Why Would Lionel Richie Want My Frito Pie?

              Now that Fall is back, my thoughts have naturally turned to an activity as much a part of me as the argyle sweater I asked for at Christmas (age 14) and finally, finally (Hallelujah!) received for my 15^th birthday.  That activity is MARCHING BAND, y’all.  I was a big ol’ band nerd from fifth grade through my sophomore year in college.  A trumpeter with a fair amount of talent, I was often chosen to play solos on the field.  I don’t say that to brag, I say that to set up a story about my band experiences that wouldn’t have been as interesting had I simply blended into the formations that changed every two weeks at my small, country high school in the Red River Valley of Texas.

                I had played in concert band for the previous four years but had never participated in marching band as you had to be in high school to do so, at least in that particular school –Rivercrest.  I had no frame of reference for marching bands other than my mother was a clarinet player in the Mississippi College marching band in 1963 and that was the reason she was in Mexico City (for the Fiesta Bowl) when JFK was assassinated.  She never shared any other specifics.  After being a member of the Rivercrest Rebel Marching Band for two years under the tutelage of Claire Jesse, my frame of reference was skewed to something I have still never experienced or even heard about.

                Mrs. Jesse created and taught us a different halftime show every two weeks.  Yes, you read that correctly.  We learned new songs and new marching formations for every home game and the subsequent away game.  We were not required to memorize the music, obviously, as we were taxing our brains to remember the very specific choreography that had to be exact, so the show would work as we only had like 35 members. There’s not a whole lot of designs you can make with that few people, a Blue Moon being one of the ones I remember.  Anything more complex than a circle or square would be interpreted as “People Randomly on a Field…in Big Hats…with Feathers”.  Minimalism doesn’t begin to describe it.  On top of that, we had to learn new songs for the pre-game ceremony at Homecoming.

                One of the upsides of being a talented trumpeter is getting to play a solo.  Trumpets are the coolest people in band, on par with the drum section, if you don’t count the bass drums or cymbals, no offense.  In the Fall of 1984, I was selected to play the solo at the pre-game Homecoming ceremonies.  The song was the timeless tune, Lionel Ritchie’s Truly.  If you’ve never played that melody on a trumpet, let me tell you it isn’t necessarily a difficult piece of music if you were to play it once.  However, repetitious playing can be taxing as there are very high notes which require you to tighten your lips on the mouthpiece to play them properly and I was going to excel at whatever I was doing.  For those who don’t remember, Homecoming 1984 was held on a very wet and extremely muddy football field.  It seemed like it had rained the previous 40 days and nights.  I promise you there were animals lined up in pairs in the parking lot of the football stadium, looking for an ark, people. 

                Cut to me standing in the same spot on the field to the left of the Homecoming Court who were walking very slowly on sunken red carpet, holding the skirts of their Scarlet O’Hara meets Barbie Birthday Cake formal gowns out of the mud, one of them wearing football cleats and another wearing cowboy boots, so as not to get, literally, stuck in the mud.  Because their walk across the field took about four times longer than we had practiced, I was forced to play a beautiful but difficult song four times as many times as I had planned.  It seemed like 64 times, but it was probably somewhere in the neighborhood of 16 times. 

                Anyone who has played a trumpet knows that your lips get tired after playing for a long time and you have to give them a rest.  Don’t say a word; it’s too easy.  I was used to tired lips (again, too easy) but this time when I finished, my lips wouldn’t work at all.  I literally could not form words; I could only make weird sounds. Imagine Charlie Brown’s teachers or a very sad Chewbacca. 

This shouldn’t have been a problem as most people who sat near me in the football stands would have loved to have a break from the wonder that are my stream-of-consciousness conversations, ranging from my unending need for a Frito Pie to my secretly coveting (but outwardly mocking) a certain band member (let’s just call her Jathy Cones) whose mother brought her iced tea in a mason jar. 

One thing I wasn’t aware was happening during my extended remix of a solo was that I was slowly sinking into the mud.  So much so, that when I turned to leave the field, my shoes got stuck and when I jerked my legs to remove them from the muck, my natural athleticism took over and I accidentally pulled both my feet out of my shoes, leaving the double-tied Kaepas peeking out of what was supposed to have been grass but was stock-show level muck, y’all.

As I was on the field, not the sidelines, I had to somehow get my shoes.  I didn’t want us to get a penalty and/or someone to trip over them causing us to lose the game and making me the local preppy non grata.   When I went back to get them, I was forced to get out of the way of my bandmates who were leaving the field behind me in a big hurry, as the pre-game had spilled over into the game time and we were in violation of something; I don’t remember what.  I played football not even half-heartedly (eighth-heartedly, maybe?  I mean I showed up to the games and that counts for something, right?) for two years but remember only that I hated it and every move I made was the wrong move.

One of the more observant cheerleaders saw I was trying to get something off the field and ran over to help (let’s call her Jonna Do Javis) as she was also a very kind person, with a heretofore unknown wicked streak.  She saw my shoes sticking out of the mud and extricated them in the nick of time.  I was thrilled that she had them.  Now I just needed to get them from her.  I smiled and motioned to her in a very subdued manner, like a Baptist sneaking a second helping at a potluck, to get her attention.  She smiled and waved the shoes at me and not in a subdued manner; more like a Pentecostal moved by The Spirit.  I don’t know if I knew where she went to church, but I’m sure in retrospect she had to have been back-slidden because what she did was downright Unchristian.

Jonna Do Javis held my shoes high in the air, like a trophy and walked slowly to the middle of the track surrounding the muddy field directly in front of the Homecoming Court and all the people in the stands.  I know you’re thinking ‘how many people could that possibly be in a tiny town?’  Well, it was Homecoming, so it was literally everyone who lived within a 20-mile radius, except the housebound or the infirm.  This was THE event of the Fall, on par with the Rodeo in the Summer, y’all.  I might as well have posted the video on YouTube.  Football games were the Facebook of the 1980s in the South.  The Dad even went to them and he left the house about as often as the Pope watches Pay-Per-View Wrestling. 

Once she made it to the spot she felt was most advantageous to maximum embarrassment, she wiggled the dirty shoes at me.  I tried to motion her over to keep from being publicly humiliated again (lest we not forget the time I accidentally tackled the opposing football team’s bench, but not any of their players and injured myself but no one else in the process).  I just wanted to go sit down and eat my Frito Pie once my lips started working again.  But no.  Jonna Do was not having it.  She thought it was hilarious to make me walk (muddy) sock-footed to get the shoes from her hands, in full view of the throng and I mean throng, y’all, for real.

If my lips had been working I would have given her the business but alas ‘twas not to be.  And I wasn’t the type to exact revenge on anyone, especially to the person who was the closest we had to Snow White in our school.  She literally had woodland creatures follow her around school.  Or maybe those were just the taxidermized specimens in the biology classroom.  Or maybe I’m misremembering her interrupting my speech on Koala Bears when I brought my stuffed animal as part of my presentation.  When she interrupted, my teacher didn’t stop the timer and she helped me get past the five-minute requirement from Mr. Lum, our teacher, saving my under-prepared butt and keeping my A+ average intact.  I was normally a conscientious student, but the night before the report was due, The Dad came home with a VCR he had bought from the trunk of a guy’s car in the parking lot of The Wal-Mart and somebody (I won’t say who) decided to watch Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles, four or five times.

I can’t believe I had forgotten about that almost-debacle.  Jonna Do, the saintly Disney Princess helped me maintain my academic reputation.  And here I had nursed a (relatively small) grudge all these years.  I apologize Jonna Do.  Mea Culpa.  Mea Culpa, indeed. 

Stephen Curry, Bad Football and Tiaras

                Now that the NBA Championships are over and the Golden State Warriors won (insert team chant here), there has been a lot of drama and sadness and other negative emotions for those who supported the Cavs.  I was happy Stephen Curry and his team won.  He looks like a nice person; like someone who loves his mother and helps the disadvantaged. 

                The year before I enrolled at Southwest Mississippi Community College in Summit, MS (Go Bears!) their football team was ranked #6 in the nation for junior college football; in the nation, not the state.  That’s some pretty good football playing right there. 

                My Freshman year, their record was 0-9-1 and the one team we tied was Coahoma Community College, which at the time hadn’t actually ever won a game, possibly in the history of their school.  The fans and team members were disappointed in the season and as a member of the marching band and Student Body President, I, too, was appropriately saddened.  It wasn’t until my Sophomore year I found the upside to losing.

                As most people know, the one game you want to win in the school year is Homecoming.  It’s the most attended game of the season.  In order to do well in front of your largest home crowd, you try to play the team with the worst record.  Coming off our poor record, it began to dawn on me as the season progressed there was something special afoot; something magical involving tiaras and convertibles.

                Football is not very interesting to watch; poorly played football even less so.    As a dedicated trumpeter in the marching band, I attended all games and was thrilled to notice a trend of playing multiple schools at their Homecoming games and this meant seeing all the Homecoming Queens and their Courts.  Royalty, sparkly dresses, pageantry; these were my kind of football games.    Of course the Queen-related hullabaloo was interspersed with actual football which was fine because any time I wasn’t tooting my own horn (literally), I occupied myself by going to the concession stand for nachos and/or Frito Pie or talking to the dance team who loved them some Dusty, mostly because I was funny and overweight and therefore a consistent source of heat.  These poor beautiful ladies were always cold in their tiny sequined bodysuits.

                Our record improved to 2-8 the next year and I saw at least four Homecoming Queens including one who was over 6’ tall at Pearl River Community College.  Oddly enough the two schools we beat were the worst team in the state (again, Coahoma) and also the State Champions (Gulf Coast).  I’m unsure if Southwest has been better or worse in the intervening years.  I admit I don’t follow football unless it’s the New Orleans Saints or Ole Miss and then only via Facebook posts. 

                So, take heart LeBron and all the other Cavs (are there other Cavs?), there is an upside to losing.  For me it was momentary glamour in the boonies.  For you it’s gazillions of dollars, so quit crying you big baby. 

                And that’s all I’m saying for now.

Residual Sparkle from the Proximity to Jewels

                This past weekend my college held Homecoming, as we do each spring.  Unfortunately, the timing just didn’t work out this year and I was very sad to miss this wonderful event.
                Whenever anyone meets me, they always ask where I’m from; usually because of my accent.  When presented with that question, I never know what to say.  As we have discussed before, my parents were nomadic Southern Baptists and we moved on the average of every two years until I graduated high school and I have moved about that often through college and my career.
                Since I am not from anywhere specific and people try their best to pinpoint the exact source of my finely muddled Southern accent, I usually say, “I was born in Louisiana and grew up in Mississippi and East Texas”.  I graduated high school in Tylertown, Mississippi, but I didn’t move there until the summer between my sophomore and junior years, so I don’t necessarily feel that hometown connection.  Don’t get me wrong, I have connections to very special people who I love and with whom I stay in touch but Tylertown itself doesn’t foster a sense of place for me.  In my life, home is a nebulous concept, but when I take a deep breath and I ask myself, what is the one place in the world I feel at home, I am transported to the lovely and historic campus of Mississippi University for Women.
                MUW or, The W, as we call it, is where I came into myself as a person; where I grew up (a little bit); where I found out it was okay to be me.  I won’t get into the details as there are far too many memories to disclose so I will talk about muscle memory.  The heart is a muscle and my heart is at The W.  Columbus proper may house the school, but The W’s campus is where I find my roots.
                I will be eternally grateful to Andi Simmons for suggesting I attend Scholar’s Day in 1990.  About to graduate from Southwest Mississippi Community College and unsure of where to go and afraid to admit I was lost, I ignored the questions of my father about going to a “woman college” and headed to Columbus.  I enjoyed the weekend and even volunteered at the concession stand at the dance getting to know Rosemary Hayslett in the process.  She convinced me to come to school there and introduced me to Dr. Clyda Rent, who graciously offered scholarships and grants that covered all my expenses except chili cheese fries.  And with that, I embarked on a life-changing adventure.
                The first public university for women in America, MUW has been referred to as a jewel in Mississippi for many, many years.  Their focus on educating and empowering women is intact and as one of the “smart men, too” who were fortunate enough to spend time there, I am grateful that The W’s mission, and name, remain unchanged.
                When men are empowered, they focus on conquering.  When women are empowered, they focus on empowering others.   And empower me they did.  I arrived at my new home a loud, dorky, brightly-colored mama’s boy with a false bravado that was misinterpreted by many as arrogance.  My need for acceptance was palpable; my use of Halston Z-14 was asthma-inducing. 
                I have an exceptional memory, which is both good and bad.  The good is that I distinctly remember friendships and crushes and outings to the trestle, quasi-illegal tunneling, midnight snack runs, dancing at The Club and Classix and paying for Taco Bell with coins we found in the ashtrays of our cars.  I cherish all those times I stayed up all night having the most amazing conversations about life and everything and nothing.  Conversely, I can close my eyes and picture with uncomfortable lucidity each time I betrayed a confidence, gossiped out of jealousy or hatefulness, held a grudge, kept secrets and told secrets, had my heart broken and broke someone else’s heart; all those things that make us blush with embarrassment when we allow ourselves to remember.      
               Throughout my three years, these jewels, my jewels, always forgave and afforded me acceptance on a scale never before imagined or experienced.   They taught me it was okay to be me and we could be broken together and be amazing together because at the end of the day we were together.  Twenty-two years later, that sense of togetherness lingers.
                Most of my influential teachers and mentors have been women and I don’t know if that was by happenstance or design but I have learned so much about looking at the world from a woman’s point of view, because, make no mistake, it is a different view; a needed view.
           In the last few years those in leadership positions in federal service, have been encouraged to embrace servant leadership as the right way to lead.  And I agree.  What I find humorous is servant leadership, at its very roots, is simply teaching men to think and act more like women.  To nurture, to not focus on who gets credit, to stop fighting for power and fight for what's right, to share leadership, to stop trying to be perfect and simply try to shine…like a jewel. 
             I will forever thank God for placing me in the exact spot at the precise moment that would change the course of my life.  If you know me, you know I’m a little on the sparkly side and while that didn’t start at MUW, the residual effects of my time amongst these wonderful jewels makes my sparkle so much deeper because MUW gave me clarity of self and of purpose.
            It’s a unique experience being an MUW alum and it’s not something that is easily explainable to those who aren’t.  There is an unpayable debt I owe these phenomenal women (and men) and it is something my heart won’t forget and even when I’m not with them in person, I am forever celebrating my connection to the long blue line. 
            And that’s all I’m saying for now.