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It's seven thirty AM. It's Monday. It's cold out. I have every right to complain and whine about how exhausted I am and talk about how much I hate Mondays. That's the thing though, I don't hate them, because, what's to hate about my first period class? It's something to look forward to, not despise! The bell rings, and the teachers herd their students to their lockers and send them off to first period. I grab my binder, my pencils, a folder or two, and my black bag, and off to the first class of the week. I go downstairs, through the sixth grade hall, and outside where I wait for my teacher to open the door. Eventually he comes, and we all rush in, desperately trying to get out of the cold and into the heated room. I go to one of the storage rooms and unzip my bag and unpack my hobo. This is band.
"Wait a hobo!" you ask. Well, yes and no. Me and my friends call it that (it started out as one of the more, well, immature, boys trying to make fun of me. We all thought it was funny, and it stuck), but it's formally called an oboe. In case you don't know, it is a double reed instrument that looks similar to a clarinet, but thinner and shorter. Here's a picture.
Ah, yes. The splendor of what my band teacher calls the "black and white devil" is in the hands of perhaps one of smallest pre-teens in the band. And, if I do say so myself, one of the most talented oboists in the school. In fact, I'm the only oboist in my school. Anyway, back to the story. So I place my reed in place at the top to the oboe and sit down to warm up; playing the B flat major scales and such. As my fingers fly across the countless silver keys and my lips adjusting to the uncomfortable position on the half inch wide reed, I start slipping into my element. A beautiful, mellow, soft sound cleanly comes out of the narrow bell, it's beautiful. Then the dreaded jump from C to the B flat an octave higher in measures ninety seven and ninety eight of Overture for Winds by Charles Carter. Then C, then oh no! The horrible, dogs-from-miles-around-dropping-down-dead, duck call, put-your-fingers-in-your-ears-and-become-deaf sound. Oh the horror! As everyone laughs, you realize that through you blushing cheeks and falling head, your smiling too.
That's the beauty of band, everyone can relate. In a good band class, everyone tries their best, but sometimes you will make a mistake, you'll fall, and the rest of band picks you up, after they stop laughing. You learn not to take it seriously and you start to laugh.
Sure, you may not want to be an oboist (even though it's incredibly awesome because I play it), but I recommend you join your school's band. It is so fun. I don't have words to describe the kind of friends you'll make or the sense of accomplishment that you will earn after playing a piece perfectly. It teaches you responsibility, and the best part is, you learn teamwork and friendship. It truly is an amazing experience for any music lover. Oh, and by the way, get ready to see this hoboist in orchestras all over the United States, if not the world.
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