• In 5th grade, I joined the school band. My mom had an old flute she’d been wanting to learn to play since I was about a year old. Mom told me I could join the band, but only if I played that flute. Fortunately for my mom, the band instructor thought I’d be good with the flute. I was one of only a few kids who could actually make noise with the headjoint. Fortunately for me, my then-best-friend Aimee also was going to learn to play the flute!

    I was so excited to be in the band! The first half of the lessons were sectionals. This way, we could all learn how to play a few notes and actually read some music before trying to get a band full of beginner 10-year-olds to play all at once. I remember the first note I learned: a “D.” Second finger, third finger, and thumb on the left hand; first, second, and third fingers on the right. “Tooooot…” It worked! I had played a note! I was so proud of myself. I went home and practiced going from “D” to “C” for 20 minutes like I had been instructed. It was so exciting!.. for the first five minutes or so anyway…

    Things were going quite well in band. The director told me I had very good tone, and since so many girls were dropping out (we went from eight flutes the first day to four the next week), I felt like I was doing great just by sticking around! It wasn’t long before I learned more notes: “B-flat,” “E-flat,” “F.” I knew the difference between a whole note and a half note, a quarter note and a quarter rest. I was good at keeping time, this band thing was meant for me! Then… disaster struck.

    One day in gym class, we were playing “Steal the Bacon.” Whenever the real gym teacher was out and we had a substitute, they liked to play this game. I guess it didn’t really take much effort on the teacher’s part, and most of the kids liked the game anyway. In case you don’t know what “Steal the Bacon” is, let me explain: First, you have to split the entire class up into two groups, then line up the groups on opposite ends of the gym. Next, you make both groups count down their line so every kid has his or her own number to remember. Then, whenever the teacher calls out a number, the one kid from each group with that number runs out to the center of the gym where they attempt to steal the “bacon” (which is nothing more than an old chalk eraser) and bring it back to their team’s side of the gym. If they touch the wall before the kid from the other team can grab the bacon and steal it, they get the point.

    As luck would have it, I ended up on the team opposing the boy I had a crush on. I also somehow ended up with the same number has him. I’d never really cared for the game, seeing as I was never a very fast runner, but when I realized whom I was up against, I felt quite motivated to impress…

    When the teacher called out our number, I jumped from my spot against the mats on the wall and ran as hard as I could. Before I’d made it a quarter of the way across the gym floor, he already had the bacon and was spinning around to make it back to his team’s side. Angry at myself for being too slow, and determined to catch up with my dreamboat, I ran full speed toward…

    …the wall?

    Yes. That was the wall.

    But what was that noise?

    Is that pain?

    Oh, crap. I broke my wrist.



    I had rammed hand-first into the gym wall. Thank God for those padded mats hanging up. I quickly clutched my right arm, trying not to move my wrist. The whole room was blurry. I looked for my teacher, trying to focus on something – anything. I don’t know if the other kids had seen me make friends with the wall, but Mrs. Wakefield rushed over to me and asked if I was alright.

    “I broke it,” I told her.

    “Broke what, Jessica?”

    “My arm – I think my wrist is broke,” I said, calmly. She didn’t even bother to correct my grammar.

    I think my calmness startled her, because before I knew what was going on, I found myself in the clinic waiting for my mom to come pick me up. I remember sitting on the little cot, overhearing the principal talking to Mom.

    “Oh, I think she’ll be alright. Probably just a bad sprain. She never even made a peep.”
    That last line probably nearly gave my poor mom a heart attack. I always cried about everything. Every little bump, scratch, scrape, or hangnail got its own Oscar-worthy performance. The simple fact that I’d stayed quiet through this particular ordeal was evidence enough that it was far more sinister than a sprain.



    I came back to school sporting a nifty pink cast. It extended from my knuckles to the middle of my upper arm, bent in a horrible L-shape. Not only could I no longer finger any notes on the flute, I couldn’t even hold it properly! While the other girls were fleshing out the rest of the B-flat major scale and tooting sixteenth notes, I looked on in anguish. Every night while they played merry little tunes at home, I sat there holding the headjoint of my flute going “tooooot” for twenty minutes. That was how I “practiced.”

    I hated it. I had never hated anything so much in my life. I felt like I was being punished! My band director was so mean for making me practice like this. My own mother was mean for going along with it. Pretty soon, I found out that Aimee was going to quit band altogether. But Mom wouldn’t let me quit! I couldn’t believe it! I was wasting all this time doing nothing, and she wouldn’t let me quit.

    Around Halloween, my huge pink cast was replaced with something more festive, and smaller. The new cast was orange, and it only went half-way up my forearm. Unfortunately though, this still impaired my ability to play the flute…

    To be continued…