We sat behind the marching band. I thought at first the three vacant rows of bleachers must be reserved for them. Why else would the seats be empty while the rest of the stands were packed? My boyfriend settled on a spot, but I hesitated. I didn't want to sit where I didn't belong. I huddled next to him on the cold seat, waiting for someone to tell us we had to leave. No one did. With delight I realized we were allowed to sit there after all.

            The bass drum on the track below resounded a touchdown for the home team. The booms vibrated in my chest. The band struck up a rousing tune and enthusiastic spectators stood and cheered. The cannon near the end zone blasted. The cheerleaders jumped, thrusting their pom-poms in perfect unison. The color guard girls danced. Excited commentary blared from the loudspeaker, all but drowning out the fanfare.

            The teams resumed their play and the crowd quieted to a steady hum. My boyfriend and I scooted closer together for warmth. Our flannel shirts over T-shirts barely kept out the chilly night air. The scent of buttered popcorn wafted under my nose; two young girls now sitting in front of us were sharing a tub of it. In the row below them, the saxophone players returned to their seats.

            The band members wore white uniforms with brilliant gold accents. A golden sash was draped across the back of each jacket from the left shoulder to the right waist. Another golden sash fell from the right shoulder to below the hips. They twitched their right shoulders to make the dangling material swing away from their bodies as they sat, glancing back to confirm the sashes remained free. Turning forward, they cradled their awkward instruments across their laps and set their white helmets with decorative gold chains beside them.

            "When I was little, my sister was in the marching band," I said to my boyfriend. In my mind's eye I saw my sister's black and gold uniform hanging from the hook on the back of our bedroom door. I remember gazing at it longingly, not daring to touch the divine fabric with my grubby hands. I saw her wearing it, so resplendent in radiant gold, her head topped with the black fuzzy helmet, its black strap cutting across her chin. Her legs stepped high as she marched in place on the worn throw rug, playing her clarinet while I watched in awe from the bed. She was so much older. So worldly. So wise. "And I always thought," I added quietly, "that when I went to high school, I'd be in the marching band, too."

            I always thought when I went to high school, I would belong. I would go to football games. I would sit next to friends. I would join the groups. I would play in the marching band and wear a uniform of security, unity, inclusion, and importance.

            Twenty years have passed since I watched my sister rehearse. Twenty years and I find myself still in awe of the uniforms.

            At half-time the band marches onto the field: A scrawny boy with stringy hair and wire glasses who struggles to pull the wagon holding the huge bass drum; a dark-haired class clown who teases the girls; a blond girl who playfully scolds him; a short, stocky boy who still carries baby fat; a tall, serious-looking boy with glasses who probably loves physics and is oblivious to all the girls who have crushes on him; a quiet girl with dark wavy hair who seems envious of the attention the blond receives. They and dozens of their fellow performers march onto the field in formation and begin playing. Perhaps they are in band because they love music. Perhaps they enjoy parading around in front of peers and parents come rain, cold or snow. But perhaps, like me, they just wanted to wear the uniform.

            I watch them march around the field, knowing I could never have been among them.

             "Maybe I could've been a flag girl," I wonder aloud, as I watch the color guard dance beside the band, carrying their flags of green, red, blue, yellow, and purple. They also wear uniforms. Navy jumpsuits with narrow shoulder straps that expose bare shoulders to the brisk air, with long navy gloves that reach their upper arms. Flesh-colored shoes deceive the audience into thinking they're prancing barefoot on the damp grass. Each girls' hair is plaited into two French braids and pulled back into large gold scrunchees. They each wear generous amounts of makeup with a small gold star strategically glued on the right cheek just below the corner of the eye.

            The cheerleaders wear uniforms, too. They perform their coordinated movements in white tennis shoes, white socks, purple skirts, white, purple, and gold jackets–and brilliant smiles. Occasionally their pom-poms catch the stadium lights in a flash of glitter. Some pom-poms are purple and shimmery gold; others are purple and dull gold and a few are purple and off-white.

            When I was in high school, I wanted to wear a uniform. I wanted to belong. But there is no uniform for teenagers with cancer. There is no belonging when classes are missed for weeks and months at a time. In high school, no one knew me. Those who used to know me, forgot me. I became a ghost. Nameless and faceless. Illness does that sometimes. It renders a person invisible.

            Ten years out of high school, I still feel the pangs of hurt and rejection. I learned so well the painful consequences of sitting where I didn't belong that I easily forget those days are long  over. Tonight I feel privileged to finally sit near those who wear the uniforms. It's hard to look past the shimmering costumes.

          Almost.

          For I see now what I never saw then. I see the class clowns, the scholars, the pretty blonds, the short, the tall, the skinny, the dark haired–all just wanting to belong. They want to belong, so they chase their dream of wearing a uniform. But I wonder if it provides the acceptance and affirmation they expected. I wonder if it transformed them as they hoped. I wonder if the uniform is a disappointing burden. Or worse, just a fancy set of clothes.

            A small gold earring lies on the bleacher, two rows below. One of the girls doesn't yet know it's lost. When she realizes it's missing, she'll search for it frantically, agonizing over the cruel hand fate has dealt her. She will have lost part of her uniform, part of her soul. For the moment her life will be over, ruined for lack of a sturdy clasp. Perhaps someday she'll see beyond uniforms and their false gold. Perhaps she'll see individuals underneath identical outfits. Perhaps someday she will even notice ghosts without uniforms.

            The third quarter starts and the teams jog onto the field. The home team wears purple shirts with white lettering; the visitors wear white shirts with blue lettering.

            The band members come back to the bleachers, flicking their right shoulders before sitting. The earring goes unnoticed, swept off the wooden seat by a golden sash, falling to the concrete floor, unseen, unheard by anyone. 

            No one but a former ghost.

            Ten years out of high school, I went to my first football game. I sat behind the marching band.

*****

 Author's Note: This is a slightly revised version of an essay written several years ago for a college creative writing class. Everything in it is true. I spent the evening people-watching instead of paying attention to the football game. And I married that boyfriend. 😁

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Be sure to check out my novel-in-progress, The Marvels of Prairie Creek. A link to it is provided in the comments.