Homecoming

A queen of the drumline, my experience on Broadway, red suits and football

This weekend is my college homecoming, which we celebrate with the obvious football game, a mid-day travesty under the southern sun of early fall, and, arguably more important, Tiger Tunes. This past weekend, I tried to explain to my brother-in-law what Tiger Tunes was, and it struck me again how difficult it is to describe this lore to someone with no good idea what in the world I’m talking about. When I was a senior, we flew to Maryland at the end of summer to present on Tiger Tunes at a student organization conference, and even then, as I was in the thick of it, I found it hard to articulate what exactly we were doing over in Ouachita land, raising student scholarships while dancing around a stage dressed as stars and matches and gnomes.

Tiger Tunes, in short, is a collection of five minute musical productions, put on by each social club on campus. Each club thinks of a theme…some wildly creative, some not. Then they write these miniature Broadway-esque musical storylines, choreographed to songs anywhere from Wicked to, a Baptist school favorite, Ben Rector to, oddly but wildly successfully, Nelly. The entire thing is a fundraiser to raise money for student scholarships, the smartest, most evergreen thing the university has right now, as tickets sell out within mere hours for all five shows. And while I’m not saying the football team doesn’t bring in alumni for homecoming by itself…I will say, I think if all we had was football, our campus wouldn’t be quite as filled to the brim this weekend as it is now.

My senior year, I was the student director for Tiger Tunes, spending a month curled up in the scratchy red seats of our performing arts center, watching the ten clubs rush in and out, practicing on the stage instead of parking lots or church fellowship halls. The directors of the shows would come to us afterwards, asking about lighting, about staging, choreography, and I remember sometimes saying the silliest things, just reaching for something helpful to tell them. Painfully, I remember seeing one show closer towards homecoming week, and being so blown away, I typed out “You’re going to win” on my notes app and showed it to the director. They were mailmen that year, and sadly, they did not win. I always feel bad about that, like I had misled their joy.

It was that year, feasting over brown bag suppers from Wendy’s on the theater lobby floor, I fell in love with the three people who were putting on the show with me. We spent every night together, often walking out of the theater close to midnight, the air muggy and pitch black, and deciding to reconvene at my apartment for sheet pan cookies or not even leaving at all, deciding to go back inside and settle in to watch the lighting director fiddle around with the stage and the fog machine, just to spend a little more time together.

When homecoming weekend came that year, it went by so, so very quickly, as has anything in my life I’ve ever loved. I had carefully planned outfits for every show, brand new dark red lipstick, a pair of black pumps and a black pantsuit with a cape for the finale. After all the shows were over, and the awards were being finalized, we all rushed the stage for one last huge choreographed number, as every single student, at least over 500, filled the dark aisles of the theater. That year, the finale song was Owl City’s Verge, which while not necessarily a good song, it was painfully fitting. I have loved Tiger Tunes my entire life, having first gone when I was in early primary school and dreaming of being a part of it since that very first show.

Out on the verge of the rest of our lives tonight

Top of the world and we're dressed to the nines tonight

Edge of the Earth and we're touching the sky tonight

Out on the verge of the rest of our lives

When it was all said and done, the confetti cannon emptied and the winner announced, I found my parents in dark crowd of audience and students outside, collapsing into my dad, unable to hold my tears any longer.

When I graduated and went to work in the magazine house, I realized how important that job was to me, how important that work had been: organizing a tradition of joy, one that would allow students the opportunity to stay at school. I nestled my name tag and organization patch against my computer, a hopeful reminder of the value of work.

While a good story, that isn’t what I really wanted to write about though. All week, I’ve thought about how utterly embarrassing many homecoming weekends have been for me in the past. Stories that make my blood boil or my cheeks flush red. Just absolutely hilarious in hindsight, and I wanted to share.

In high school, I graduated a year early, skipping my sophomore year. Nobody really truly cared until our senior year when homecoming court was announced. Of course, being a girl who cares what people thought of her, I really did want my name to be called. I wore an outfit of all red and blue and let my hair sit in the hot rollers even longer than usual. And then we filed into the gymnasium, my bass drum balanced on the bleachers amongst the sea of marching band, and I waited anxiously as they rattled down the list. And at the very end…was mine.

That next week, as I straightened myself up in the bathroom stall in between classes, I heard a group of girls talking back and forth with such certainty that the only reason I had made court was because my mom was on school board. And even though I often sink back from saying what I want to say in the moment, I am so proud of my seventeen year old self. I walked to the sink as they fell silent. She stuttered, “Oh, that’s just what I’ve heard!” And I ripped a paper towel, made eye contact through the mirror, and said, simply, “Really?” and left.

I wasn’t as confident the rest of the time, though. To the fault of no one, I wasn’t very close to the other girls on court…not surprisingly, given I hadn’t grown up with them. And honestly, I was perfectly okay with that. Who wasn’t okay with that, though, was the photographer, an older alumni who told me before the game that I was ruining the b-roll for the homecoming video, because I wasn’t laughing or smiling candidly enough. I don’t remember if I even answered her…or just stared blankly. Why did we need a video of b-roll anyways?

The sweetest memory from the night, after feeling self-conscious of how I appeared candidly, was after the queen was crowned, as we lined up with the cheerleaders and dancers for the football team to run through, and I turned around to see the group of people who loved me the very most fiercely and loyally during high school: the drumline. And less than an hour later, I was sprinting to the band room barefoot, heels in hand, with my best friend to throw on my uniform and marching shoes. I hadn’t realized I’d have to perform that night.

I didn’t mind though. I stayed in my black overalls with my hair curled in the band shell for the rest of the night, the alternative being to sit on the track with the girls and the photographer, searching for me to laugh at nothing for the sake of a b-roll track.

In college, homecoming, obviously, looked a little different, given the presence of Tiger Tunes, but also the presence of my sorority and our tradition of wearing red suits and black heels to the game. My sophomore year, I tripped in said black heels on a curb in front of the entire tailgate, my red tweed skirt entirely too short to fall in. For the rest of college, I was honored to be on homecoming court, even more honored for a reason to not wear the red suit that never truly fit me anyways. I would watch a few minutes of the game before disappearing into the hustle bustle of the concession stand, another fundraising opportunity for our student foundation. I loved ringing people up, telling the soda station which drink they wanted, reaching into the warmers for a hotdog wrapped in foil. When a field goal attempt came up, they’d let me run out to see my brother kick, then I’d sprint back inside, back to my tiny calculator and candy bars.

The morning of my senior year, my roommate and I were both up early getting ready, both nominated. For the few nights leading up to homecoming, we’d deliriously came in after Tiger Tunes practice and ran skits of how we would react when we won queen: my plan was to collapse and then graciously accept. Hers I think was to break the crown and share it with all of us. Neither of us won, but the skit is ongoing when we see each other still, and funnier as time goes by, so I think we did, in the end.

This year I bought a brand new fire red dress in honor of my sorority and will hot roll my hair Saturday night and for a few hours, I’ll return to my twenty year old self, hugging the necks of classmates I won’t see again until next year, screaming for the women of EEE until I see stars and can’t catch my breath, despite the fact I was never a good member of the sisterhood in the first place.

There is something so painfully sad about returning to that place, that mindset, that familiarity. Maybe it’s heartbreak over the fact I will only ever remember being a part of it, not be a part of it again. Which is a complicated thought, given you couldn’t pay me enough to be in college again. Maybe it’s loneliness over missing my friends, wondering how you can go from living with these people to not seeing them for years, and that be considered okay. It reminds me of driving back to my apartment after my college graduation, delayed to December because of the coronavirus. As Price pulled back onto the interstate, my graduation robes hanging in the backseat, I held my face in my hands, crying quietly, “it’s over.”

This is starting to sound so very high school hero…bahaha. Which isn’t accurate, but I’d hope by now, a few months into reading my writing, you’ll understand what I’m trying to say here. Or just understand how achingly sentimental I am over every last thing.

Oh, homecoming…what a complex relationship I have with you.

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If you are any at all interested in what in the world I’m talking about, here is the show from my senior year…if you watch it, I would looooove to know your thoughts. And at the very least, fast forward to the very end to watch that confetti-filled finale. Maybe it’ll give just a little context to these collection of stories.