By Lily Janas
We rise before the sun. At 2 a.m., we move with silent purpose. We slip on our black socks, lace our Dinkles, tighten our suspenders, fasten each silver button on our jackets and smooth our braids down.
The noise at breakfast, the buzz of conversations and clink of silverware, reminds us that we’d all rather be sleeping, but we’re up for a reason. Scanning the crowd, I can point out the coffee addicts being deprived of their caffeine by the scowl they all sport as they eye the forbidden dispensers in the corner. But we’ve learned from past mistakes and know that coffee before a parade is a bad idea.
I fall asleep on the bus to Pasadena and wake to Mr. Pence on the phone. He turns to me with a trademark big smile and thumbs up. I know it is time.
After hours of waiting in the cold, dark morning, we watch the sun rise over the silhouette of palm trees, unraveling across the endless expanse of sky above us. It is a moment of reassurance. We make our way to our starting point, beset by stands of Utah fans donning red gear and underdog enthusiasm.
The staff begin a countdown to step-off. An hour. Thirty minutes. Ten. Five. Now. Suddenly, fireworks erupt from the opening float, shooting between the trees. Music perfumes the air. “It’s starting,” we whisper to each other, pushing our shoulders back, gripping our instruments in Mickey Mouse hands. The flyover glides above us like some extraterrestrial thing. It doesn’t seem real.
All at once, the drums boom. Feet begin to mark time, stepping off into the throng of the parade. My heart pounds. I remind myself that we have worked for this. I can see the first turn ahead of us. Despite our endless practice, I am overwhelmed by a sense of dread. When the pictures come out later that day, I can hardly contain a smile – the turn is perfect. As we march, a scene unfolds ahead of me, an unending city street (for some reason polluted by tortillas) packed with people cheering, screaming for us.
The day turns hot quickly. The Rose Parade is six miles, which is an unholy length to march. It is a trial of mental toughness. As I look back on it now, the parade is a blur; however, in the moment, that was far from true. My throat burned. My legs ached. But that is not what I will remember from that day. I will forget the early morning, the hours of waiting, the frustration, the exhaustion.
There is a point in the parade, near the end, where we pass under the highway. Spectators camp on the sloping sides of the underpass, crouched in anticipation. When we pass through, the sound of Flag Doodle swells in our ears, bouncing and resounding around us. We really are loud. For a moment, I am suspended in sound, lifted off of my aching feet by utter joy. As we march out, the mountains stand on the horizon, perfect purple and green against the blue blue sky. I am overcome by the sound, by the view, but most of all by pride and gratitude, for this moment and all the ones that came before. I try to stifle the tears welling in my eyes, but they leak out anyway. “Almost there,” someone shouts. A few people let out whoops, a battle cry against fatigue. Almost there. Almost.
When we finally finish, rounding the last turn, we fall from our block and scramble to find friends. We wrap our arms around each other, laughing and shouting and crying. “We did it,” we whisper with beaming smiles and brows beaded in sweat. We did it.
I’ve gotten to be a part of this thing, this beautiful, crazy community of 400, for the past four years. It truly has been the best. Of course, the best is hard to see sometimes. Sometimes you wake up at 2 a.m. Sometimes they won’t let you drink coffee. Sometimes you wait for too long. Sometimes you practice the same turn a million times. Sometimes your lungs burn and your legs ache. Sometimes you doubt yourself. But at the end of the day, there will be a smile and thumbs up, a sunrise, a perfect turn, a street full of fans, a moment of lift and the mountains in the distance as a sign of victory, and that is what makes it all worth it. We rise before the sun, but we rise together as one, as the Homewood Patriot Marching Band.
Lillian Janas is a student at Homewood High School and president of the Homewood Patriot Marching Band. Her band director, Christopher Cooper, says of her: “She is an amazing young lady who is our band president and the volleyball captain. She is the true spirit of our school system’s philosophy. A well-rounded student who excels in athletics, fine arts and academics and is able to do all of those and not choose!”
