"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.
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.
posted by Nathalie at 9:56 PM
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