“Fight Song” – an essay by Megan Wildhood

May 12th, 2026

Fight Song

by Megan Wildhood

…..My family of origin (FOO) trained me well for marching band. What we do as a family is create magazine-worthy images that give everyone on the outside the idea that everyone on the inside is welcome and has all they need. What we do as band members is use our individuality solely in the service of making pictures only other people can see from far away. We do this through hours of repeated, incremental run-throughs, sometimes position by position, until our band director, who stands on a scaffold at the top of the parking lot, “sees the click without hearing our feet.” This means all 300 of us high-school kids have to

1) stay in step with

………….a) each other,

………….b) the right beat of the music, which we have to

2) play from memory while we

3) glide from one position to the next one

………….a) in the right order,

………….b) during the right part of the memorized music,

………….c) without hitting another band member

………….d) as if on air.

…..Most non-band-member high schoolers thought we were nerds—this reputation extends weirdly far into the adult world—and actually, they’d be right. This shit is harder than any team sport I’ve ever played or had to stand for four hours watching in total confusion until it occurred to me that we played the fight song when “our boys need some support.” It took me three football seasons to finally figure out that, contrary to FOO life, in band world, fight = support.

….. This was the first song I had to memorize and was spot-quizzed by the section leader on the last day of band camp my freshman year. Amy, a senior and truly-humble-about-it alto-sax savant pointed one of her drumsticks at me. The previous section leader batons their set of drumsticks to the next section leader; they are for smacking together to keep time as the leader facilitates the section practicing turns, boxes, backups and high-marks. For you non-marching-band civilians, are knee-to-waist leg raises: lift heel parallel to opposite knee, with toe pointed, one step after the other, for the entire length of a football field.

…..“Let’s hear it, Little Miss First Chair,” she said affirmatively with a wink. She loved rubbing it in the boys’ faces that a girl beat them all out just as she had done three years before when she was the only freshman girl sax player.

….. I made first chair alto sax all four years I was in high school from freshman band to top senior band (and even the jazz band my senior year) because performance is paramount both in band and in the home. Still, the physiological manifestations of anxiety overtook me. This pattern, laid down by the time I was three, activated whenever I was in proximity of another human while existing as my too-much/emotionally-reactive/overly sensitive self, made me actually nervous every practice, or any time I did anything.

…..“The only thing we should hear from the music coming out of your horns is not your feet, not your hands, not your nerves but your soul” our band director “Coach” yelled as cut us off for “bounciness” this time (as opposed to “breathy-ness” or “barrenness”—not enough people playing—a sign of low memorization rates).

…..I stood at attention

…………………………………..horn straining on my neck strap

…………………………………..left hand covering octave key

…………………………………..right fingers hovering over pearls on keys

…………………………………..ready to high-mark across the entire parking lot we’d sprayed painted football-field lines on to practice if necessary

…..and play whatever Amy would call after she had me moving. Ready to follow any order regardless of my feelings or desires. Just like home.

…..She started clicking the drumsticks at a slower pace than I had braced for, was always braced for. “Mark time, hut!” she yelled and my heels began tapping the ground, left on the one and three/right on the two and four. “Forward on the high mark, hut!” My left foot rose so my heel was parallel with my knee and my foot was pointed hard at the ground. Eight high marks later, she shouted, “And fight song!”

…..I began belting the Eagles’ fight song on the next step. So smooth—except for the staccatos on the up steps—you’d think I was standing still. So loud I could peel paint. So fight-y it was like there was a real conflict going on that I—I mean the Eagles—needed to win. In the last eight bars, I looked for her signal—repeat or end—wishing for her finger to circle in the air so I could go on fighting. Playing. I fought played like I’d never get another chance, which was madness because we played that damn song so many times it still flows through my dreams 15 years later, so I didn’t know if I’d have enough breath for another round, but I’d find it. Please repeat, I willed her telepathically, having no idea then why I played so loud my reed started to split. Repeat repeat repeat.

…..She held up her fist to end. I’d passed the test, there were others who needed testing, whole-band practice was about to start. The reason didn’t matter. I wanted to keep fighting. I didn’t have time to think about why until Amy dismissed the rest of the section and waved me over.

…..“Are you okay, lady?” Her eyes were narrow but soft.

…..I forced a laugh. “Absolutely.” I shrugged, not realizing until then that my hands were shaking. “Was it that bad? I guess maybe it was performance anxiety or just regular anxiety or—”

…..“Girl, it was gorgeous.” Amy clapped my shoulder.

…..“Okay, all in for the huddle!” Coach called.

…..“Weird thing to say about a fight song, I suppose, but you nailed it.” Amy lingered before turning toward the gathering near the scaffold, pulling a tissue out of her pocket and passing it to me without turning back around to preserve my dignity. Instinct raised the tissue to my face; it was not sweat I found to wipe away but tears dotting my cheeks.

…..I think about this moment for years before I get it: I got to stand out without being Whack-A-Moled by the FOO for once, but it’s more than that. This was the only time I was ever permitted to address conflict in any way. All along, I have had the ability to do so beautifully. To this day, the FOO has no idea.

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Megan Wildhood is a cyclist, saxophonist, gym enthusiast, cat lover and writer whose work has appeared in her poetry chapbook Long Division (Finishing Line Press, 2017), her full-length poetry collection Bowed As If Laden With Snow (Cornerstone Press, May 2023) as well as Mad in America, The Sun and elsewhere. You can learn more about her at meganwildhood.com.

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