Being in marching band did not mean I avoided
everyone else in our Catholic school of zombies
marching to the beat of our grandparents’ music–
tradition in Massillon, Ohio is sacrosanct. God
first, then football. Green fields of broken heads,
eternal salvation the end-of-life touchdown.
I find tradition such a demeaning, self-fulfilling
prophecy. That there could be an expiration date
for the best years of your life, all of which
escaped the womb of your tiny hometown.
(originally published in Fine Lines, 2022)