High school pep band

Without any irony or sarcasm I can truthfully say that one of my favorite memories of high school is attending high school football games while playing in the pep band.  Sincerely.


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In most high schools, pep band is Serious Business, requiring many hours of dedicated marching and playing-- and sometimes weeks of band camp.  My high school did no such thing.  It was a just-for-kicks volunteer kind of thing that didn't even count for community service hours for the graduation requirement.  On any given day there would be about 15 of us, and with just enough diversity of instrumentation to sound balanced, more or less.  We sat in the stands and played as loud as we could, which still wasn't loud when considering ambient crowd noise, the sounds of the field, and the wind, but we managed.

Playing outside can be pretty miserable, especially on those cool, crisp New England early afternoons.  Pep band wasn't about the playing so much as it was a chance to watch the game for free, socialize, and make fun of the players and cheerleaders.  Oh-- and cheer!  My favorite one:

The "bra" cheer, to be chanted when your team is playing defense:

Caller: Gimme a "B"!

Rest of us: "B"!

C: Gimme an "R"!

ROU: "R"!

C: Gimme an "A"!

ROU: "A"!

C: What do we do?

ROU: Hold 'em, hold 'em , hold 'em!

Lovely were those pep band days.  I might've played severely out of tune, my fingers might be like frozen sausages, it didn't matter because I was there to have a good time, and a good time was always had.

I'm thinking of a book...

I’m thinking of a popular book, one that was recently adapted into a movie.  It is set in the South around the 60’s and features a young white female protagonist who forms a strong and loving relationship with older black females.  No, it’s not The Help; I’m referring to The Secret Life of Bees.

Singing vs. dancing

To me, singing is more embarassing than dancing.  I'm clumsy and generally uncoordinated but I know how to move in time with the music and I know the limits of my gross motor skills.  I can deal.  But I just don't have a nice singing voice; I can sing in tune and maybe with some (intensive) training I could become a passable singer.

But which of the two is more embarassing? On the one hand there dance clubs in which the house lights are low and different colored lights and strobes go off to create a cool effect and make your dance moves look electric, no matter how much you're actually moving.  And there's alcohol to drink, and probably some other drugs that can be obtained to create a more heightened experience of dance.  On the other hand, karaoke bars are also wildly popular and feature lights and alcohol so that people are less inhibited to potentially make fools of themselves.  Both require a certain amount of familiarity with music and how it is structured.

You don't have to have a particular body shape to dance well, but you have to know how to move yourself in a way that is visually striking and not too strenuous.  If you put a lot of time into dancing and choreographing routines you burn a lot of calories and it's likely that your body will become more toned and muscular.  Dancing isn't something that is usually taught at school; physical education focuses on strength and athleticism, which can definitely help to make one a better dancer but to dance you have to learn the moves.

Music, on the other hand, is pretty much mandatory at school.  Few can actually sing it well but we all learn how to sing the national anthem in school and have to take music classes.  In high school there was an arts requirement and many students who weren't really into fine arts opted for the mixed chorus, which had no audition requirement.  It's really easy to fake singing when in a chorus; if you dance in a group, though, you really have to know your stuff because it's blatantly obvious if you don't.

I think I just convinced myself that dance is generally more embarassing.  But personally, if it were a matter of life or death to either sing or dance I'd chose the latter.  Would I live? Maybe.

Mellow yellow

I think my skin is naturally a bit dark, as far as Koreans go.  My skin does tan but I never intentionally tan, as I'm happy with the color of my skin as it is.  I wear sunblock but I'm not very attentive with it; if I get tan lines I get tan lines, and I've only ever gotten sunburn twice in my life.

I have very yellow skin.  Sometimes I feel that I don't tan so much as I get a deeper brown-yellow tone.  Generally I don't mind my yellowness in the literal sense.  I like that I have a warm skin tone.  I don't like pastels (spring tones) and look terribly jaundice and sickly when I wear any soft, creamy color.  I only started to notice this in high school; funny that it was then that I began to be more attentive to color in the literal and figurative sense.

Ramblings on age (part I, maybe)

I went to go see "Bridesmaids" recently and I got asked to present identification.  That's something that hasn't happened to me in a while; I don't see TONS of R-rated movies but that was only the second time I was asked to prove that I was of age.  Well, actually, I tried to buy a ticket for "Love, Actually" when it came out but bought a ticket for "Haunted Mansion" and sneaked into the theater next door just in time to hear Bill Nighy drop a string of f-bombs.

Chink?! (a work in progress)

It happened five years ago as I was walking home from school.  It was about this time of year; the sun was shining and it was a nice day out which was probably why I was walking in the first place.  My house is situated halfway up a hill, almost two miles from my high school and by the time the driveway was in sight I really worked up a sweat. I could feel a nice squashy V-shaped sweat impression on my back, and thought about how nice it would be to finally get inside, peel off my clothes and take a nice cool shower.  With my driveway about fifty feet away a pickup truck rumbled past me, carrying two white males sprawled out in the truck bed.  I made brief accidental eye contact with one of them as I pushed my glasses back up my nose, then I looked down to grab my keys.  One of them shouted something and as I brought my head back up the truck disappeared behind the curve.  I blinked, feeling confused.  My mind quickly processed what had just happened, and then I blinked a few more times to hold back tears as I caught up with my own thoughts and emotions.

Chink.  He had called me a chink.  For an instant I tried to deny it but (unlike the clip below) I knew deep down that there was no mistaking what he had said and that it had been aimed at me. He called me a chink.  I tried to reassure myself and thought to myself, “That’s stupid.  I’m not even Chinese!”  And then I immediately felt really stupid.  It’s not as if it would’ve made a difference if I really were Chinese.  Besides, even fellow Korean people have mistaken me for Chinese.  I don’t have anything against Chinese people but it’s annoying to be mistaken for something I’m not.

Still, it hurt to be called by that epithet.  I had been called slanty-eyed and made fun of for the way that “Asian languages” supposedly sound to non-Asian ears, been teased for my food, for my clothing, my height—but that was the first time I had been called by that word, and the first time one was directed at me so forcefully.  I’ve grown up in a pretty well off community, where I was rarely the only Asian student in my class and one of my best friends was the co-resident of the Asian Culture Club at my high school.  I didn’t have to go through what my grandfather or parents went through.  In today’s world, to be Asian is to be good at math; a generation ago someone would’ve said that we all knew kung-fu (or karate, because really what’s the difference?)  And certainly I don’t have to face the dilemma my grandfather did when he first came to America; he was in the south and had to decide between using the “white” bathroom or the one for “colored people”.  Mind you, my grandfather had pretty fair skin and wouldn’t have considered himself colored, but he still knew that there wasn’t something right about using the white people’s restrooms.  (I don’t know what he actually ended up doing; maybe he just held it in?)

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As I went in my house all I could hear in my head was that word, and kept asking myself “What? What?” and feeling hatred well up inside me.  I hated the man who randomly hurled such hate at me.  I hated myself for being so think skinned, and letting it get to me.  I hated that I was feeling sorry for myself, knowing that far worse words and actions had and have been inflicted on people, and that I was giving it so much thought.

What had that shouter to gain?  He already had the upper hand many ways: he was in a car going 30 miles an hour, I was walking; he was a man, I a teenage girl; he was white and I was, well, not.  He already had those things going for him.  We didn’t know each other.  Why had he chosen to shout at me? That was one of the big things that bothered me, too.  At least Alexandra Wallace (and I can’t believe I’m defending her) had specific grievances with the Asian people she knew and she directed her hate toward them in a very clearly delineated way.  But this person-- what had I ever done to him, aside from unintentionally look at him, or happen to be walking as he was driven by?  It sucks when people publicly and flagrantly act racist, but these little random personal attacks can be just as effective, just as damaging.  Institutional racism sucks but can be dealt with to a certain degree. But how am I to defend myself from such a random impersonal attack?  I can’t help but take it personally.

I haven’t thought about this incident since it happened.  I never told anyone about this until just recently, when thinking back on the fact that May is Asian-American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month.  Even as I write this I get indignant and upset.  But I’m glad that it still makes me feel this way; it means that I haven’t become complacent and reminds me how to get legitimately angry.

OMGPROM

Catalyst:

1) Glee's prom episode aired on Tuesday

2) News of a senior banned from prom for his public prom proposal

3) Disney movie "Prom" came out recently (I think last week)

Along with class rank and homecoming festivities, my high school didn't have the typical tradition of electing a prom king or queen.  But this doesn't mean that there was a lack in prom-related stress; you could practically cut it with a knife and spread it like cream cheese on a bagel or some other caloric spread that was fastidiously avoided by girls who purposely bought dresses that were a little too small.

The time I unintentionally insulted my physics teacher

What's the first dimension?
A dot or line

What's something two-dimensional?
A drawing of a square, something with no thickness

What's 3D?
A cube.  Something with length, width and height.

What's the fourth dimension?
Time.

What's the fifth dimension?
...
Actually, no, not yet;  I'll tell you later and start at the beginning of the story...

Twas the beginning of the school year and I was taking physics as my science requirement.  My best friend was in the same class, and before our seating arrangements were set we used to sit next at the same two-person table in the center of the grid of tables in the classroom.  A few months prior I had taken summer school courses on physics and calculus.  Fun indeed (sarcasm).  I had been made to learn a number of things (pun intended) over those four weeks and retained, oh, maybe 8% of it.  As luck would have it, I remembered the answer to the last question above. So I thought.

The right time to read a book

I'm going to talk a little about Fight Club. 

I finished reading it while sitting in an ER waiting room to get my wrist examined.  I remember having a massive headache, which was probably a combination of feeling hangry (hungry+ angry; crankiness due to low blood sugar) and slightly peeved that I was a teenager and stuck in the waiting room of a children's hospital filled with bright colors and unhappy kids.  I had enjoyed the book, which my close friend at the time had recommended to me,  but wasn't really in the mood to read it; it just felt inappropriate to read while surrounded by kids.

But then a clown came in. 

Instruments and the people who play them, part I

http://www.marriedtothesea.com/

Is it the person who is drawn to the instrument, or the instrument which choses its player?  In any case, in my experience people who play a certain instrument bear similar qualities.  Note: I've been in three different school bands and draw my generalizations from these.

Flute section: Almost entirely female, save for a lone male flautist.  Never is there more than one guy in the flute section. This guy isn’t gay or a womanizer but just happens to play the flute and do it well. This is the most gossipy section, and of all the band geeks they’ve probably got the best social skills-- they have a lot of friends, enemies and frenemies.

Oboes: In a word: perfectionists.  The oboe is probably the hardest instrument to play.  It takes a lot of discipline to play the oboe properly and reach that level of Purple Face without passing out completely.  Not many oboes in band or orchestra, and usually you have an equal number of male and female oboe players. Usually pretty physically-fit people, but not in a crunchy-granola way.

Bassoons:  Basically a big version of an oboe in terms of tone and playability, probably the second-hardest intrument to play.  Bassoon players are laid-back, groovy and tend to be more of the crunchy-granola type, and generally gay-friendly (I feel it is not a coincidence that the Italian word for bassoon is "fagotto").  I'm very good friends with a bassoon player.

Clarinets:  The nerdiest section, a smart bunch of people.  Pretty even split between the sexes.  Here you will probably find someone who’s also on the math team. The clarinet has five separate parts and requires a lengthy swabbing process to get rid of all the saliva that’s accumulated throughout the instrument--not attractive.  But all that swabbing and disassembling gives a bit more time for clarinetists to talk with each other and form more solid friendships.  First and foremost I am a violinist, but I also play the clarinet. 

Saxophones:  Generally gregarious, usually males slightly outnumber females by 60:40.   Good social skills and likeable personality that toes the line between self-assurance and showing off.  Groovy, able to handle sycopation and rhythm, able to improvise and go with the flow.  Hard to upset.  If athletes, usually play soccer or baseball/softball.

Brass section to be stereotyped in a later post.

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On language: written, spoken, and signed

I like writing because I feel that it's the best way for me to express myself clearly.  I'm not great with conversation-- especially with talking on the phone-- but I do like public speaking.  It's kind of counterintuitive because I'm an introvert and dislike being around a lot of people and getting a lot of attention.  But public speaking/performing isn't so daunting to me.  Auditions are a completely different matter, for reasons I either have already explained or will in another post, but whenever it came to, say, giving a presentation for class, I just... I just did it.  And I liked it.  I liked having that specific kind of attention and could handle that sort of pressure, both actual and perceived.

Speaking in front of people isn't just about the words you say but how you say them and the body language that you use, whether it's intentional or not.  I found that I gesticulate a lot. I guess it helps me?

One of my peers started an American Sign Language club in high school.  Using sign language is as much about the hand gestures as the facial expressions.  I don't think there's any symbol for a question mark or exclamation point; rather the inflection is shown using your face.  You can show that you're sarcastic if you sign one thing but your face contradicts whatever it is you've signed.

Sometimes I distract/amuse myself by looking at ASL interpretations of pop music.  Someone who is deaf or hearing impaired could easily find the lyrics to a song and watch a music video and lip-read or feel the vibrations from the speakers, but there's a certain joy to watching the words "translated" into ASL.  This video, for example.  The Black Eyed Peas song "My Humps" is pretty silly and nonsensical already, but seeing it interpreted so enthusiastically sort of elevates the song to a new level of ridiculousness and hilarity:

Julian Matthias and I: Playing second fiddle

I haven't sat down and worked out the stats but I'd say that 60-70% of the time that I've been in an orchestra I've played the second violin part.  So I've spent a fair amount of time literally playing second fiddle.  Which isn't always such a bad thing.

Character sketch: Gary

Gary used to be the kid I loved to hate.  In fifth grade he was The New Kid and you'd think I'd feel sympathetic toward him because it wasn't so long ago that I was a new student myself.  But he garnered none of my symphathy.

High school flashback: Valentine's Day

The person in the red jacket is a friend of mine, someone who's like a little brother to me. I ordered him a singing valentine for Valentine's day in my senior year of high school, and I've never enjoyed the "holiday" more than I did then. Ah, good times. (I didn't get anyone's permission to use this photo, hence the sinister black bar across the eyes.)

In my high school you could order a singing valentine for your fellow students for $3, and all the money earned went toward the ever-needy music department (music scores aren't cheap). In the beginning of January I'd see posters for auditions to be a singing valentine. The groups were all student-run, choral director-approved, and would rehearse 5 or 6 different songs to perform. In all there were eight quartets-- four all-female ones and four all-male-- and they all dressed up in different outfits-- nurses, firemen/women, dandies, doctors, etc. My freshman year the outfits were very risque and scandalous (one female quartet dressed as bad cops, with shiny tight shorts and handcuffs bouncing ever so suggestively on their waists); since then the outfits became less sexy and more dressy/black-tie. They always had a cutesy line with which they'd enter and interrupt a class, something related to what they were wearing, like, "We're burning with love for (recipient name)" and they'd set up a chair for the victim to sit in while they danced and sang around him/her. Nope, not blush-inducing at all.

The band always gets the most singing valentines sent. It's not as if we band members intentionally filibuster to get out of having to practice; most of the students involved in the music department are all friends and we enjoy getting to see every single quartet (read: all our friends) perform in that span of 50 or 55 minutes. Attempts had been made in the past to order a bunch of singing valentines to a class that potentially has a pop quiz, but teachers ultimately had the right to turn down the interruption to their regularly scheduled programming. In my junior year my chemistry teacher actually bought one for the class, but we ended up making her sit in the chair and watch her face go from pink to red to pinot noir.

I don't feel nostalgic about many experiences from high school, but I miss looking forward to what Valentine's day meant back then: taking pictures of my friends as four very handsome and talented singers serenaded them in front of the entire class. Ah, memories...

Children's Hour of Dream

I'm not sure what triggered this memory but I thought about this last night and kept coming back to it today. I played this piece in band in my junior year of high school. The name is really apt, considering the scary, haunting side of children's thoughts at bedtime. I remember my band director describing it as "an aural night -terror; a child waking up in the middle of the night, fearful and crying out to parents, but asleep again once the parents come to his bedroom." Something like that, but more eloquent.

The more I listen to it, the more I enjoy it. It's very intellectual-- I know I'd enjoy it more if I knew more about music theory and Mingus, but I can still appreciate what this showcases. I wish I had a bigger musical vocabulary to be better at describing how I feel, so I'll just let the music speak for itself:




~

Currently reading:
"Dead Man Walking" by Sister Helen Prejean
"Noisy Outlaws, Unfriendly Blobs and Some Other Things That Aren't As Scary, Maybe, Depending On How You Feel About Lost Lands, Stray Cellphones, Creatures from the Sky, Parents Who Disappear in Peru, A Man Named Lars Farf, and One Other Story We Couldn't Quite Finish So Maybe You Could Help Us Out" edited by Ted Thompson with Eli Horowitz

Recently viewed movies:
Matchstick Men (2003)
Shaun of the Dead (2004)