One cool, September afternoon, I stood in a hotel parking lot with 200 of my closest friends, in an unfamiliar state. Charter buses sat in the background with window paint announcing our arrival in a loud, “JAGUAR PRIDE! ” The sun rose on the horizon, scattering blues and pinks across our faces. We were divided into two groups, the larger stood not twenty feet away doing breathing exercises and stretches, the smaller divided into its own groups, both of which battling the wind and the sun; the elements acting against us.
We warmed up and we fought the elements, but there was always someone reminding us, “Savor this moment, this is what we’re here for. ” Before we knew it, we were standing at the gates of Welcome Stadium, waiting, hearts pumping, minds reeling, some of us numb, for our chance to show Dayton what the Jaguar Pride was made of. We took the field, and everything that could have gone wrong, did. Our sound system crashed, we couldn’t hear the pit playing the opening, and we couldn’t see the drum majors giving us the count off, because we were stuffed into formation on the back of the field.
Every backup procedure, every plan b, every fallback simply failed. Our performance was a mess, and we knew it. While those of us in the color guard walked off feeling strong, the band walked off with a sense of failure. When we discussed this with the band, we learned a new grasp on humility. We felt connected, passionate, to what we as a guard had done, but knew that the band didn’t. We learned not to take this opportunity for granted, and didn’t expect to make finals.
As it would turn out, by some miracle, we not only made finals, but our second performance gave us a 7th overall rating, unheard of from an out of state band. The lesson we all took away from our first Bands of America experience was that we had to connect with everything that we do. The color guard wasn’t the only one to experience this – || think the band learned that it was the guard’s passionate performance and lack of lost hope that pulled the ensemble into finals. They learned that connecting to the show is one of the most important aspects of what we do.
We spend hours on end rehearsing, taking weeks out of our summers, and weekends out of the school year – which begs the question, if you’re not here because you’re passionate about this, because you have connected to it, then why are you wasting your and our time? It’s logic I live by; if you can’t connect with something, then there’s no point in doing it. I’ve learned through the slew of activities I’m a part of that pouring yourself into what you do is one of the most rewarding things in life.
History at South is the polar opposite from the band program. The department is full of teachers who aren’t here for the history, unlike Mr. Hansen is for the band. Some will tell you straight out that the only reason they’re here is to coach, while some will gloss over it, hoping no one will notice. Either way, you can tell that they don’t feel a connection to what they’re being paid to do: teach history. They pass out fill-in-the-blank notes and worksheets straight out of the books – books that, though it is history, haven’t been replaced in years.
They do the bare minimum, and often not even that, and get no flak for it because that’s “not what they’re here for. ” While this situation is better than it was when my siblings graduated in ’07, ’09, and ’12, these teachers are helping no one. This experience has only cemented my understanding of connection in life; when you’re not connected to what you do, you don’t always just not help people, sometimes you’re actively harming them. Apathy is the opposite of passion, the opposite of connection. It’s worse, even, than hating what you do, because when you hate, that’s a form of connection or passion.
If you can’t find anyway, or any reason at all to connect with what you’re doing, then why are you even bothering to do it at all? No one benefits – you’re probably just bringing people down. When students have a teacher that doesn’t care about their subject, students learn to not care for that subject. When a team member doesn’t go all out in a performance or a practice, the performance or progress suffers because every single person’s effort makes a difference. Connecting with what you do can only benefit; even if you are the worst person at what you do, at least you’re trying.
You’re not dragging the ship down with you. Coaches and teachers can fix bad, but they can’t fix apathy. When I’m complaining about a required rehearsal for guard, orchestra, or choir, and a friend asks me, “If you don’t like it, then why do you do it? ” my answer is always, “Because it’s worth it in the end. ” A connection can be as little as a story that tells how you got started, or as big and meaningful as why I do it. It’s easy to lose sight of why you’re doing something – to lose sight that spark that made you pursue it.
We get so caught up in how difficult it is do the things we love that we forget this until we feel it. Until the stage lights blind us, until we hear the applause, until we reap the rewards of our work, we forget why in the world we ever decided to do it. And yet, there are still those among us who hate what they do with everything in them, and even when they do reap the rewards, they feel nothing. They’re missing out on what I believe is the best and most rewarding feeling in the world: feeling a connection so strong that you pour yourself into what you do.
