It’s Who You’re With

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Image Credit: Lauren Anderson

 

Growing up, I was faced with a number of challenges that affected my mental, physical, and emotional health. Like for many young teenagers, middle school was an experience I wish I could erase from my memory. During this awkward, transitional phase of adolescence, I was constantly searching for where I belonged. By the end of my seventh grade year, I still had not found a group I felt that I fit in with, despite my heavy involvement in art, music, and dance. Little did I know, a fateful trip to find supplies for water bottle rockets in my science class would change my life forever.

I will always remember the moment I ran into my band director in the Astoria Middle School office, after being sent to find construction paper by one of my teachers that year. I had no idea that this casual encounter would end up pointing me down the path that has brought me to where I am today. At that time, music wasn’t a huge part of my life. I had switched into band from choir due to my distaste towards the teacher, and decided to play flute because that is what my friends played. During that encounter, knowing my history with dance, my band director asked me if I would be interested in being a part of the high school marching band’s color guard, which I excitingly said yes to. I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into, but to this day, it was the greatest thing I ever agreed to.

You could feel the magic and energy in the air as we loaded the truck after our final rehearsal. From that point on, it was as if the next three hours flashed before my eyes. Before I could blink, I was on the field playing my final show with the group that shaped my entire life. During the closing of our show, I glanced over to my best friend as our eyes filled with tears, realizing it was actually all over. We exited the field and circled up for the traditional senior speeches. Parents came to hug me as tears streamed down my face. After each of the other seniors had spoken, it was finally my turn. I had been dreaming of and dreading this moment for years, and now it was time for my final words to the group.

“Long live all the magic we made on that field tonight,” I remember saying to the group, quoting a Taylor Swift song. I waited for a smirk from my best friend, acknowledging she had noticed the reference before continuing. “After a performance like that, I don’t care what the numbers say. None of it matters. What’s important is the love, and I love all of you so much. Thank you for an amazing final run.”

Shivering in the twenty-three degree temperature, we eagerly awaited the announcement of scores. We did win that night, in our hearts and in the eyes of the judges, who placed us first in Open Class (all bands with more than one hundred members – we had twenty-nine), in addition to five caption awards. As great as it felt taking home those trophies, what felt better was realizing that together, we did something that had not been done in previous years. The band that took the field that night wasn’t just a band; it was a family. Shiny silver trophies now sit in the band room of Astoria High School, but only the members who experienced that evening can speak for the true accomplishments of that season. Even with the challenges we faced and the number of adversities, we still managed to defy the odds of being crowned champions that night. This accomplishment created a platform for the future of this group to grow on, as well as serve as a driving force of my personal music career.

“You don’t have to be big to win,” the judge announced, calling out our score. We already knew that, because all you need to win is love.

Moving on into college, I was unable to forget this night. However much my visions for my future changed, I could always remember what it felt like to love music, and to love the people who I could make music with. Over time, those friendships faded and I found a new family to fall into. As time moves forward and graduation creeps closer, I find myself feeling similarly to the way I did at my last marching band show; happy, sad, excited, scared. Fearful and curious of the future in front of me, and thankful for the memories I’ve made along the way. While the future is intimidating and unknown, I know now that our dreams our inevitable, and while our successes and failures may change us, it is the people around us who move us forward.

 

By: Lauren Anderson

Musings from Social Pole to Pole

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Image Credit: Claire Pillsbury

I was born and raised in South Carolina.

Something you likely wouldn’t guess off of a first impression. I have a distinct lack of a twangy accent or a repertoire of colorful colloquialisms. I lean to the left whenever the ballots are doled out, and I don’t regularly attend a church of any denomination. By the standards of my native culture, I considered myself uncomfortably liberal growing up.

I started attending college in Oregon in 2013, living in the Pacific Northwest in the fall and spring and returning home for winter and summer. The experience of moving constantly between South Carolina and Oregon is a unique one. I come home to be asked about Oregon; the new “expert” by default on Pacific Northwest culture, better still because of my distinct, Southern perspective on it. Then I return to Oregon, where I’m taken as a speaker for the South; a like-minded peer who grew up in a liberal’s den of depravity.

I’ve always found it interesting, the kinds of questions people on either side ask. The “greener grass” proverb never quite seemed to apply, after all. Though people (for the most part) politely pay attention when I discuss the finer points of the other culture to them, they only truly tune in, engage, and ask questions whenever I mention the not-so-fine points. Over time, it’s developed within me a certain model for how I am supposed to talk about one place to the other.

When I come to Oregon, for example.

I’m supposed to talk about the issue of race in the South. How we’re a work in progress, still inching towards it, still trying to connect despite powerful opposition from within our own ranks. How there are areas of the South you shouldn’t go if you’re African-American, and areas you shouldn’t go if you’re Caucasian. I’m supposed to talk about that man who went into an African-American church in Charleston last year and opened fire.

I’m not supposed to talk about how South Carolina is ranked fifth in the nation for highest percent population of African-Americans. The fact that, at my high school, Caucasian was a firm minority, and I learned more about culture in those four years than in any diverse perspectives class I’ve ever taken. I’m not supposed to talk about Gullah or Cajun – the rich well of African and American culture that finds its roots in the South and continues on into today.

I’m supposed to talk about grudges in the South. How they tote around Confederate flags and antiques and slogans like the Confederacy might still spring free and flourish someday. How the people don’t seem to acknowledge that they’re clinging on to a time and culture that was proven (by definition, by war) to be wrong. How they just can’t get over the fact that they lost.

I’m not supposed to talk about what it’s like to be the only group of Americans to have actually, definitively, and completely lost a war before. What it’s like to travel Sherman’s March in the South, touring the charred remains of old homes and knowing that people (Southerners, Americans, families, some not even involved in the war) used to live there. The experience of walking through the historical districts of old towns and choking on all the history. On the bitterness of seeing dead soldiers, burned homes, and defeat whenever you look to your past.

And then I come home, and I talk to the people in South Carolina.

I’m supposed to talk about how it’s gone too far over there – too extremely liberal. How there is a political movement going to defend women’s rights to not wear a shirt in public. How words like “organic” and “locally grown” are important labels to any foodstuffs sold in the markets. How they have multiple laws protecting their homeless in the cities, and so the streets are flooded with them.

I’m not supposed to talk about what it’s like to live in a society that’s supportive of everyone, not just our own. The strength of political activism in the Pacific Northwest, and how much more effectively it functions here. The fulfilment of living in a place that cares about what they put into their bodies and where their waste goes.

I’m supposed to talk about social and political hypocrisy in the Pacific Northwest. How religious freedom is a protected concept here, but how Christians are snubbed and socially scorned by others. How environmental protection efforts are very relevant, but how there is a persistent logging problem here. How they support their homeless with helpful laws and charities but then pay people to sweep homeless camps in effort to clean up the cities.

I’m not supposed to talk about how the Pacific Northwest isn’t a unified cultural group but a variety of different perspectives. That they are aware of their own political and social issues and are constantly working towards fixing them. That their culture allows for the aggrieved voices to speak up for themselves more freely, so they can be heard and helped.

Despite claims to the contrary on either end, I believe the South and the Pacific Northwest are two sides of the same coin. Stubborn, cooperative, looking out for our own people and struggling constantly with our own vices, within our own groups.

People want to hear that life on the other side is worse, especially when “opposite” cultures are involved. They want to believe they’ve made the right choice in living “here” instead of “there.” But I don’t think one place is particularly better off than the other. They are only different; new pros and cons, new vices and efforts to fix their societies as best as they can. There isn’t one place that should be avoided or written off because the people there are inherently bad, or because you don’t believe it will comparatively stand up to your own.

The world is wide, and varied, and full. Connected in ways not immediately obvious. And, whether you decide to trek the globe or plant your anchor in just one place, it’s not something you should let yourself forget.

 

By: Claire Pillsbury