I remember during the first week of my freshman year, the art teacher announced that we were walking down to the square in Franklin to do chalk art. Having to draw a picture on demand in front of a bunch of students I didn't know in a place where anyone could see was too much stress, so I dawdled behind the rest of the class, took a detour to the library or bathroom (I don't remember exactly where), and skipped the rest of class. The teacher never said anything; I don't think she even noticed.
The rest of the semester long class was fine, but constantly embarrassing. My art teacher would praise my supposed drawing talent in front of the whole class all the time. I remember one day where she was rambling about people's expectations and how they can influence your life, and she said something like, "When Erin was younger, people probably told her how good she was at drawing, and she took it to heart and practiced, and that's why she's such a good artist now." It was supposed to be a compliment, but I was mortified. I was NOT a good artist - I had one tiny gift for drawing still lifes and that was it. I felt like a poser that entire semester.
I don't really know what the point of telling that story was, except to say to my kids, "I get it. Parents make you do things you don't want to do. My mom did it to me, and I did it to you, and you will do it to your kids too."
For me, it was art class, and for my boys, it is band. Cole and Eli started playing percussion in the band at Washington Elementary by choice, and they continued in the band at Ligon Middle School by choice, and by the time they both started high school at Enloe, I wasn't about to let them quit just because they had now decided band was for geeks and losers. We had already invested so many years into band!
It started with Cole, who had a rebellious streak in middle school that derived from him choosing not so great friends, so as he was enrolling in high school, I decided he needed to join marching band because band kids are the best. I'm sure there are rotten band kids, but I don't know any. Every band kid I've ever taught has been the best of kids. So that's how my thinking went: put Cole in marching band, set him up for success. Enloe is a huge school, the kind of place where you can drown if you don't find your footing, and I wanted him to have a good start.
One thing I did not know about marching band before Cole's first year is that half of the season involves marching and the other half involves being peppy at football games. You may not have spent much time around Cole, but...he's not very peppy. He also didn't get to march because he was assigned to play keys, and you can't carry a xylophone while you march.
From the beginning, I had said, "One year. Try it for one year, and if you hate it, you don't have to do it again."
Cole seemed miserable the entire marching band season, but surprise, surprise, the next year he joined again with his little brother in tow.
He also joined the Triangle Youth Brass Band and played percussion for Enloe's symphonic band. He plays the marimba, which uses four mallets (two in each hand), and it is an impressive sight to watch him play.
Eli has not taken to band like Cole. He may someday blog about the time his mom ruined his life by making him take marching band. So it goes. That's parenting. You do what you think is best for your kids, and sometimes you get it right, and sometimes your kid hides in the bathroom to avoid drawing with chalk.
