I feel little droplets of sweat forming on my skin. It’s disgusting, but it’s not something I’m too worried about. I am more worried about the large brass instruments in my hands, cymbals. I hate them. I hate them almost as much as I hate my instructor, DJ.

He is an egotistical jerk, who thinks that his opinions are right. Always. He picks favorites, and doesn’t even call me by my name (he calls me “Girl”), and he is a hypocrite.

Anger courses through me as I hold the cymbals in our most common position “high port”. DJ shouts at us, “Push until you physically can’t anymore, and even when you can’t hold them, keep holding them.” Did I mention I hate him?

There is one thing that I can’t help but admire about him though, his drive. Call it whatever you want: passion, drive, motivation, determination. I admire it. Not just in DJ (though he is my prime example), but in everyone who has something that keeps them going.

I feel my left arm slipping involuntarily, sweat trickles down my back. I’m trembling, I’m trying to push harder. “Don’t drop them. Push!” DJ yells.

Whatever it is that motivates them is a mystery to me. I only get motivated in short bursts. I never stay motivated. Whatever it is that motivates them… I don’t have it.

My left arm drops. I try to put it back up, but my muscles scream in protest. As I finally get it back into position I hear DJ say, “Relax.” I drop my arms and try not to cry as I feel the personal disappointment wash over me.