Three years marching beneath icons of the marching arts world—who, as grumbling rivals from other corps worn out from manning bingo parlors would mutter, were the finest talent money could buy. Star of Indiana got a lot of hate for being funded by a rich guy, no matter how benevolent his intentions—as if personal valets substituted for each us in daily sixteen-hour melanoma-inducing rehearsals so we could sip mint juleps in the shade. Imagine your age-out performance on the night of World Championships after presenting some of the hardest material to hit the field being booed by an audience that seemed to prefer Christmas carols rattling the August-burnt Cotton Bowl. Still, after two and a half months and around 15,000 miles of touring with the Best That Money Can Buy, relentlessly taking away our laundry days to get another ten minutes of rehearsal time, I would have wasted a wish granted by a genie in a lamp to put my euphonium where stadium lights don’t shine. But, there in the brutal Texas humidity shortly after our corps director placed a gold medal around my neck, I saw those same instructors and caption heads who pushed me to my limits all summer long, gazing upon their students with pride. They weren’t slapping high fives or patting each other’s narcissistic backs. Each of them stood on the sidelines with the unmistakeable aura of love and pride.
Those names were gold on a resumé and, more often than not, a reason for sitting a few minutes longer in an interview with many wide-eyed band directors. Yet, one name has been left from my resumés—more important to my development as an instructor than any of the DCI Hall of Famers under whose precious tutelage I was raised. Sharon.
Sharon was a seventh grade clarinetist in John Aylsworth’s marching Blackhawk Brigade from French Lick, Indiana. When every horn and pair of eyes were steadfastly focused at the drum major at the end of a rehearsal segment, Sharon stood immitating the intensity of her fellow band members…facing about forty-five degrees anywhere else! “Sharon, you need to point your body toward Trevor up on the podium!” I would shout. “Got it, Marc!” she would respond energetically though without adjusting her position. “Now, please!” my command competed with a field full of giggles.
The Blackhawk Brigade was the next to the last unit to leave the Hoosier Dome that night at Indiana State finals, surprising everyone—including the staff and me—with a second place finish. In the airlock, every single set of eyes I saw peering back at me from under black shakos were full of tears. EYES! WITH PRIDE! never echoed through my brain as loudly as that moment. I strode in front of the band beside Mr. Aylsworth’s turbo-charged wheelchair and into the parking lot of buses. Just after dismissal, one senior girl came up to me. “Sharon tapped me as we were stepping into the airlock and asked, ‘Hey, what place did we get?’”
Fastforward to the first day of rehearsals the next season: “Marc, let’s talk,” John said after sending the band to the practice parking lot. I followed him to a the opposite side of a service building, out of sight of any students. He whipped his chair around and looked at me with a puzzled expression and said, “Sharon wants to be in the color guard.” It bounced off of me. But John continued to stare at me with that “what the heck are we gonna do?” expression until the memories of Sharon’s regular blunders in last season’s rehearsals screamed out, “I can hide a clarinet, but I can’t hide a great big piece of fabric waving out of time!”
John told me that it was his personal vow to help every single one of his students learn whatever instrument or piece of equipment they desired, even at the expense of losing competitions. And, unchanged by my pleas, I relented and swore I’d find a way to teach Sharon color guard.
At first, I didn’t think it was possible for Sharon to stand in time, let alone swing a flag in sync with her fellow guard members. But episodically, I found that once I could find a way for Sharon to understand what her flag and body were doing—which meant I had to learn to cycle through many different explanations, trying each one on Sharon like we were trying on marching shoes—she’d remember and repeat with consistency. We spent so many one-on-one rehearsals outside of the band room finding ways that turned her lightbulb on, and it stayed on…every repetition thereafter.
To this day, every time I watch the State Finals performance video, I couldn’t tell you what anyone else on that field was doing…because my soul won’t let me do anything other than watch Sharon’s mistakeless performance. She nailed every slam, every spin, and caught every single toss. Sharon taught me that there are many ways to approach an ensemble, but there is one way to approach the student. Amidst the legendary names of DCI’s finest giants stands this awkward red-headed girl from French Lick, Indiana—one of the best teacher’s I’ve ever had.
A trophy is nice—for a while. But trophies can break and need to be cleaned from time to time. But, if you surrender yourself to discover the way that a student learns and add that to your soul, you will find a trophy that just can’t be tarnished thirty-four years later.
