I joined band in the 6th grade because I wanted to write songs. I was writing song lyrics since at least the age of nine. My memories were confirmed when I found a dated copy of one of my "songs" (no keys) in my grandma's family bible not quite 30 years later.

All through school I was into the music and continued writing lyrics, but never became a great player of the clarinet. In high school I was devoted to the marching band and tried very hard to be a drum major that would make the very good band proud. I know that my energetic efforts were annoying for more than a few of my fellow band members. But I wanted to do well and hated it when the band director yelled at me in front of all 100 members of the band when I made a mistake.

Though some of the most intelligent and creative students were in band, and were good friends, near the end of my junior year my enthusiasm for band instantly diminished to near zero when the band director felt me up during a bus trip while I was asleep in the seat next to him. Goody Two-Shoes me woke up to quietly say into his 60-year-old plus ear, "Get your fucking hands off me.”  He pretended to be asleep and feigned a snort.

I didn't turn him in to the police because I did not want to ruin for the whole group the big trip to South Dakota and Mt. Rushmore, where the band marched in a parade and on the next night filled the early evening sky with some of John Philip Sousa's most-beloved tunes. Most of the band members sold candy, jewelry and I can’t remember what else all year to raise money for the trip. Some of my neighbors stopped answering their doors for a while.

Another reason I didn’t yell at the bus driver to pull over and radio the highway patrol was that I did not want my dad to find out and most certainly beat the band director to death -- at minimum. Then I wouldn't have had a father because he would be sent to prison, right? I know I should have told though. How many other students at my school or at others were accosted, possibly in ways that were far, far worse, before “Big Al” the band director retired? I have felt guilty over the years about not making a fuss. I earnestly tried to handle the situation in the best way, but I was a kid. I did not know what to do.

I do not think I ever mentioned the incident for years, even to my best friend, although she probably wondered why I, a good student who wrote 32 extra-credit book reports in 6th grade (Hungry for Learning and Positive Attention Suck-Up of Last Century -- Right Here Folks!) felt so blasé about skipping band during my senior year. I knew Big Al wouldn't dare mark me absent. Freak.

Years later Big Al sent me an apology by email that seemed sincere, but lacked a description of what he was apologizing for. I knew though, and he knew I would. I heard he died just a few years later. It did not bother me.

Even though the idea of being in band lost its luster, I stayed with it through graduation from high school in the early 1980s, and continued to think of songs and write lyrics. Some years later I did become a published lyricist.

Is there a message in this post?

My breasts were touched, unpleasantly fondled is more accurate, by a perverted music teacher when I was 17, but I have been wonderfully touched by music my whole life.

If you figure it out, let me know.