I woke up this morning, like any other day, ready to tackle the craziness of summer and the kids getting easily bored if they don’t have every minute of the day packed full of activities. Amelia, running upstairs after breakfast, breathlessly told me about a hole in our sunroom window. I followed her downstairs and stood, helplessly, in front of a window that, indeed, had a golf-ball sized hole in it. I couldn’t figure out what had happened. I should have known that this was a portent of the day to come.

My blogging friends have been a mainstay in my life for nearly eight years. It’s all of you guys who gave me my creative outlet after Jarrod was born. I was here, day in and day out, with three little kids who ALL needed diaper changes and entertainment and I found that writing and interacting with people on the internet was my saving grace. It helped me to keep my sanity. By summer, 2009, I was neck deep into blogging and ready to meet all of these amazing internet people face-to-face. I found myself on the road to Kentucky, to stay at the home of someone I had only met once before, to spend 48 hours with a crowd of people I had never physically laid eyes on. And it was glorious.

I met you there, Catherine. I hadn’t ever read your blog, but you had been writing, just like me. It was amazing to me how we all clicked. All of us, at Bliss Manor that weekend, we got each other. There’s a certain personality that goes online and shares their inner-most thoughts and secrets with the whole world. We are those people and we all got along fabulously that weekend. We all sang awful karaoke, drank more than we should have, and talked and shared. Dave was incredible in his guyliner, Becky drunkenly watched and cheered her Penguins to Stanley Cup victory, Britt tried out her selfie-stick, Hilly test-drove some new black hair, Marty did his Elvis impersonation, Karl promised us all eternal love and devotion, Brad sang, Liz mixed up sangria, and I sat in the middle of it all, trying to process how awesome all of you were. And there you were. You came with three other ladies, whom I had never met, all of you in your matching t-shirts. I didn’t know you, but by the end of the weekend, we were following each other on Twitter, friending each other on Facebook, and promising to do this again, soon.

I never actually saw you again after that, but we’ve shared many laughs on social media since then. We had similar tastes and opinions and you even bought one of Andy’s books.

And then you died. Suddenly, you were gone. The hole in my window mirrored the sudden hole you left in our circle of blogging friends. I looked down at my phone, in a moment of distraction, and saw our mutual online friends lamenting your death and I couldn’t believe it. Private messages flew, questions were answered and yet not, and I realized how fleeting not only life is, but also these 21st century relationships. We only met, in person, once. But I saw your wedding dress, I knew of your taste in music, your friendships, saw your pictures, read of your high points and your heartache. I walked at a distance, next to you, as you lived your life. And now, suddenly, you aren’t there.

I frantically looked back through all of the photos of those magical 48 hours in June, 2009, and in not one of them did we stand together, smiling. But that’s OK. Because I remember you. You made me laugh. You actually got Brad up on stage to sing a Journey song. And I’m glad I was there and got to know you.

We miss you, Catherine. Wherever you are in the great beyond, save a spot at the karaoke stage for all of us. We’ll see you at the next blogger meet-up among the stars.

Love, Heather

Dear Jim,

I feel like I can call you “Jim” rather than “Mr. Rome” since you did, after all, call me and many others “dorks” on New Year’s Day. So, “Jim” it is. I have a few other choice words I can call you, but we’ll just leave those to your imagination. Shall we?

I was an extremely awkward 7th grader when I joined my junior high marching band, not to mention a mediocre clarinetist. I won’t share those first year’s pictures with you or anyone else because like most 12 and 13 year olds, my legs were too long, my feet were too big, my hair was huge, my braces were awful, and my face was too pimply.

But 8th grade was awesome. That’s when I found my niche. For a year, I had watched the drum major do her thing (up in West “By, God!” Virginia, we called them “Field Commanders.” Quite a ridiculous title.) and decided that’s what I wanted to do. And by gosh, I did it. And did it really well.

There I am, in 1986, at the tender age of 14, at the Wayne County Band Festival. It was the beginning of 9th grade and the Spring Hill Junior High Rebel marching band was in full band festival mode. I had done the drum major gig for a year and I was on it. I loved it. Marching band made me feel like somebody. For a quiet, introverted nerd whose favorite pastime was reading, being out in front of the band made me feel special. I could shine.

But, really, I was just a dork, right?

Whoops! Here I am being a dork. Again. Same afternoon. I had just won a 1st place trophy for being the best danged drum major in Wayne County that afternoon. That year. These band festivals were a way for some junior high and high school bands to raise money. They would pay a few dollars for shiny, engraved trophies and the parents would work concessions, serving out donated food to other parents who came to watch their kids perform, kids wearing band uniforms those parents paid for, riding on buses paid for by those parents because the county didn’t have the money for weekend trips, performing in a band festival paid for by those parents because of the entry fee. I can’t even tell you how many Indian River oranges, tangerines, and grapefruits I sold each winter and how many candy bars I sold each spring to raise money. This picture was probably taken in September or October but us kids had been hard at it since the last week of July, giving up five weeks of our summer vacation for camp and practice just so we could be in the band.

Oh, wait, I was mistaken. We did all that just so we could be dorks.

After three years of junior high, off to high school I went. The South Charleston High School Black Eagles marching band was pretty awesome and I spent 10th grade paying my dues in the back and, yet again, did the drum major thing for two years after that.

And let me tell you. I killed it. There I am, in the yearbook, giving a bad-ass fist salute because we nailed it at the Greenbrier County band festival that year. That night? I was supposed to be a bridesmaid at a friend’s wedding. But instead, I was at that band festival. That lady to my right? Mrs. Kennedy. She was a hard-ass, told me if I missed that festival, I would flunk the semester. So I went. I poured my heart and soul into my performance that night. The rest of the band knew I was upset. It was our last festival of the year and I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be standing with Dee Dee at her wedding. So we all made our steps crisper, our notes louder, and our smiles bigger.

I scored a 98 out of a possible 100. The band rolled away with tons of trophies.

But this isn’t about trophies and glory. This is about all us “dorks” who sacrifice our Friday nights to sit on the sidelines and play the fight song for every touchdown, whether it be rain, sleet, or clear skies. We sweat in our full-on polyester band uniforms, sopping wet, sometimes freezing, our hands so numb we could barely play, carrying instruments that are probably upwards of 40 pounds (TUBAS! BASS DRUMS!) and perform to keep the crowds excited and happy, even when our football teams are sucking. Did you know, Jim? My first parade as drum major? I marched in the pouring rain with a 103-degree fever? Yep. Dorkish dedication right there. Those marching band dorks do it not for the glory or the accolades. We do it because we love it, despite what people like you may say.

But the worst part of what you said? Is that you didn’t just say it to those members of the Oregon, FSU, Alabama, and Ohio State marching bands. You also said it to the 12-year-old trumpet player who is struggling to learn how to play his instrument and march at the same time. You said it to the insecure 14-year-old majorette who constantly hits herself on the head with her baton because she’s still learning how to catch it. You said it to the 17-year-old snare drummer who is going to ROCK a DCI drum line in a few years’ time.

You said it to me. The awkward, bushy-haired, 13-year-old field commander who made her debut performance sick as a dog in the rain beside the Kanawha River. And you also said it to me, the 42-year-old mother of three who hopes one day to be a band parent.

Think before you speak, Jim. Think before you make fun of those kids trying to find their niche, their tribe, their place in this big, bad world. Think before you ridicule the kids whose parents have sacrificed money and time and mileage to get their kids to away football games in a clean uniform with functional instruments. Think before you call children hurtful names. You’re a 50-year-old man who should know better. You didn’t just call those college-age adult students “dorks.” You also labeled every. single. minor. child. who proudly participate in marching bands around the country.

I’m glad you apologized. And I hope you’ve learned your lesson. #MarchonRome isn’t just about correcting your poor judgement. It’s also about us being damned proud of who we are and standing up for that. We are marching bands. We love our football teams, our parades, our festivals, our uniforms, our band families. And mostly, we love our music.

Respectfully,

Heather Dobson (née Scarbro)
Field Commander, Spring Hill Junior High, 1985-1987
Field Commander, South Charleston High School, 1988-1990
Field Commander, Spirit of America Marching Band, 1990

Heath: Mama, Camden was mean to me in class today.
Me: Oh, really? How was he mean?
Heath: He said something mean to me.
Me: What did he say?
Heath: He said that boys shouldn’t like My Little Pony, that only girls like those toys, and that I’m a boy and I shouldn’t like it. He made fun of me.
Me: Well, first of all, it doesn’t matter if you’re a girl or boy when it comes to liking something like My Little Pony. If you like it, then great! If you don’t like it, that’s fine. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a girl or boy. You like what you like and ignore the haters.
Heath: Yeah, that’s what I tried to tell him.
Me: Heath, you have to understand that a person like Camden said that for one of many reasons. Maybe he’s in a bad mood because he didn’t get enough sleep, or he’s not feeling well, or maybe his mother or father or sibling was mean or upset with him and that has put him in a bad mood. Maybe he liked My Little Pony and someone made fun of him and that embarrassed him. Or, maybe, he’s just a nasty person. I don’t know the reason why he said what he said to you. What I do know is that you’re a great kid and I love that you like My Little Pony and we should all be encouraged to love what we love, not made to feel less because of it.

I have had numerous conversations, like the above, with my children as they have aged and come into contact with other children. As we get older, we all feel the need to drift away from our parents and to find our tribe. This is a natural survival instinct. Our parents are someday going to die and leave us alone and we need those friends to lean on as we get older. But, in finding our tribe, we have to wade through the bullies, the haters, and the negativity. In confronting those negative people, we learn, hopefully, how to stay away from others of their kind, how to deal with them, and how to cope. I would love to shelter my children forever so that they never know the sting of rejection or hate, but in never knowing how those moments feel, they’ll never learn how to cope when I’m gone. I will do them a disservice if I keep them isolated from the negativity. It’s my responsibility to kiss the “owies,” both mental and physical, and help them to learn from them.

Lately, having the above discussions with my children has been difficult because I have so very poorly dealt with recent negativity in my own life these past 60 days. As many of you know, I was hurt very badly by a couple of family members two months ago and although I’ve been mostly mum about it since my one blog post, my mind has raced and run around in circles ever since. I have pretty much cut myself off from most forms of social media and have had a very hard time responding to emails unless they involve my children’s school.

I had absolutely no clue that four emails, two Facebook messages, and one unwelcome Halloween card, all from two women, would have such a profound effect on my psyche. But it has. And I haven’t been able to regain my footing. Since 2007, I’ve considered myself to be an “on line wizard” in my corner of the universe. I was on Twitter before it was cool. I jumped on Facebook not too long after. I had a family web site, then a blog, I coded in HTML and even dabbled in CSS. Hell, if you really want to get me going and not shut up, just bring up SEO and I will go on for hours. I love it. All of it. Having an on line presence is perfect for an introvert like me where the work is behind-the-scenes and I don’t have to talk to people face-to-face. All communication is type-written and I can think on it, edit it, and take my time before I say what’s on my mind. I’m not good with snappy comebacks. I typically embarrass myself during IRL conversations and I’m much better with a keyboard and monitor. I’m also a stickler when it comes to on line security, presence, and words. I’ve had a few missteps, sure, but I’m more careful than not. To have two people be so utterly wrong about me and my on line presence and abilities, in such a nasty way, and then to have it break me down to the point where I want to hide from the very things I love, has taken its toll.

I can’t figure out if I’m more angry with them or with me.

It’s hard, as a mother, to try to teach your children how to face the hate when you’re curling up into a ball and hiding from it. How can I even be effective as a parent when I am so clearly hiding? Do as I say, not as I do has never been an adequate slice of parenting advice and I know, if my children ever find out how poorly I handled this, then they may follow suit. These two months have really tested me as a parent and, unfortunately, I have been failing. Miserably. I need to turn that F into an A. Or maybe a solid B+.

So, this is me, picking myself up, dusting myself off, and starting all over again.

Hello, my name is Heather. I am a wife and mother, a daughter and a friend. I am an introvert. I love the Internet. I blog, I frequently share a bit too much on Facebook, I like to take pictures of my kids and pretty things, I keep it to 140 characters on Twitter, and I hunt ghosts. I am a Social Media Specialist. I curse but I also care, deeply. I love my family and my friends. And I will not allow the heartless, thoughtless actions of two people to bring me down.

Watch out, world. Mama is back.