Sincerely, The Band Director's Daughter

And no, my dad didn't tell me to write this.

Anyone remotely connected to band or education has seen all the articles. We've all seen the facebook posts about "What Band Really Is: The Importance of Music Education." "Why AP Music Theory is the Most Difficult of All AP Exams." "Music Makers = Better Test Takers!" And the infamous line that all pregnant women are told in their first parenting class: "Mozart Makes Babies Smarter!" And music is important. We should come to its defense. But we're tired. We've heard from all the band directors. We've heard from all the music teachers. We've heard from principals and administrators and school board members. Shoot, we've even heard from professional instrumentalists and band kids themselves. But there's one role we haven't heard from at all, the one quite possibly most affected and most overlooked by band in its entirety: the band director's family.

So hello! It's nice to meet you. My name is Bethany Harper, though most of you in the band community and Fayetteville, Arkansas know me as "Harper's Kid." I've seen band first hand since the day I was born, and I am going to tell you a story.

I was nine years old on a charter bus in Pasadena, California. The Fayetteville High School Band had just spent the day in Hollywood and was driving to the Santa Monica Pier before going to Universal Studios the next day. We were there so the band could march in the Tournament of Roses parade on New Years Day, and the band kids wanted to watch Family Guy on their short bus ride to the beach. It might have been appropriate for high schoolers, but my dad deemed me too young (as most dads would for their nine-year-old daughter). Then we heard it; the comment from the high schooler we chose to ignore: "It's not our fault Harper brought his daughter on the bus. We shouldn't have to change what we watch."

News flash buddy: I might have been little, but I wasn't deaf. I could hear you. I remember you even today. And the reality of it is: it was your fault Harper had to bring his daughter on the bus. Band trips are one of the only perks she gets as the director's daughter, and it was the only way she would get to ring in the New Year at her father's side.

Because here's what band is from the eyes of a band director's daughter. Here's what you don't see.

My dad spends two nights a week (at least) away from home, preparing you for a competition or concert that you probably won't practice for. We spend holidays on charter buses and marching parades with you rather than at home with our extended family. Our dinner conversations aren't about our day; they're about you, and how he worries about your future. My knowledge about football was gained from spending every Friday night watching him work rather than enjoying it as a family, and my knowledge about the stupidity of high schoolers was learned at age seven by watching you disobey him. If I acted the way you do towards him, the wooden spoon would be the least of my worries. The truth is, he spends more time with you than he does with me, and when he is at home, he's grading your papers and responding to your emails. Because that's the life of a teacher: it's a life of pure sacrifice. He watched his only child grow up in the old high school band room rather than in his own backyard because he was always there for you. The least you can do is turn off a TV show that he deems inappropriate.

Let's prove a point here.

Here's me sitting front row performing at Carnegie Hall under my dad's direction. Cool huh?

Here's a crappy quality photo of me in a band uniform next to my dad at the Veteran's concert.

That's what people think being a band director's kid is like.

Here's what it's really like:

Yeah, that's me devouring mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving with my mom. My dad wasn't there. He was with the high school band leading them in a parade at Walt Disney World. Prior to this day, he was forced to miss two father/daughter dances at cotillion for all state clinics, a couple more holidays for celebratory parades, and even judged at all region auditions while I was in the hospital over Christmas break. And I'm not upset about it. You shouldn't be either. I'm proud of how much he cares for his students. I just wish they'd be more thankful.

Band director's kids are a lot of things, but here's what we're not:

We're not automatically future band directors. Yes, I was a band kid under the direction of dad and no, it wasn't weird. It was all I'd ever known. But it wasn't a life I wanted to create for myself. If anything, I tried to create a life far from it because I've seen how hard it is. I will never forget a total stranger asking me if I was trying out for All-State. "No... Why?" "I dunno. Cause you're Harper's kid." Harper's kid has a name. Harper's kid is Bethany: a theatre loving, Disney quoting, child adoring, future elementary teacher. She writes to vent about the high school world she was labeled in, and she reads to escape from it. Bethany is so much more than "Harper's kid." She didn't just learn music from him, she learned to hold a spoon from him. She was potty trained by him. She learned how to impersonate celebrities and quote movies because of him. Band director's daughters are not always future musicians, but we're always daughters. We are separate people with separate talents for separate God-given purposes. We are not to be defined by our father's job. We are who we make ourselves.

We're not your messenger. "Hey Bethany, can you tell your dad I won't be in class today? I have a field trip." "Hey Bethany, can you give my trip money to your dad? I forgot." "Hey Bethany, you should drop a hint for next year's trip! I know you know what it is." Are your vocal chords broken? If you want to know, ask him. Because when we're at home, we don't talk about you. We watch movies. We go out to eat. We're not a band director and his daughter. We're Bethany and Bethany's dad.

We have a separate email. Why is this important? Because our school district sets up school emails for each person in the district. My dad's email was barry.harper@example.com. Mine was b.harper@example.com. You can imagine where this is going. I was in keyboarding class minding my own business when I received a colorful email from an angry parent proceeding to tell me everything I was doing wrong with the band, and how I had shorted her son of his potential and skill. I was in jr. high, forced to read a parent's opinion on my dad's imperfections. My perception of him wasn't changed. My perception of band parents was changed forever. I emailed back, Hi you've reached Bethany, Mr. Harper's 12-year-old daughter. I attached his email address to the bottom of this message. Feel free to take this up with him. I hope you have a nice day. My dad never heard from that parent again. Funny how that works...

We're no more special than you are. We make first band because we practiced and you didn't, not because we're the director's kid. We get A's on our music tests because we learned about music since birth, not because daddy gave us an undeserved A. And no, we don't get to pick the trips we go on, and no, director's families don't travel for free. They pay what you pay, and you travel where you get accepted to perform, not where the director's daughter wanted to go. And it's a shame you blame me when you didn't get the trip you wanted, when you should be thankful you have a director willing to sacrifice his time and effort to take you on a trip at all. A lot of directors don't.

So we've thoroughly covered what band director's kids aren't. The question now becomes what band director's kids are. 

Band director's kids are often the most selfless type of kid. Because we grew up on charter buses. We attended concerts that weren't ours. Half of our vacations weren't completely enjoyed because our parent was working. We've been dragged to football games when we'd rather be doing anything else, performances when we had too much homework due the next day, and to the high school at random parts of the day so dad could lock up, or let someone in for a lesson, or meet a truck driver to pick up equipment. We were raised on quick dinners and arts based approaches to homework help. We played in the band room rather than our living room. We colored in the band office rather than our desk at home. We are some of the least entitled, least needy, least high-maintenance kids because we have sacrificed since day one.

Band director's kids are intelligent, and not just smart. Yes, we have all that music-makes-better-tests-scores knowledge, but we also have seen first hand how band shapes aimlessly wandering high schoolers into social and mature adults. We have seen it teach how to use common sense. We have seen it teach perseverance through practice and teamwork through performance. Band kids handle criticism better because they were raised on the benefits of it. They are always looking for new ways to improve so they not only prove themselves to parents and peers, but also to the world. Recovery. Determination. The ability to improvise in the midst of a crisis. Band kids have it all. And so do band directors' children. Because it wasn't just knowledge we learned in band, it was knowledge we were raised on.

Band director's kids are their own person. I touched on this earlier, but it's important so I'll say it again. No, I'm not trying out for All-State. No, I'm not going to be a band director when I graduate. No, I don't play my instruments anymore, and no, I don't regret that. I'm doing my own thing, and I'm loving it. I have kept my ties to the band world by competing with an open class winter guard and instructing a high school guard of my own, but outside the band world, I am studying to be a teacher. I live the glamorous life of a daycare worker. My emphasis is in English and Literacy because I love to read and write. I am a preschool intern. I am a blogger. I am a theatre enthusiast and a Pinterest addict. I speak fluent Disney. I'm in love with New York City and if I could eat one thing for the rest of my life, I'd put down the french fries faster than you could clap your hands.

So next time you meet a band director's daughter and she says, "Hi, I'm Bethany," do her a favor and don't respond with, "Oh yeah! Harper's kid!"

Respond with, "Hi Bethany, it's nice to meet you," because she's just a normal person. Continue the conversation by asking for her interests, or her passions, or her fandoms. But for the love of God, don't resort to band because you instantly have something to tell Mr. Harper. You aren't talking to Mr. Harper. You're talking to her. And she's not next in line to major in music, or make All-State, or take over her dad's position when he retires. She's just Bethany. She loves kids. She eats too much. She laughs when she's happy and cries when she's sad. She might also be a band director's kid and a top crusader for performing arts education, but that's just one aspect of her identity. The truth is, she's just a girl, and that's all she wants to be.

So what is band to me? Band is what you make of it. To you, it might just be music class. It might be team building. It might be where you travel to new places and hang out with friends. It might be an opportunity for your kids and a lot of money from you. I get that. But to me, it's something else entirely. It's sacrifice. It's hard work. It's a label and an identity. It's not just my dad's job, it's his life. And it goes overlooked and is made fun of every single day. I don't want your opinion of what my dad or the school system is doing wrong in the area of music education. Honestly, I don't really care. I don't want your support or your funds (though if you want to send a donation, I bet my dad would take it!). I want your appreciation. I want your gratitude. Because band is worth it.

That's what band really is. Worth it.

Sincerely,

The Band Director's Daughter

The Pioneer Woman of Springdale, Arkansas

'Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house, 
not a creature was stirring... 

Except my Grandmother.

Prepping potatoes, baking cakes, 

wrapping presents, and refusing a break. 

When what to my wondering eye should appear,

but an 87-year-old woman with unyielding cheer. 

She still retrieves local pies before every Thanksgiving. She insists on cooking an enormous meal for every Christmas dinner. And for every birthday, you get her famous chocolate sheet cake: from scratch. She is, in a sense, your basic southern housewife. She cooks, she cleans, and she keeps up with everyone in town. Quite the little socialite of her time, she still embarks on monthly lunches with her girlfriends to catch up on the gossip and celebrations that each woman's family has shared since the last time they visited. She's right in the middle of everyone's lives, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

I was raised at my grandparents' house when I was a little girl. Not that my parents weren't present or loving because they were, but they both worked full time. My mom prepared instant mashed potatoes for dinner every night because she didn't have time for the real deal. After all, boxed dinners were a staple because they freed the modern woman from the kitchen. My family also hired a service to clean the house and mow the lawn because no one had the time, nor the energy, to do so. My grandmother was in her late 70's before she ever considered such a ridiculous suggestion, and she still follows the poor maid around to make sure she's cleaning to her standards. Oh, and she certainly doesn't believe in boxed dinners. She was probably 65 before she even knew what take-out was.

But as funny as her stubborn soul is, if I'm being completely honest: she's the sole reason I know how to do much of anything. I was three when I learned the correct way to dust a wooden coffee table. I stood on a chair over a pot of boiling water at age five, learning how to fix oatmeal. Real oatmeal; none of that microwave stuff. I was frying bacon in a scorching skillet at my grandmother's before my mother even let me touch an electrical socket. My granddad might have taught me how to add and spell, but my grandmother taught me how to function. She taught me how to live. She taught me how to be a woman.

And let's be clear: she was anything but a simple, submissive southern lady.

My grandmother was the original pioneer woman. While she didn't grow up on the streets, she certainly wasn't wealthy. She received no college education, and worked for minimal salary to support herself before marrying a 22-year-old WWII veteran. After becoming a family woman, she fixed their dinners from scratch and cleaned their house by herself, also working full time at the local bank. She created a suitable and comfortable life for her family as only a young woman, and raised two headstrong daughters in a polite, educated manner so they wouldn't have to endure the same hardships she had come to know. She saved every penny, relished in little, and splurged on nothing for herself. When my mother graduated pharmacy school, Grandmother took a deep breath and said, "Thank goodness. Now I can finally go buy a new pair of underwear."

Growing up, my mom had little to no suspicion that her family wasn't rich, and most of that vision was due to my grandmother's ultimate positivity and determination. "We drove everywhere!" my mom recalled her childhood travels, "We hit the road at the crack of dawn every summer." She visited more places and explored more things than most kids her age. The Day Sisters always had enough food on the table, quality education, and rarely sacrificed anything at the mall. The two fashion-forward young women were always dressed to the nines in name-brand skirts and slingback shoes, just like their mother. Every Easter Sunday, her daughters were dressed in slips, dresses, gloves, hats, shiny shoes, and lace socks for every sunrise service. She led her little ducklings to the sunrise service only to lead them home and have them strip down for breakfast (because no young lady in training can eat in her finest linens) before redressing to return to the regular church service. "My God, we visited every amusement park in the world," my mom told me once, "and Mother always wore a dress and pantyhose." If that doesn't sum it up, I don't know what else could. That's probably why I have more taste than by budget cares to afford. I suppose the admiration for Tiffany jewels and Chanel fragrance runs in the family.

Nothing about her seemed to change once I was born, either. She rocked me to sleep in her lap as a baby, read with me as a toddler, and bought me enough clothes and toys to send me well into high school. She inspired my imagination to run rampant by engaging in more symbolic play with me than my parents did at home, and nourished quite a food critic as I sampled everything that came out of her metal stovetop pot. I was never bored at Grandmother's house.

I was never hungry either. Upon entering her house, you will be offered a coke six times (she has everything, we just call it all "coke" down south), a total of three or more cookies, and the option to turn on various lights and fans around the house to fit your comfort level. If I had a dollar for every hot dog, strip of bacon, chicken nugget, or bowl of mac and cheese I ate as a child, I could own a penthouse in New York City. Thank goodness my metabolism was high. I bet she worried every day I was going to be fat.

But as I look back on my childhood at my grandmother's house, it isn't the books, nor the toys, or even the food that define the memory. It's her heart. It's what makes her a woman.

The current generation has intensely reshaped our definition of beauty. Victoria's Secret models are the angels of our time rather than daughters of Christ. Starving, waxed, air-brushed models are seen as the most beautiful women, while models who look like real women are labeled "plus sized" models. In our society, beauty is slim. Beauty is athletic. Beauty is makeup and clothes and hairstyles. Beauty is pain, we tell our daughters, It pays to be beautiful. Beauty is only skin deep. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. 

No. Beauty is not pain, nor a price to be paid. It is much deeper than our skin (or our makeup), and is certainly not determined by someone else.

beauty: beau•ty 
/'byōōdē/ 
(n) the quality present in a thing or person that gives intense pleasure or deep satisfaction to the mind and pleases the intellect or moral sense

That's a far cry from what we believe beauty is today. My grandmother knows makeup, hair, and clothes, but I always found her more beautiful when she was her basic self. When she was happily hosting, entertaining, and socializing. When she was cooking fried green tomatoes and sitting on her back porch to feel the breeze. My grandmother is undoubtedly outwardly beautiful, but more than that, she is an effortlessly captivating soul. She is not striving to be thin or rich or famous. She is not striving to be anything. She is naturally delightful and aesthetically selfless, which translates to her alluring charm.

My grandmother is unquestionably the most benevolent woman I have ever met. She will put you before herself whether she's known you for fifty years or five seconds. In her house, you always have a place to sleep, a table to eat at, and a conversation to establish new camaraderie. She can tell stories like no other: from when she was first married to the time she was robbed at gunpoint at the bank. Her wit is undeniable, her heart is unparalleled, and her soul is anything but tired. She has been a spark of altruistic love and joy throughout my life, reminding me what it really is to be a woman: a pure heart, a spirited soul, with a fiery passion. She is strong when others are weak. She remains determined when others have given up. And she is kind when others are not so generous. My grandmother didn't just teach me how to work, cook, and clean; she taught me how to love. She taught me how to laugh. She taught me how to live. Without her, I could not be half of who I am today. It is because of her example that I have even the slightest idea of the woman I could be. I aspire to be more and more like her with every day that passes, because in my eyes, she has always been the real Princess. She's always been the true Queen. She has fought for those she loved and the things she believed in while exuding an unyielding elegance of sophistication and grace.

She might be 87, but she is not old. Her heart and soul are actually quite young. I can only hope I will grow to have the same wrinkles from laughter, scars from determination, and adventure-filled memories to look back on for the rest of my life. I cannot express how thankful I am for my grandmother, and all the poise and persistence she has instilled within me. She is more than a grandmother. She is more than a mother, a teacher, or even a friend. She is an effortlessly beautiful pioneer woman, and she is an exquisite gift from God.

So What's the Big Deal About Winterguard Anyway?

It's hard to imagine how one sport, particularly a sport no one seems to know anything about, could change a person's life. But it can. And don't try to tell me it's not a sport. 

Winterguard is known as the Sport of the Arts, and we know you probably haven't heard of it. Even Blake Lively, whose face was photoshopped onto a performer of the Pride of Cinncinati, called it a "dance troupe." Guard is not a dance troupe. It is a sport where thousands of scholastic and collegiate performers audition every year to spend an absorbent amount of money to acquire bruises, blood blisters, and one-shot performances. It is a season of endlessly long rehearsals, frustrated sectionals, early morning uniform checks, and cramped bus rides.

So we know what you're probably thinking. Why do people do it? 

We do it to be a part of something bigger. If we wanted a regular workout we'd hit the treadmill. If we wanted a regular sport we'd play basketball. If we wanted a regular performance, we would learn to play an instrument, act, or dance. Guard is something completely different. It is a team that devotes itself solely to the final product as a whole. Performers practice to better themselves individually so that they do not hold the group behind. Staff members dish out every bit of instruction they know with the hope of creating a production better than any judge or crowd has seen before. But guard is not just about rehearsing and performing. It's about memories. It's about inside jokes, nicknames, and traveling to new places. It's about decorating charter bus windows, big/little gift exchanges, team member performance bracelets, and so much more. It's about friendship. It's about tradition. It's about loyalty. It's about being a part of something that changes the lives of everyone in it.

We do it because it improves our resume. We are tough, determined, fiercely motivated powerballs who refuse to quit. The word "can't" is not in our vocabulary; if you tell us we can't, we turn around and say "watch me." We don't waste any time because we're used to not having any. We plan down to last detail because it's all we've ever known. We are not afraid to ask for help. We take instruction and criticism with ultimate grace. We are always working to be stronger. We set aside our personal drama for the benefit of the team. We know how important our job is, whether it's in the workforce or on the guard floor. If we give up, we don't just let ourselves down, we let others down, and we are simply unwilling to let that happen. Wouldn't you want a guard girl working for you?

We do it to know what it feels like to shine. Everyone knows what it's like to miserably fail, and hopefully everyone knows what it's like to feel happy. Hopefully everyone knows what it's like to be proud. But a strong performance with the people who helped you pour out your blood, sweat, and tears (literally!) can make you feel invincible. We all know what means to be confident, but a guard girl knows what it's like to shine. We have a drive within us that is unparalleled.

We do it because it makes us better people. On my first day of guard camp in high school, we were told by our technician, "Not everyone is capable of doing guard. It is a special activity designed for special people like you," and he couldn't be more right. Guard is a genuinely impressive, unique, and special activity designed for creative minds and talented athletes. There is a common saying describing guard that couldn't be more accurate: For those who understand, no explanation is needed. For those who don't, no explanation is possible. When you join, guard requires that you give up your individuality for the sake of the team, but when you leave, you emerge knowing more about yourself than you ever did before. It forces us to be organized and work harder than we did previously. It forces us to be mature. It forces us to be selfless. And we become better people because of it.

Missouri State University is home to three independent winterguard programs: 901 Performance Ensemble, National Avenue, and The Pride of Missouri State. "[Guard is important because it] is an opportunity for students to explore and develop skills in a performing art that requires physical strength and mental focus," John Sullivan, head director of the Missouri State winterguard programs says, "Through the activity, you learn life lessons like commitment, dedication, respect, camaraderie, and appreciation while learning technique of rifle, flag, sabre, and dance. Guard can be a means for performers to 'step out of their comfort zone' as they are suddenly meeting new people and trying new things. I have seen shy people suddenly blossom into outgoing individuals, and I have seen performers become more confident as a direct result of their achievements they experienced in guard."

I, personally, was one of those wallflower performers before my time here at Missouri State. The 2015 winterguard season really changed things for me, boosting my confidence as I and 20 other performers "stood in the rain" and gained the confidence to walk out of "foolish games."

Members of these groups compete in numerous competitions throughout the season. Their work and sacrifice is often overlooked by their university and their peers, but they refuse to quit. "Collegiate performers have to make sacrifices to be in guard, especially as they reach the latter years of their degree program," Sullivan says, "As classes advance in their degree program, the demands become more urgent and difficult. I am always thankful for those who make guard work with their academics."

Obviously, academics are the reason these performers are at Missouri State University in the first place. Every member on a Missouri State winterguard is a college student in pursuit of a degree and a career. We aren't just here to spin, though that might be what we often say. But academics aren't the only sacrifices we make to continue in the sport we love.

Like any performing art, winterguard is not cheap. Some performers work up to three jobs to fund the sport they love. Others skip collegiate events and spring break vacations to ensure they have enough money to spin their next season. But unfortunately, this is not always enough.

We are regular college kids in need of financial assistance. Our fees go toward flags, poles, tape, equipment, floor paint, costumes, makeup, hairpieces, etc. Guard is a very expensive activity, and every year we have talented individuals take seasons off because they do not have the money to compete. We don't want to deny any of our members a chance to compete, perform, and make memories with the rest of their team, but sometimes we don't have a choice. That's why we need your help.

We aren't asking for a miracle donation of thousands of dollars. We understand your budget is tight. Believe me, so is ours. All we ask is that you take a moment to consider donating what you can to give us what we want more than anything this season: security in knowing we will be able to afford our favorite activity. We are extremely thankful for any assistance you can give, whether it's $5 or $500, or simple moral support as an audience member. We would love to see you at our next competition.

Find us at various shows on the MCCGA and WGI circuits. Email taxistotsandpolkadots@gmail.com for more information. 

To help out members of the Pride of Missouri State Winterguard, National Avenue Winterguard, and 901 performance ensemble for their 2017 season, please donate on the Missouri State Crowdfunding Webpage. The staff and performers greatly appreciate any of your help and/or support you can provide.