Like many people, reminiscing on my high school days is nothing short of traumatizing. We all look back on our past selves with a certain judgement that we put onto no one else. We cringe and shudder at how we used to do our hair or what we used to wear, how we acted and what we posted on social media in 2015. I admit, I have my fair share of archived selfies on Instagram that make me sick to my stomach to peruse, but something worse than all of that is what I used to identify as. 

I was not a very athletic individual after I peaked on my middle school ski racing team, but I always had some sort of tie to instrumental music. In eighth grade, I began burying myself in pieces of music and my musical interests. I played the oboe, so obviously nothing I played sounded good for most of my time playing, but I tried nonetheless. I subjected my parents and sister and dog to hours of squawking and honking and screeching on my double reed and eventually got better. 

And you know what? It was kind of fun. The more I practiced the more I enjoyed it, and the more I fell into my true band kid self. I hate to admit this, but high school band gave me something to look forward to. I would never enjoy it now, of course, but as a quiet girl just starting to perfect her thickly-winged eyeliner, nothing was better than the awkward and loud music hall. 

I embraced the band-kid culture, much to current Mia’s chagrin. I befriended questionable people and made a fool of myself in public a multitude of times. It was hard to feel like a true classical instrumentalist when on the weekends I would have to sing “Ghostbusters” at basketball games or march around a county fair playing “Barbara Ann” (THE SONG THE MINIONS SING IN THAT ONE CLIP). It was ridiculous and cringy, and some of my peers were exactly like the band kid stereotype that the internet is currently obsessed with. I’d like to think I was of the more usual sort, but I cannot be sure. 

Playing an instrument—or two or three—was an amazing outlet for me and gave me a group to be a part of during the weird teenage years. I wouldn’t say I miss being a band kid—actually I am glad I am not anymore—but I am also glad I was one. There is nothing more humbling than conducting in front of your entire school and wearing ill-fitting marching band pants. 

Being a band kid made me, me. However gross that is to write, or make public, it’s true. To all other former band kids: Embrace the discomfort, embrace the cringe and learn to laugh at yourself. We were all a little ridiculous, and we all have some seriously fond memories of that ridiculousness as well.