Kylah's Middle School Memory

I had never played a musical instrument before. I had never read notes before. I didn’t know the first thing about being in a band.


Yet there I was, standing in the band room. The hot lights beat down on my forehead, but not nearly as hard as the director, Jeff Bennett’s questionable glare.


Well of course he was questionable. I hadn’t started band in fifth grade with all of my classmates. I decided to start a year later, which led me to spending my summer with Bennett.


At the end of the school year, I was told to choose an instrument. I had a strange draw to the saxophone, and chose it immediately.


I opened the case and stared at the instrument. The gold and silvers glimmered in the light. To me, it seemed as though it was severed in three pieces. I sat there, trying to figure out how to put it together. The phone rang. It was the director.


Bennett had wanted to meet with me, so I closed the case, and head off to the middle school.


Bennett was known as an insanely crazy director. I’d heard stories about him snapping metal batons and throwing trumpets across the room more than once. He was amazing at his job, but intimidating and demanding at the same time.


I knew that the second I stepped foot into that band room, there would be no turning back from this musical journey. It felt as though I was walking to my death.


I entered. Bennett was sitting at his desk, drinking a Diet Coke. He had been waiting.


“You must be Kylah,” he said. “I’m Jeff Bennett. Let’s get started.”


He watched me struggle to put my instrument together for 30 painful seconds until he snatched it from my hands and did it himself.


The instrument, now assembled properly, was placed back in my hands. He told me to blow.


I blew. No sound was heard. I blew again. Still, nothing but air came from the saxophone. The third time I blew as hard as I possibly could, which came out as a quiet squeak.


“Better,” said Bennett, “but you have a lot of work to do to catch up with the rest of the band.”


Every week I would walk to the middle school band room, and an hour later I would walk back with a little more knowledge on my newly found instrument. I learned new notes, musical terms, and how to get the right noise out of the saxophone.


Even as I improved, the fear and panic of Bennett never lessened. As I got better, his expectations increased. Every time I entered the band room I took a deep breath, and prepared for what would follow.


As the days went on, the first day of school approached. That suspenseful day was of little importance for my friends and classmates, but for me, it was like a test.


It was the day I would find out how much I really had learned over the summer. I would find out how far I had to go until I reached the standard. That same high standard of excellence that sat next to Bennett’s awards on the top shelf.


I arrived at the band room, and it begun.


We had to test for our chairs. First chair was the best, that same standard of excellence. As the number of the chair increased, the playing ability decreased. It was time to play.


The flutes went first. One by one, he weeded them out until there was one at the top, and the rest followed. The clarinets were next. Then the trumpets. And then, the saxophones. I played last in our section.


“Johnston, first chair.” I couldn’t believe those words had come out of my director’s mouth. Yet they had.


Two months before, I had never played an instrument. I had never read notes, and I hadn’t known the first thing about being in a band. Now, I did