"Insolite" finale

In 1993, at the age of 16, I joined a marching band in the air cadets. I had no prior musical training and, in my opinion of then and now, very little talent. I could not read sheet music but I could keep a beat, so I was handed a pair of sticks and a snare drum. The beauty of percussion is that all the notes are on the same line.

I had a really good time that year. We even qualified for the provincial competition, although we didn’t make it very far. Toward the end of the school year, we had visitors from "L’Insolite" (lit. "The Unusual,") a drum corps from the area trying to recruit members for the summer. My American readers are probably familiar with drum corps but for the rest, I will explain briefly what they are.

Officially named “Drum and Bugle Corps” but usually shortened to “Drum Corps,” they are formations of up to 150 people who perform an approximately 12 min choreographed routine on a football field. They are composed of percussion (the “pit,” a static group in front of the field and the drumline, in movement on the field,) brass, and color guards, which bring additional visual enhancement by wielding flags, sabers, rifles and a number of other implements.

Drum corps are big in the US. They have training camps all year round and sometimes hundreds of young men and women competing for the 150 spots. The competition season is in the summer, where the corps travel the country, honing their routine as they near the ultimate showdown: the drum corps international (DCI). L’Insolite de Saint-Jérôme was one of only two corps in Québec that year (the other one was Académie Musicale de Sherbrooke).

Knowing that my snare drum skills were laughable, I did not dare apply as such. Having taken dance classes since age 6, however, made me try out for color guard. I got in and was beside myself with excitement. The wild, wild ride was about to begin.

Never in my life had I lived under such gruelling conditions. I will refrain from detailing it all but let’s say I was going from a life with maybe 1 hour a week of moderate physical activity (my weekly dance class) to 10 hours a day of intense activity. Combined with uncomfortable sleep on either the floor of a high school gymnasium or on the bus… well, you can imagine how fast the exhaustion built up. On those hot summer days, I used to drink somewhere between 6 and 8 liters of liquids a day. I remember one fateful practice in South Carolina where I got second degree burns along the neckline of my camisole, despite re-applying sun-block every few hours. The temperature had peaked at nearly 40 degrees Celsius that day. It took a couple years for the skin discoloration to completely fade away.

I was having the time of my life. We fielded about 100 people for competitions, give or take a few depending on injuries. The satisfaction of accomplishing something as a group had been significant in my 40-man cadet marching band. As a group of 100, the feeling was magnified tenfold. It was overwhelming.

After a few weeks of touring the east coast, we headed to Boston for the DCE, the Drum Corps East, a sort of mid-season mini DCI. After dinner, I was nervously dressing up and doing my makeup. Our costume was an emerald one piece sleeveless leotard with a low-cut scoop neckline and a low cut back as well. On top of this we wore a white lace one piece suit with flared legs and long sleeves. This top piece was equally low-cut in front and back which posed a bit of a problem for me. The garments clearly could not be worn with a bra (must have been designed by a man) and I had large breasts. I feared a wardrobe malfunction every time I took the field. What made me especially nervous is the fact that there were always a handful of judges on the field walking around us with their voice recorder to get an up-close look. I always thought that one day, one of them would see a lot more than he expected.

Weeks of touring with the costume had yielded me exactly zero such malfunctions, however, so I was fairly confident that it was an unlikely probability. Of course, by now you know where I’m going. The final formation of our program had us color guards in a great semi-circle. Today I thank gods of all denominations that my place was at one extremity, facing an end zone rather than the sideline where most of the crowd sat. I threw my flag up in the air for the two and a half turn pitch with all my energy and determination, emotion swelling up in my throat to match the final musical crescendo. Upon reaching full extension of my arm, I felt it. My right boob had popped out.

With that right arm in the air, waiting for the flag to come down, I had exactly 2 seconds to evaluate my options. If I tried to fix it right then, I would not be able to catch the flag at all. This was ruled out immediately. Whatever happened, I had to catch that flag. My real choice, then, was between these two scenarios: One, I catch the flag, then discreetly move my left hand to pull the fabric over my breast, hoping no judge sees the motion when the entire formation is supposed to be perfectly still in the stoic silence that follows the last note. Two, leave it and wait out the two seconds of mandatory stillness before the base drum hits a note, indicating that the show is over and that I can lower my flag.

I made my choice. I held up the flag for those two seconds. I heard laughter and snickering coming from the bleachers. I felt myself redden. But I knew it was the right choice. I would not cost my team some points. Perhaps it even gave us some bonus ones, who knows?

I am very fond of this story. Interestingly enough, every time I have used it during a job interview when asked to provide an example of my team spirit, I was always offered the position.

Tricolor Fever

As I write this, I am sitting in front of the TV watching Montreal play the Flyers. This should shock speechless anyone who knows me, because I have a profound hatred for hockey. This sport, in Quebec, is stronger than religion. The day after Montreal eliminated Pittsburgh, it occupied 26% of all media coverage in Quebec. To give you a sense of perspective, 1% is considered big news (the Haiti earthquake never made it over 1%) and 3% is what a typical scandal reaches.

So, why am I watching hockey? The fever is contagious. The excitement in the air is almost tangible. People everywhere are happier. They are more tolerant and more patient with one another. Cheering for a team brings people together. Someone asked me during the NFL playoffs why it is that there are so many playoff-only fans. During the regular season they are no where to be seen but if their city makes it to the playoff, suddenly they watch games, wear shirts and hang a flag from their car window. The answer is simple. People love to belong to a group. When you know you have something in common with someone, you are more likely to accept their differences. You are less judgmental towards others and you know others will be the same towards you. You let your guard down, you are more relaxed. Who doesn't enjoy that feeling? Ever notice how smokers easily bond with other smokers when they huddle outside a building? They instantly have something in common with them, and it's not simply the physiological habit. I think it's the defiance of doing something socially frowned upon these days.

I have decided to jump on the tricolor bandwagon because I too, want to feel relaxed, accepted and part of something bigger. It has made me wonder, too. If I was stuck in an elevator for 24 hours with any given person, could I not find that we have something in common? Very likely. I think that if we reminded ourselves of that more often, especially outside of playoff season, we'd be more tolerant, more relaxed, and generally happier.

Green is a Cool Color

I have been ruminating this post for ages. I have finally decided that penning this unpopular opinion will be a liberating action in relieving some of my frustration. Warning: This is not going to be politically correct. Here is my thesis:

Eco-friendliness is a sham.

It is trendy smoke and mirrors. It is the new feel-good, socially praised opium of the people. It is the natural successor that is filling a void left behind by a decaying religious faith. Its zealots are crazed. They stalk neighbors and co-workers, relentlessly attempting to convert the sinners. "You should use a glass mug instead of a paper cup," "Do you know how many gallons of water are needed to make those jeans?" "Make sure to turn off the computer when you're done."

Eco-freaks, please give me a break.

Maybe I use a paper cup at work and you use a glass mug. Maybe when I shop for groceries I buy my supplies in large containers and you buy dozens of individual size yogurts and juice boxes for your kid. Maybe it took 1 500 gallons of water to make my jeans but maybe I buy a new pair once every 5 years. I don't drink alcohol, but if you do, say 6 beers a week for those same 5 years that I happily wore my eco-unfriendly jeans, you will be responsible for a loss of water 4.5 times greater than that of my evil denim. Turning a computer on and off frequently is believed by some to shorten its lifespan, inducing stress on the fragile components by the constant cooling/heating cycle. You may have saved a bit of energy but if your computer dies a year earlier, think about all those electronic parts that may or may not be recycled.

My first point, if it has not been made clear yet, is that the carbon footprint is a balance sheet that is immense in scale. It is in fact unmeasurable. There are more unknown elements on that sheet than known, and those credits and debits can all be argued by both sides with no one able to prove any measurable impact. Nobody knows for real. Nobody can know.

My second point is that all things "green" are cool these days. Just watch the marketing. People love all things eco-friendly because it makes them feel good. It brings them comfort to know that they are doing something to help our world. I think that's just dandy. My plea, however, is this: do not let the comfort turn into self-righteousness. Do what makes you feel good but stop preaching. Because if we start a tally, I am positive my life's carbon footprint will have been smaller than most, and exponentially decreasing over centuries compared to the one of anyone with a child. That, as shockingly politically incorrect as it may be, is an undeniable truth.

All that being said, I am no spawn of Satan spitefully wasting along. I do think it is a good idea to live by the three "R's" (Reduce - Reuse - Recycle). I do what I can and am always interested in finding new ways to make my life more eco-friendly. In fact, just the other day, I was selecting paint for my basement under construction. I stood in the store considering my options. Suddenly, I knew what I needed. I thought to myself, "Let's do the trendy thing, let's go green!" Quite pleased with myself, I smirked and reached for the "Mossy Landing" sample swatch.

Herd Mentality

A few days ago I was driving back from Ottawa. It was a nice afternoon: clear sky, beautiful sunset and grassy fields. I had the road pretty much to myself and was happily driving along in the soothing trancelike state that high speed and loud music inevitably conjure in me. Suddenly, something at the edge of my peripheral vision drew my eye. Up on a small ridge was a man, in jeans and baseball cap, jogging along. I was positive I hadn't passed a broken down car and the man's attire clearly ruled out any form of planned physical activity. Odd, I thought, but shrugged it off.

About 1 minute later I figured it out. There in front of me, in the middle of the right side lane was another jogger: a lovely young cow. I slowed down to a school zone level and carefully maneuvered around it. As I was passing it, I peered at its face, trying to gauge its expression. Was it excited that it had escaped? There was a bison ranch not far from there. Had the cow glimpsed the herd and surmised that the grass was greener across the road? Was it just running away from its jailer, not caring where it would end up? I wondered if it would be scared later, when the night fell, alone in unfamiliar surroundings. Would it regret leaving? I have a special place in my heart for cows. I like to think there was a happy ending for this particular specimen. A love affair with the Alpha bison, perhaps.

My runaway cow had me thinking for the rest of the trip. About life, about humans and what drives them. The parallel seemed pretty clear to me. A few people are running towards something. Many more are running from something. But the vast majority, I suspect, are just placidly running, not really knowing where they're going, not knowing why they're running in the first place and, saddest of all, not even wondering for an instant.