White Gloves

I threw my head back and laughed as my friend poked fun at what I had just said. The word is pronounced “the-it-er” not “thee-ate-her”. My friend and I were debating what to do over the weekend when I realized how much culture I had soaked in from the places I had lived before Virginia.

My journey begins on the hot sandy beaches of California. I felt as if the moment I was born, my family packed up our bags and moved.

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Arizona. I remember the sand trails covered with iron fillings, snakes and spiders hiding in the scarce patches of grass. My Velcro shoes kicked up puffs of dust as I braved the long trail from my house to kindergarten in solitude.

Texas’ humid air made my clothes stick to me as mosquitoes swarmed the air above me. My clammy hands held tightly to my dad’s shirt as I peered up at the tall ladder leaning against the platform that I would soon jump off.

“Thump, thump.” All I could hear was the sound of my hands hitting each rung on the ladder. I looked down from the platform and a rush of fear and excitement struck me. “Zip on,” I yelled down to the crowd. “Zip off,” echoed back. I leapt into the air and a shout of fear escaped me before I realized I was in no danger. As I came closer to the end of the line, my fear disappeared behind me.

I finally ended up here. Soft-spoken and hiding behind my unruly locks, I stepped out into bright lights shining on the football field, my clarinet stiff at my side. The music started and I watched the white gloves count off my first steps. At that moment I could see the lack of confidence in the girl with the Velcro shoes, clammy hands, and unruly locks fading away with the last note.