Chapter 4: College and the Cost of Becoming

I found freedom and then lost myself in it — discovering queerness, overextending in every way, and yearning for more.

The Redcoats—UGA’s legendary marching band—kicked off practice the moment I arrived. It wasn’t a gentle welcome; it was a cannon blast into a world of precision, sweat, and sound. Suddenly I was one of 300 like-minded musicians, each armed with a instrument, quick wit, and an unspoken agreement to push limits. The air on that first day felt thick, carrying the scent of sun-baked turf and brass polish. We stood in rigid blocks under the blistering Georgia sun, our skin slick with sweat, our lungs pulling in hot air like it was soup.

Practices were more intense than anything I’d experienced in high school, and the social life was just as relentless. Nights were punctuated by the electric thud of bass speakers at house parties, hunch punches ladled from bathtubs that looked like crime scenes in progress, and initiation rituals that blurred the line between absurd and sacred. Those nights bled into mornings, and mornings into the slow crawl of practice again.

My first football game is burned into memory like a photograph that still hums with sound. Morning practice, then a few hours of tailgating—the scent of grilled meat, spilled beer, and sunscreen hanging heavy in the air. Then came the suiting up: crisp uniforms, polished brass, hats tilted just so. We lined the Dawg Walk, shoulder to shoulder, blasting “Kryptonite” and “Glory Glory Old Georgia” as the players and coaches passed. The sound bounced off the concrete, hitting you in the chest before it hit your ears. We marched straight into the stadium, and stepping onto that field before 90,000 roaring fans was like walking into the mouth of a storm—pressure and electricity everywhere. When we finished pregame and formed the tunnel for the team to charge through, the energy from the crowd slammed into us like a wave. That rush? I never wanted it to end.

Life as a Redcoat was a blur of charter buses, early flights, and tailgates that felt like small cities. You can’t quite describe living through it—you just know you were part of something bigger than yourself. For the first time, I felt safe. I felt free.