Marching On

When I joined band in middle school, I wasn’t expecting to enjoy it.  Both parents were musicians and had always had instruments in their lives.  I loved music, but I wasn’t necessarily amped about being forced into playing someone else’s music.  I had heard nothing but horror stories about middle school band and about the band director. 

Dr. Russell was a renowned director and musician.  At least that’s what the adults said.  Students, on the other hand, did not agree, but most were too terrified to say anything.  They just went to class, day in and day out, terrified about what was going to happen next. 

Dr. Russell was on his best behavior when he had a review, but the rest of the time he was an absolute terror.  He demeaned.  He yelled.  He called the students’ names.  No one in administration believed students because how could such an outstanding musician be such an atrocious teacher?  These were the days before cell phones so no one had the opportunity to video and anything we had would be too obvious. 

That’s when we came up with a plan.  He was the best trumpet player in any of the classes and also had managed to break into Dr. Russell’s office, sparing nothing but his instruments.  That’s when we found the letters.