Free Entry 1, Week 14

When I was little, I thought orchestra directors
were rude: they stood with their backs to the crowd,
waving their arms like a patient without his Demerol
and throwing sticks at musicians who are just doing
their jobs, fingering their keys, twinging strings,
while beaters pounded and cymbals boomed.

When I was in middle school, I thought band directors
were self-righteous, teaching us the right way to play
without embarrassing him at the next concert, our tiny
fingers barely big enough to reach from key to key
but now we were the menal patients, nonetheless,
stumbling over our notes to make him happy.

When I was in high school, I thought marching directors
yelled a lot, but only to make us play our very best
on the field: they screamed from megaphones for months
while we paraded on a faux football field in preparation
for the first big competition--even football games played
as practices for us, little drummer children.

When I was in college, and no longer played in a band,
I remembered how our director would scream, sometimes
throw his baton until we got him a Nerf gun to shoot instead.
I was struck by the lack of companionship without those
directors I thought so rude, self-righteous, mean, and thought
of the fact that there is no better feeling than watching
the crowd give a standing ovation at the end of a great performance.