to coordinate my limbs so they don't all play the same thing. I experiment with beats and rhythms, starting with the easy stuff. I have a music book and CD, but I don't use them. I have a teacher, but he moves to Nashville. I'm on my own.

Days, weeks, months go by, every day practicing the drums. I've had hobbies before - could you have guessed I played Little League? - but they always faded. I was determined not to let that happen with the drums...

(to be continued)