Me, Trombone Shorty

Before you read any further, watch that clip up there. You’ll thank me later.

It was some time in the late 70s or early 80s. I was about four feet tall and meek as hell. I had just joined the band in middle school, not because I had musical talent or aspirations, but because it’s what my big brother had done. I wasn’t my own person yet so I mostly walked in other people’s footsteps like when you follow the big booted footprints in the snow along an icy path. I was always the follower, never the leader. I was quietly smart and eons away from my peak.

Sidebar: The one piece of advice I tell kids is, don’t peak early and don’t gauge yourself against those who do. We all know this intuitively, but Facebook let’s us see it bright and clear. All those boys and girls who peaked early were beastly to me and discounted me in ways large and small. Many have since made a host of poor decisions, struggled with those life choices, and have not aged in a way that makes me think they spring out bed with a pep in their step. I tell kids that if you peak early, you will eventually plummet. However, if you peak later, you’ll only keep rising. I didn’t peak until my 40s, and it was worth the wait.

Now back to 1970 or 80-something…

In band class we got to choose our instruments. They were displayed around the risers for us to touch and try. Girls all gravitated to the flutes and clarinets, while the boys sauntered to the saxes and trumpets. I followed the girls because I felt like I had to. I couldn’t make the flute or the piccolo make a damn sound. Anything with a reed tickled my mouth. I was a sensitive child. Something inside me popped.

I proclaimed, “I want to play the drums.”

My band teacher replied with a guffaw, “Girls don’t play drums; pick something else.” I had mere seconds to respond to the affront. Remember, I was small and meek and shy and never stood up for myself. Nanosecond by nanosecond passed in slow motion as I felt the heat of stares burrowing into me. I quickly scanned the room to devise a plan and blurted out, “Then I’ll play the trombone.” I dared him to say no to me twice.

My older brother, who unwittingly dragged me into band, also played the trombone. I had followed him into the band but was hellbent against playing the same instrument, and here I was, sitting in the brass section with a bunch of boys. I hadn’t yet mastered thinking on my feet so the trombone was all I could muster in that split second I had to reply.

And that started my four-year stint as a trombone player in the school band and marching band. Trombone shorty indeed.

And more importantly, that started my lifetime of speaking up for myself and battling gender inequity. I wrote to Hamburger Helper soon after that day that to lambast the company for its sexist ad campaign. I haven’t stopped writing letters, to both compliment and criticize brands and politicians.

It’s been over 25 years now since I played my trombone. I don’t remember how to read music or play any notes. I’ve lost the mouthpiece, but playing the trombone helped me find my voice.