What Are You Proud Of?

You know what I’m talking about. The secret talent or accomplishment that might seem sort of ridiculous to someone else, but for you it’s a matter of personal pride.

Here’s one of mine. In fifth grade, our class had to take musical aptitude tests to see which band instrument we were most suited for. I scored perfect on the rhythm test (not to be confused with the rhythm method – although that might explain an inability to conceive thus far).

The test administrator, an instrument specialist, was amazed by my accomplishment and told my parents he had never seen anyone get a perfect score on the rhythm test before.

Then he sold my parents a snare drum, worth hundreds of dollars, for their budding (and apparently brilliantly rhythmical) musician.

For a couple of days I walked around in a haze. I had rhythm. Mom always said I had good “timing” when I would sing along with Steven Green in the car, but now I knew it was “rhythm” and someone other than my mom thought so.

I snapped my fingers for hours and wondered how my talent could have gone undiscovered for so long. I saw myself being described thence forth as Writer and Musician, Ann-Marie Trotter.

Then, inevitably, came the letdown.

For, you see, I attended a hyper conservative Christian school where the word “rhythm” conjured up visions of evil rock and roll - the “Devil’s tongue” music.

Alas, my great talent wasted on all but a few Sousa marches for the school’s end of the year concert.

I practiced for hours on my drum and was heartbroken when my efforts were funneled into a few lethargic taps on every other band song.

My parents, however, delighted in telling people about my perfect score and that their daughter was a “drummer” in a band.

I stuck with my sad little drum and my few resounding taps until I reached high school.

I remember walking into the cavernous high school band room for the first time. There, behind the flutes, trumpets, trombones, and French horns, was the percussion section.

There they stood, in all their coolness, the residents of Drummer Boy Alley.

The rebels of the school, hair-slicked back, hands stuffed in their pockets, slouched up against the wall whispering and man-gossiping. They had figured out a long time ago that being in the percussion section of a Christian school band was minimal effort to a passing grade. And, of course, the flirting opportunities with the opposite sex far surpassed the meager prospects of a boring study hall.

I imagine if I had been thinner or cuter, the boys might have liked the prospect of having a hot girl in the percussion section. Unfortunately for them, I was not at all popular and about the size of our big bass drum.

I was an outcast from the beginning.

Being new had more than its share of disadvantages. For the few percussion parts there were, the older boys took first priority. All my rhythm talent was wasted that first year as I played in only three songs. Each one I was the featured soloist on the triangle.

That’s right. The triangle.

I was fully aware that any 3 year old could play the triangle with the same propensity I could.

On the other hand, the boys had graduated from completely ignoring me to throwing the sheet music in my general direction. I spent half my time in band shuffling my music back in the right order after the boys purposely knocked it off my music stand, and the other half huddled in a corner watching from afar while the all-girl flute section talked and giggled about boys.

I found myself wishing God had gifted me with the ability to play the flute. Who cared about my unique rhythm gift in a Christian school? No one, that's who.

I would have fared better knowing how to play the cantaloupe.

There must have been five boys to my one girl in the percussion section, all older and all cooler than I could ever hope to be. By the end of my sophomore year, I had been hedged out of all the percussion parts, except for the occasional triangle accompaniment.

For me, it was good enough reason to finally quit.

I’d never quit anything before. I was almost afraid to tell my parents, knowing full well they’d spent hundreds of dollars on my barely-used drum. I explained the whole thing from beginning to end, finishing with the argument that I’d probably get more out of the extra study hall anyway.

My parents were gracious, and my dad said he didn’t really think of it as quitting since I had stuck with it for six years. “It’s not like you quit after a month or so,” he pointed out.

Thus was the end of my career as a brilliant rhythm musician. I may not have been a great jazz player or even a great drummer, but I live with the knowledge (and the secret pride) that I do, indeed, have a perfect score in rhythm.

So, bring it on Steve Green. Bring it on.