And they say high school won't matter in a few years. Liars.

There comes a time in everyone�s life where someone lets them down for the first time. I�m not talking about parents not taking their kids out for ice cream when they promised. I mean the kind where someone that you look up to and respect completely and totally fails you.

You never, ever forget it. I know this, because I�ve already had mine.

The following story involves a great deal of band-geekness. If you�re not a band geek, bear with me. Granted, this all happened four or more years ago. As a good friend from that time has said, �Build a bridge and get over it.� But I can�t. The experience has affected me profoundly� I can�t help it if I still think about it. Lately, for whatever reason, it has bothered me more than usual. I�ve been having dreams about it. I think that it�s a sign that I need to get it in writing.

I was the quintessential band geek in high school, and even before that. I decided somewhere around seventh-eighth grade that I really wanted to be a band director, and I put all of my effort into it.

As high school loomed, we had to audition for bands. This is when I met my soon-to-be band director, who I will refer to as Mr. H. The audition terrified me beyond words. I ended up getting put into concert band instead of marching band, with the promise of being put into symphonic band after marching season. (symphonic and marching band were the same thing� marching band was only during football season.) I somehow felt� letdown. I was redeemed after symphonic band started, when he decided to start an elite group � wind ensemble - to meet after school and perform at concerts. There were only two oboe players, but when Mr. H told me that I had made it, (I was one of three freshmen) that I had earned my place there � that it was not because there were only two of us. And that if I couldn�t hack it, I would be tossed out. He made that very, very clear. I stayed in, so I couldn�t have been too heinous. In fact, I was in wind ensemble all four years of high school.

Fast forward through sophomore year. That fall, I auditioned for drumline and made it. He somehow conned me into playing percussion for the youth orchestra that he conducted. I was asked to play in the Messiah production. (there�s a very long story involving him being angry at me for having already scheduled driving school for the first week or so of rehearsal, and then taking it out on me at rehearsal for the rest of the season, but whatever. Of course I didn�t know my part for the first week or so. Between rehearsal and driving school and youth orchestra and homework, I didn�t have time to breathe.) I played percussion for concert band, because they didn�t have any percussionists. I did a whole slew of things for him. I even babysat his friggin kid on multiple occasions � and his kid was a HANDFUL. For free.

Junior year, things started going downhill. There was a kid (we�ll call him Nayr) who wanted to be on the drumline, and went as far as going to band camp in PA with our bassline. He was HORRIBLE. He couldn�t play, he couldn�t march, and trying to do both at the same time was COMPLETELY out of the question. He was quickly demoted to the pit. On top of this� not only did he hire this� erm� LOVELY man as our assistant band director/drum instructor, (no sarcasm or bitterness�) but our drumline started fighting. All day, every day. It was ridiculous. But there were lots of issues that stemmed from this. After marching band, we found out that wind ensemble was going to be performing at the md band directors thingy in Baltimore (a big deal) with some really famous guy conducting. (I�m paraphrasing, because if anyone googles either term, they really don�t need to hear about all this.) Two or three weeks before the conference, I came down with Heinous Heinous mono. (I was out of school for 7 weeks.) However, I still came in for band rehearsals, and I still went to Baltimore � even though I couldn�t fit into my band gown because my abdomen was swollen, and I could barely stay awake.

See, I still had a lot of respect for this man. He had a respectable band department, and was giving us opportunities� blah blah blah. I gave up countless hours to that band department. I did anything he asked me to, and generally without complaining. Was I the perfect child? No. But I would have done anything for that department, and he knew it.

It only makes sense at this point to point out that my parents were semi-involved in the department. My mom did a lot for the youth orchestra. My dad built Mr. H this huge podium that he wanted. He also built a massive shelf system in the drum room� but I never expected anything from this. It never crossed my mind � in fact, having my parents help just seemed natural. I can honestly say that I never, ever thought that I should receive any special treatment for any of this.

At the very end of my junior year, I found out something that started the (ridiculously rapid) downward spiral. The lineup for next year�s drumline came out. Nayr was suddenly and inexplicably on the bassline again. At first I thought that maybe he had a year to improve, and we gave him a chance. We had pre-season sectionals and it was immediately obvious that the kid STILL couldn�t do a DAMN THING. Not only that, there was another kid that had tried out that was FAR more qualified for the line than this kid was.

I thought well, maybe Mr H didn�t realize what was going on. I wrote him a letter begging him to be fair and give the other kid a chance. I said that I trusted his judgment, and if he really felt that Nayr was the better drummer, then I would accept it and work with it. Mr. H told me that he kept the letter in his truck and read it at stoplights. I found out later that we were getting a sixth drum. (most drum corps don�t have six basses.) That way, the qualified kid and Nayr could both be on the line. Whatever.

Shortly after this was decided, one of my best friends and fellow drumline members was in the band office when the asst. band director got a phone call. To make a long story short� nayr�s parents had just declared that they were paying for the asst band director�s honeymoon in Aspen. Mr. H was in the room when the asst band director told my friend this. He knew what was going on.

There have been several versions to the story. Supposedly, the trip was a �gift from the band.� Well, if that was the case, then WHY DIDN�T A SINGLE PERSON IN THE BAND KNOW ABOUT IT?!?!?! You�d think that if they were giving him a trip on our behalf, they�d at least tell us. I think that�s a complete and total crock.

One day during the first week or so of band camp, there was unrest on the drumline. Things were going horribly. The kid couldn�t learn his music, couldn�t march. Without him, we could have been really, really good. We were miserable, and it was making us all cranky. Mr. H had a meeting with the section leaders, and afterwards I was so mad that I couldn�t even speak. I was afraid to, because I had no idea what would come out of my mouth. After the meeting, I remember needing to glue my bass mallet back together and literally throwing things around, I was so pissed. Mr. H finally realized that I was a little angry and pulled me into a practice room. I confronted him. I asked if it was true that Mr. Asst. Director was getting a honeymoon from Nayr�s parents. He said yes. I asked him if this was why he stayed on the line, and why we got the sixth drum. He didn�t deny anything. He also said that what was done, was done. The asst. had promised Nayr and his parents that he could be on the line, and Mr. H couldn�t do a damn thing about it.

That was complete and total bullshit.

That�s when everything fell apart.

He said that Nayr�s parents did a lot for the band dept. and that he couldn�t risk losing their support.

But the kid couldn�t play. Isn�t that what mattered?

(As a side note, after Nayr graduated, the other parents seamlessly picked up the slack and it didn�t seem to make a difference at all.)

Everything that I had worked for, and everything that I had believed in and modeled myself after for the last what, four years? (including eighth grade) was a pile of crap. Things weren�t fair and based on merit, or ability, or talent. It was whose parents could buy more things. Our otherwise phenomenal bassline was ruined, but that wasn�t the point at all. He sold out. It wasn�t the music anymore. I had looked up to this man for so long, and it turns out that he was absolutely nothing that I thought he was.

In the meantime, little things kept happening. As an example� we used to have night practices. It would get so dark that you couldn�t see the drum majors� hands. I had the brilliant idea one night to get those glowsticks, like the ones used at raves, or little kids use on Halloween, and let them conduct with those. I proposed it to Mr. H, and he said it was worth a try. It ended up working really, really well. I went and bought the every one that CVS had. They�re still using glowsticks at night rehearsals to this day � but he�s never said anything to me about it.

I became disillusioned. It colored the rest of my senior year. I couldn�t wait to get out of that band dept.. There were days when I just didn�t feel like playing� so I didn�t. It wasn�t senioritis. I wasn�t trying to be disrespectful. But apparently anyone who wanted to receive credit from Mr. H just had to buy their way in � so I sure as hell wasn�t going to try my hardest anymore. In fact, why try at all? So I didn�t. It wasn�t worth caring. I felt bad, because our new asst. band director (Mr. I) was one of my favorite people ever. Apparently Mr. H or the new asst. said something to my mom about my apparent senioritis. I hate that I ever gave Mr. I that impression. In fact, I still feel bad sometimes that he got that impression from me. But that wasn�t it at all. I didn�t want to do anything for Mr. H anymore.

I used to aid for Mr. H during third period� this had been prearranged before all of this became known. I remember one day so clearly� I had been to an oboe lesson on the night before, and my reed had crapped out on me. I needed to work on it. I had a huge paper to write that night and didn�t have time. The next day, I came into third pd and said, I need to work on my reed. I came in every day and did work for him, so was it REALLY that big of a deal if I spent 20 minutes scraping my reed? He went ballistic on me. Seriously. I don�t even remember what he said. I remember doing whatever he needed me to do, sounding like crap during band, and spending the entire lunch period in the drumroom screaming. And fixing my reed, because still had to play in orchestra that day. I didn�t know whether to throw things or cry. Everything I had ever done for this man was for nothing. I was unaware, but during lunch, Mr. H emailed my mom and told him that we had a little fight. Well, when I�m upset, I play ten times better. I went into orchestra and I was AMAZING. I don�t think I�ve played that well since that day. He emailed my mom back and told her that I had done so. He said it was to spite him, or show him, or something. Screw that. I played well because I could play well - but not that he cared. He was probably too busy trying to figure out who would bankroll something else.

Not only that, but one day he finally asked where I was applying to college. I told him, Ohio State and Indiana. He asked me what my backup schools were.

Backup schools? I told him I didn�t have any.

He suggested that I apply to this other school� third tier shitty music school.

Let me point out that I got accepted to both, and got a decent-sized scholarship from OSU. A smaller scholarship from Indiana, but it�s a pretty decent accomplishment to even get accepted.

Way to believe in me, Mr. H.

Both of those days are crystal clear to me.

Even through graduation, things never got any better. He thought I was slacking, I thought he was a sellout and� who knows what else. I just wanted to get out of high school and go to music school and become a music teacher and show him that I WAS worth it. I felt like I had something to prove.

Well, we all know that didn�t happen.

In the meantime, the summer after my frosh year, he asked me to come back and help until I went back to Indiana. I did, and he said that he�d pay me. He didn�t, and I didn�t care. I liked working with the kids.

After I transferred to UMD, I knew that I was going to miss marching band a lot. So I figured that I would offer my services to Mr. H. I still wanted to prove to him that I was worth something, I guess. That I was a good musician, and that I deserved some sort of praise. Even if I didn�t buy anything. He agreed, although he seemed reluctant.

He had rewritten a key cadence � something that had a lot of tradition at QO. Mr. H claimed that parts of it sounded too muddy, and I agreed. But the new version sounded nothing like the original. The kids asked if they could learn the beginning to the original, and I didn�t see the harm. It was relatively easy, almost all unison, and I thought that they could handle it.

I essentially got fired over this. I called to ask him if he needed me that day, and he said no because they were working on marching technique and that he�d call me. I dropped by later to pick up something that I had left there, and when I went into the room, I found them working on pep band music � which would have fallen under �things Lindz knows a lot about because she played the same songs for three years.� I stood there for a second, wordlessly, made eye contact with him, turned around and left.

I never went back.

I guess you could call it getting fired. Although I also never made any attempt to call him, either.

I had thought about trying to work with other bands, but I was terrified that he would badmouth me to the other band directors. So I didn�t bother.

This past summer, although it went against my better judgment, I stopped by my old school to watch them practice. A good friend of mine was coaching their guard. I purposely avoided Mr. H. It hurt, too. I had spent SO much time and effort in the band dept. while I was in high school, and this was what I got. Inevitably, I ran into him that night. He made some comment, I made some comment back, and that was it.

I couldn�t take it. I needed some sort of closure or something. I wanted to tell him all of this. Tell him that I�m not a slacker, and that he disappointed me more than I had words for.

I settled for asking him about working with other bands. After a lot of thought and worrying, I went into the band office. I said, I wanted to offer to work with other bands, and wanted to know what he would say if another director would mention my name. he started going on and on about how college is a time for growth and how I�ve probably changed, and� I have no idea. And then I said no, this is in regard to last summer. And he said no, I won�t say anything bad. And that was it.

I know that this happened four years ago, and that it shouldn't matter anymore. I should forget about it and move on. But how can I? I really, really looked up to this man. I did everything that I could for him and for the band department. And when I got upset because I felt that it had all been for nothing, he acted like he didn�t care. I know that I wasn�t perfect. It was high school though � who is? I honestly think that this was a huge part of why I stopped believing in myself. I kept thinking that it was ME that did something wrong. I've turned it over in my head so many times in the last few years. Trying to figure out what I could have done differently. But I don't think there was anything. I didn't support what he had done. I wasn't about to act like it, either. It went against everything I had ever believed in... fairness and whatnot... and everything that I had thought he had believed in too. And even though he was just my band director... he was a huge part of my life for those four years, whether I liked it or not. And I�ve never had the guts to say anything about it. What am I supposed to say at this point? It�s been four years and then some. He obviously could care less, even when he had to deal with me every day. I�d like to say that it would, because I was a good kid and it matters to me a lot.

But I don�t think it would have mattered four years ago. In fact, most of the times when I was upset back then, it didn�t matter. So writing this will have to be sufficient.

The End.