I come from a hot week in July at a camp in the middle of nowhere,

Spending hours on the practice field as the blazing hot sun beats down on us

And burns the outlines of our shirts onto our skin.

I come from a collection of crazy, funny stories of friendships formed and memories made

Chronicled in every cut, bruise, and injury that I sustain like a book of short stories.

I come from tiny little notebooks on strings that tell me where I stand on the field

And the little “Y” on the packets of set charts that has always represented me-

A single cymbal player, one part of the whole giant picture.

I come from fun and silly traditions,

Like reminding the freshmen to bring money

For the totally not made-up Taco Bell at the top of the hill,

Warning them to wear swimsuits to Initiation,

And the seniors making them wear costumes to lunch and dinner.

I come from the seemingly never-ending bus ride home,

The friends that make it that much more tolerable,

And the respite from the horrible food at camp when we stop for burgers.

I come from the band room,

Where it’s practically illegal to leave without an ample amount of glitter on your face

And one of few places where you can ask “has anyone seen my pants?!?!” without judgement.

I come from the autumn chill of Friday night football games,

Laughing with friends and playing our favorite music as we cheer on the team from the stands.

I come from linking my pinky and middle finger with as many people as I can for good luck

And the piercing glare of the stadium lights in my eyes as we take the field in confident strides,

The red stripes on our pants emphasizing the synchronization of our rolled steps

And turning us into a vast sea of feathery black plumes and black and red uniforms.

I come from hours of hard work and dedication

And the practice it takes to make every ten-minute performance better than the last.

I come from the rush of performing that puts me in autopilot mode,

Procedural memory taking over as I run through the motions that I’ve repeated so many times

That it’s almost like breathing to me.

But above all else,

I come from a sense of acceptance and comfort in being myself.

I come from a place where I know that someone always cares,

And the strong bond that connects us like family formed during that hot week in July.