Personal Narrative Essay: A Typical Marching Day

The long 172 days had finally passed, and the day I had been waiting for, for months, had finally come. We were in Chicago for my One Direction concert, the day couldn’t have come faster. The agonizingly slow hours that passed that day was too much to bear. Before arriving at Soldier Field, I was highly anticipating meeting one of my closest friends, Jessica, for the first time. It’s actually rather incredible to me, we first were introduced on social media, we didn’t know each other at all, all we knew was that we both loved the same band, and we were both going to the same concert. Prior to meeting for the first time, we were restricted to Skyping each other almost every other day and texting every day.

We were trapped in a house. There were redcoats surrounding the house. All we had was a bayonet and a knife. John was almost dead. He might as well be dead, having been stabbed, shot 3 times and attacked by rabbits (Don’t ask). John pointed out the window and said, “Look”.

I caught my mind wandering as I was unsure of the next few days to come. I hear of a battle that will take place but I’m unsure of how I will play my role in it. The bugle goes off and we all rise from our solemn sleep and begin our training. The colonel yells aloud through the camp that we must be at the post in fifteen minutes. I think to myself, is this the day that we go to battle? I’m not ready for this. I feel unprepared with so many questions I’m asking myself. I arrive at my post to learn that it is just a training exercise. I thank Jesus just as my mama had taught me to be thankful and always remember the lord is with you. As the day of training progresses we learn about loading musket

“Mom, I don’t think I want to go anymore.” “Ella, I already paid. You’re gonna have to go” “I’m gonna die,” I thought in my head. I’m on my way to my first band camp. I joined my high school’s marching band a few months ago and have been working all summer on my marching and music.

In a tiny, beat-up bar on the sketchy side of a big city, I sit at a booth with a hardened, grizzled war veteran who was drowning his sorrows with cheap liquor out of amber-tinted shot glass. Consequently because of Veteran's Day, in honour of those who served, I was asked to interview Colonel William Cohen McAdams —who served in the Army, Airforce, and the Navy SEALs—for an article in the university paper. He was a decent-looking fellow—for someone who was missing an eye. Ironically enough, he catches more with one eye than anyone else does with two. He lost it to a shrapnel grenade during his fifth and final tour of duty—I’d later learn. He got the least of the blast, thanks to his best friend, who jumped in front of the explosive; God rest his soul.

The Honor Guard tryouts, they were a great deal to those wanting to be the best of the best. You had to train and endure everything that was thrown at you, prepared or not. Everyone that makes it goes it by showing off every movement and command they have learned. Even still you can’t prepare for everything. Laubach had always said throughout the process for training and performing the event. That was to work hard and have the endurance to continue on, even when you do not want to. I tell that to people today when they feel like they can’t continue on.

Just a few days ago we were heading in the opposite direction. When I say “we” I mean all of us, the whole band. It’s a sort of mentality that was driven into us since sixth grade, that we are a collective unit and are only as strong as our weakest player. I was once again alone in my bus seat with my headphones on, blasting some sort of screaming music into my already damaged ears. Even though it was still day I slept away most of the trip. The bus was heading towards Indianapolis; the Godwin Heights marching band of 2010 was having its final hurrah at the Lucas Oil Stadium. We had just got first at the Ford Field House which was hosted by The Michigan Competing Band Association, and our hopes were high to repeat that. The show that year was

water. He sent me to the block where they deal with the bad kids. The

How I found myself in Gettysburg: this previous weekend my little brother married the love of his life...

As a freshman I walked with my back hunched, my eyes dragging on the ground, and I trudged my feet along with every step I took. A life without self-confidence is a mistake, but I couldn’t figure out how to correct my fatal flaw of self-hatred. But showing any lack of assurance in band is unacceptable, and punished with pushups on the hot asphalt of the marching field. “Fake it until you make it,” was constantly screamed in my direction while I stumbled through, instead of properly marching like the others, but little did these seniors know that what they were shouting at me began to teach me a remarkable lesson. If you can’t do it, then fool everyone else into thinking you can. Learning how to “fake” marching and playing did more than I ever realized because at some point in the season, I stopped faking it. I also eventually discovered, this lesson can be applied everywhere, not just the marching field. By following simple techniques, for

turning my head again I saw Simon dive to my aid. He did not utter a

Summer is here! The sun is out, the air conditioning is blaring, not to mention the humidity is through the roof. The only problem is my skin is as white as Casper the Ghost. Something had to be done about this as soon as possible. I was on a mission to become flawlessly tan instantly. There ought to be something I could buy that could achieve this. I went to the local Walmart the day before Memorial Day weekend without any clue of how I was going to accomplish this feat.

I am going to be talking about the time I missed an important deadline and spent my day writing an essay about a career instead of actually going out getting to experience a day in the field. I should have gotten my forms signed so that I would have been allowed to go to CSD.

Previously in the year, it was typical for me just write what is on my mind at the time and later go back and organize it. This paper is a stupendous presentation of that obsolete format. It was common for me to leap from one paragraph to another without soundly blending my ideas into the narrative. Despite this, however, many outstanding developments appeared in this essay. This was the essay that helped me further develop my ability to write sensory details, which immediately shows itself in the introduction: “Lights blare down from above. To my left, I can see the crowd cheering as the previous band charges off the field, and we prepare our grand entrance” ( 1). I also highlighted the negative aspects of the band, such as leadership problems: “Aside from inexperienced and uncaring managers, some people are just wholly opposed to taking orders from their peers. This causes an avalanche of tension between them and their section. Arguments will typically break out as to who is right and who is wrong-- especially during marching season ( 3).” Each paragraph, despite flowing strangely, outlined a specific aspect of the band in increasingly detailed methods. One section describes the methods band members use to communicate with one another while another tells of its hierarchy. Overall, this paper, despite its shortcomings, laid the base for which I would later improve upon in following essays.

The final sweat from my performance dries and I’m left with the salt that was expelled in the process, leaving an irritating trace on my skin. Listening intently to the final band of the afternoon, I can’t help but be lost in the low brass choir performing in front of me. The graceful way the baritone glided to the high notes and the falsetto of the trumpet soloist. The music is carried away by a slight breeze and in its place comes the laughter, applause, and awe of the rest of the band kids that I am happily surrounded by. Adjusting my overalls that has given me what can only be described as a band wedgie, the soft, silky grass touches my arms. Suddenly a hush falls over the crowd as the drum majors walk across the track. They are dignified, standing tall and walking in a line that would make any marching band proud. A mass chaos breaks out, and each school is trying to out cheer the other as their drum majors walks by. I couldn’t help but be caught up in the moment and scream and clap as loud as I could as I watched my drum majors pass. Then it was silent. The kind of eerie silence in horror movies right before the climactic reveal of the monster. The anticipation in the air is so thick, I could almost reach out and grab it. It's finally time. Awards.