My first pair of headphones were big and blue, the ones that covered your entire ear yet made little to no noise. Given to me as a Christmas present, they followed me as if I were a toddler stringing along a beat up teddy bear that could never depart from myself. My headphones and I had become one. I never had any "rhythm", a term used by Black people when one wasn't able to dance to the beat of a song. Although my headphones were fused to my ears, somehow my family knew that I was still off beat to whatever was playing. I didn't mind the comments from my family, what I was experiencing was something far different. Imagine a movie where the main character believes they are floating into a huge opening with large, glow-like lights expelling from the sky. This is exactly how I felt. I can't remember the song I played through my headphones, which is ironic given the fact I don't remember downloading more than one song. If anyone asked what my favorite part of a song is, I would never reply with the expected one lined lyric. Although it was a difficult job, I was never much of a fan of lyricists. Truth was, it is the beat that defines a song. The ability to string together a multitude of instruments and remain in tempo. That was my favorite part. By the time I reached middle school, my love for music did nothing but grow. I decided a day before my middle school open-house to join the band. I walked into the band room filled with eighth graders who all scared me half to death. As I walked into the band instructor's office, he was beyond elated. He handed me a trumpet mouth piece and asked me to pucker my lips and attempt to blow air. I expressed in a shy, timid voice that I did not want to be a trumpet player. Afterwards, we went down a rabbit hole of pieces of wood known as reeds. I did not enjoy that either. He offered me triangle then xylophone mallets, and even crash cymbals. Each the same as the last, the discomfort on my face was blatant. After a sharp exhale from the band instructor, he asked me to sit. As I sat down, he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out a fresh pair of snare sticks. He asked if I'd like to hold them and soon enough, I grabbed them with zero hesitation. He glanced at me and softly smiled. I was now a snare player. By the time I was in eighth grade, the band had shrunk nearly three times in size due to COVID. Although most of my classmates no longer enjoyed playing, I loved it more and more each day. The ability to be the backbone and maintain the "beat" was something I loved more than anything. As I was presented the band director award during my last spring concert as a middle school student, reality set in. I was now a Tri toms player and the percussion caption but that would soon change. As I was leaving for high school, I knew it was time to start over. In the end, I became percussion captain by sophomore year and my previous band teacher soon moved up. Although there are many micro-aggressive comments about me-- a girl, playing the drums, it's worth it in the end. I have discovered I am the "beat" in my own life and to that, I owe music a thank you.