band room / Mr.Seymour

The band room in the middle school was a hidden treasure. The laid back atmosphere, free of teenage angst and the soothing personality sitting in a swivel chair made it perfect for a kid like me. The man sitting in that chair looked like he was hiding beach ball under his shirt and when he stood up he made me feel small, but whenever he talked to me his words were full of wisdom. The first time I walked into the band room was in sixth grade, but it wasn’t eventful enough for me to remember it. I just have dozens of memories of things that happened in it, scattered through the three years of middle school career. Many of these memories include Eric picking his nails and Nate and me having no idea how to play the music. But some of them include Mr. Seymour and how much he taught me even though he was just a band teacher.

In sixth grade I took an immediate liking to him and he liked me and my fellow trombone section because he used to play trombone. At first he was just another teacher that was nice, but over the years he became my friend and every time we talked we learned something new about each other, whether it was sexual innuendo that went right over my head or talking about notes on page or me giving him a Spanish lesson. The one conversation that stays with me occurred on a late spring day of my eighth grade year. By then Mr. Seymour and I had known each other for three years and had several conversations. I used to go up to the band room every morning to say “good morning” to him and hang out in a little office me and my friends had made in the back of the room. I remember walking through the heavy, wooden doors and walking up to him and greeting him. But this morning was different. It was the morning after the senator from Arizona had been shot and then saved by Daniel Hernandez Jr. I had not really paid any attention to it (I was an eighth grader who had “bigger” problems) but he began to talk to me about it. He told me that this event had proven that anyone can be a hero. The Woman’s savior had been a young Hispanic and Mr. Seymour went on to say that it did not matter what skin color you are or what you are, everyone matters and can make a difference. I took this conversation to heart and it is the mantra I live by: anyone can make a difference because your skin color does not affect who you are. I think this conversation had a great impact on me because in middle school I had trouble identifying what I was due to my skin color. Maybe he had picked up on this over the years and that is why he told me this, or it was just a coincidence that that conversation occurred. I think this conversation changed my outlook on life because I learned to accept that I cannot change the color of my skin but I can change the way I act to make a difference. The difference I want to make is to prove that all the stereotypes of Mexicans (or Hispanics in general) are not true.