The Ariel

      It is unclear whether I remember the Disney World vacation when I was five, or if I simply remember the home videos of that trip.  If the home videos are to be believed, I was miserable, cranky, argumentative, and unhappy.  Yet, I remember Disney World with such glee that it is hard to say what caused the pout on my face or the arms crossed over my chest in those videos.
         I remember staring timidly at Pluto and Mickey and Minnie and Goofy.  I hid behind a parent’s leg and hoped the animal wouldn’t beckon me over because I knew my parents would agree and think it was a great idea, a Kodak moment.  I don’t know why I was scared of those characters except that they were huge and they made everyone look at you.  I was okay in the background, watching other kids get excited about meeting Donald Duck.  At five years old, all eyes on me was not what I wanted.  I did not want to be the center of attention or anywhere near it.
         The parades were spectacles, tons of people dancing, waving, being really happy to see me and my family in their park.  The people were having so much fun.  You can’t sit at the side of the road in Disney World, watch the daily parade, and not smile.  Especially when you’re five, but even when you’re older.  I didn’t appreciate it the way I should have, the way I did when I went back to Disney World in HS, because I was five; I was too busy trying to see Ariel, trying to figure out which Princess was next.
         When you’re five and someone asks you what you want to be when you grow up, you want to be everything.  For a second, being an Astronaut sounds like a great idea but the next second,  a Zookeeper sounds better.  Then you realize that being a Rockstar trumps both of those, and then you see a sparkly pink dress and want to be a Princess.  I wanted to be The Little Mermaid.  When I was six, I sat down at the dining room table with my mom and asked her a serious question.
         “Mom,” I said.  It wasn’t a question, not a timid, “Mom?  There’s something I want to ask you about…”  No, no.  I knew what I wanted.  “I want to get my name legally changed to ‘Ariel,’” I stated.  I looked at her, innocence in my eyes and certainty in my grin.
         “Why do you want to do that?  What’s wrong with ‘Kelli?’” she asked me.
         “Nothing.  I just like ‘Ariel’ better.  Plus she’s a mermaid.  Plus she has really pretty hair.”
         “No, Kelli, you can’t change your name to ‘Ariel.’  When you get older you can do whatever you want,” she sighed.  I’m still not entirely sure why I didn’t march down to the Name Changing Office the second I turned eighteen.  Maybe I realized that changing my name to Ariel wouldn’t give me the capability to breathe under water, nor would it change my hair into the long, flowing red of Ariel’s. 

         A week before High School started, my mom dropped me off in the student parking lot.  I expected that a marching band of over three hundred people would be easy to find, but there were no kids around, nevertheless one with an instrument case.  Luckily, I found a tall, dark and handsome boy to follow, and luckily he was the drum major, heading right to the music hall.  Later, jokes were made when the director insisted that we “keep your eyes on the drum major!” because I certainly didn’t have a problem with that.
         It was foggy outside and a little chilly at seven thirty in the morning, so we all huddled in the hallway waiting for some instruction.  The freshmen who didn’t have upperclassmen brothers or sisters formed the old cliques from middle school, and everyone discussed their summers.  We lined up our lunches and water bottles along the ledges of the hall.  Hopefully we wouldn’t look too stupid in front of the veteran high schoolers once we got outside.  Finally we all ventured on to the practice field to learn what to do when various things were yelled out; “band ten hut,” “at ease,” “mark time mark,” and so on. 
         By mid-morning, the fog outside had cleared and the sun was beating down on us and it was fairly miserable to be wandering around a fake football field while reading field charts with confusing coordinates.  But this was marching band, my first taste, and I was sold.  We never took an official vote, but I’m pretty sure I loved band camp more than anyone else, and everyone thought I was weird.  Who in their right mind would enjoy getting to school before eight am a whole week before school actually started, getting sunburned for at least four or five hours every day, and playing the same five songs over and over and over?  Me, apparently.  Any excuse to get me out of the house for extended periods of time was a good excuse in my book, and marching band was relatively time consuming.
         Once school started, we practiced during band class, ninety minutes every day.  We played the music so much that it was memorized in no time.  Our theme for the year was 40’s Jazz, and we could play Sing Sing Sing! (the old Chips Ahoy! Song) so fast that sometimes we sped up the tempo, just for fun.  We moved from one coordinate to the next smoothly on the field, and we finally put the two together.  Before we knew it, we were about to step foot on a real football field for an actual halftime show on a Friday night at the stadium where our high school played.
         The stadium wasn’t huge, and hardly anyone (except band parents) came specifically to see the marching bad.  So during half time everyone in the stands is talking, getting up for food or drinks, taking a whiz in the restroom.  People aren’t paying attention to the three hundred kids on the field below.  But during the competitions in October, everyone is at the stadium for one reason alone, and that’s marching band.  The stands are full of other bands and band parents, who sit quietly during performances, watching and listening intently.  The announcer’s box is full of judges; one for drum line, one for horn line, one for pit percussion, one for color guard, one for overall effect.  There are also a few judges on the field.  Each judge has his own mini-recorder, and he tells us what’s working and what’s not.  Friday night football games were really just another practice to prepare us for competitions.  And at competition, the applause doesn’t mean, “Yeehaw! The music’s over and now my kid can play some football ‘gain!” it means, “Wow, that was really impressive!  Good job!”
         For two years we did this, band camp, football games, competitions in October where we always took first or second place and never got less than a superior rating.  Marching band was my way of life.  I hummed the songs in my head (Double Oh Seven Theme the next year), I dreamed of black notes dancing along the measures, I practiced rolling my feet in the lunchroom so I wouldn’t spill my tray.  Every other year the marching band went to Florida over Spring Break to march at Disney World.  If perfection does exist, it is the combination of Walt Disney and marching band.  And there I was, right smack in the middle.
         Our uniforms were heavy, not flattering, and sweltering hot in the humid, high Florida temperatures.  As someone who was always cold, I didn’t mind.  Everyone in the band was ready to get the parade over with so that they could go back to enjoying Disney World.  They didn’t give a damn about the parade; they were there for the rides and the shenanigans they knew they’d get into later, on the bus and at the hotel.  But I knew the importance of savoring the moments, even the hot, uncomfortable, sweaty ones, because once they were over, everything else was closer to being over.  Already we were more than halfway through my sophomore year of High School.  Already we’d said goodbye to one class of band members, and within a couple more months, we’d be saying goodbye to another.  We lined up for the parade and that familiar performance adrenaline that had been boiling in me came to a head.
         The streets were flat, only one major curve in the route, and it was a piece of cake compared to the Asheville Christmas Parade we participated in every year.  At the Christmas parade, people from Asheville know who Enka High School is.  They know that our band is the biggest high school band in Western North Carolina, they know that we kick butt at competitions.  They see our blue and white uniforms coming and read ENKA on our sleeves and they erupt with applause for “Joy To The World” and “Good King Wenceslas.”  But in Orlando, Florida, who even knows how to pronounce Enka, nevertheless where to place it on a map?  Who knows that we practice every day for ninety minutes, Thursdays for an additional two hours; that Fridays are booked solid for us because we have to load the truck with instruments after school; that our Saturdays are dedicated to competitions?  They have no idea who we are or what we do.
         But the people lining the streets of the Magic Kingdom couldn’t be happier that we were playing music.  They clapped and cheered, pointed at different instruments to show their children, and smiled wide.  All the hours the people in this park had spent in line, among whiney, tired children seemed to pause while we marched down the street in the daily parade.  They forgot that they just spent twenty dollars on chicken nuggets.  They stopped promising ice cream to toddlers.  They didn’t care that they’d had to leave the line for Dumbo early so that they could get a decent spot for the parade.  They applauded for us, and they had no idea who we were.  This was different than the applause in Asheville.  This was moving in more than an obligatory way.
         Kids, hot and flushed, were quiet.  They watched intently; they became lost in the movement and the music as it swept past them.  Some sucked their thumbs, some picked their noses, some danced in that cute way that toddlers dance, which is by jumping.  Some giggled and some clapped.  These were children, between the ages of baby and pre-teen.  These were people with incredibly short attention spans, and we weren’t one of the first bands in the parade.  In fact, we were close to the end.  Yet, we were holding the attention of humans who are notorious for not paying attention.  At that moment, we were Almighty (and the parents would agree).

         There was no Ah Ha Moment when I knew what I wanted to do.  Even as a freshman in college, my goal was just to get out.  But somewhere along the way it came to my attention that I have been influenced by theatrical performances since the first time I stepped foot in Disney World.  My very first advising session with Bill Sabo went like this:  He had passed out questions for the class to think about before we came to advising, typical things that asked us what we wanted in our future.  I showed up to my advising session with a long list of classes I planned on taking (Ballet II, Ballet Repertory, World Civ Since 1500, Humanities 124, Intro to Creative Writing, and Concert Band), and before we got to that, Professor Sabo asked me what I wanted to do in life.
         “Well, I think I want to be a stand up comedian,” I said.  He laughed, which I took as a good sign.
         “We don’t have classes for that here,” he told me.
         “I know.  That’s why I need your advice.”  And that’s how my advising sessions went ever since.

         He eventually noticed my propensity to take dance classes, even if they stood in the way of some actual educational requirement, and insisted that I would be a good candidate for the Interdisciplinary Studies degree.  He said that I would be a prime candidate for it given my interest in so many fields and lack of direction in life (as well as my lack of concern for having no direction).  And for years I nodded my head when Bill Sabo brought it up, and I continued to sign up for classes that I thought sounded like fun.  Philosophy of Religion, Philosophy of Aesthetics, Media Aesthetics, Creative Non Fiction, Introduction to Ethics and Social Institutions…finally I decided that if we could make my hundred and fifty credit hours of unrelated courses into a coherent major, why not give it a shot?
         “But what am I going to do with a degree in Interdisciplinary Studies?” I groaned to Bill Sabo.  He sat back in his old, yellowy chair with his fingers making a pyramid, reminding me of Mr. Burns but not intimidatingly so, and grinned at me.  After all, since when had I ever cared about what I was going to do with my life?
         “What are you going to do with any major you get?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and waiting for my smartass reply.
         I stared at him blankly.  Then I made one of those good point frowns and raised both of my eyebrows while I shrugged my shoulders.  “Well, as long as you feel the same way,” I said.
         I left his office feeling good about my decision to sign a major declaration of Interdisciplinary Studies, with a focus on Artistic Expression and Criticism.  I figured my mother would be ecstatic that her oldest daughter had finally come to a conclusion about what major to study for in college, so I called her.
         “A degree in what?” she asked.
         “Interdisciplinary Studies.  Basically, I created my own major.  I have three founding fields of study, and I tie them together with other courses across the board.”
         The other end of the line was silent, except that I could clearly hear the concern, confusion and disappointment.
         “Well, is that a legitimate degree?” she asked.
         “Yes it’s a real degree!  You think they’re gonna give me a fake diploma?  It’s called a degree in Interdisciplinary Studies, and my focus is Artistic Expression and Criticism!”  Oh if I had known she was going to give me grief I wouldn’t have told her the great news, that I finally had a direction even though it wasn’t a clear one.  I had been expecting her to be so glad that she would throw me an impromptu party with balloons and cake and maybe even a gift or two.  At the very least, I had expected her to say, “Oh that’s great, I’m glad you finally found something that will work for you! How interesting and different!  I bet Interdisciplinary Studies degrees will be THE cool degree to have in a few years, and you did it first!  You’re a trend setter!  That’s my girl.”  Instead I was trying to convince my mother that I wasn’t just making things up out of thin air.
         “Well,” she sighed after a while, “as long as it has a good title.  Maybe they can call it The Kelli, and you’ll inspire other people to get one too.”
         And if I can get paid to inspire other people to do what they love, be it marching band or classical ballet, I can settle for that.  Or maybe they’ll just want to change their name.