The director of Blue Devils B Corps reflects on a summer filled with accountability, representation, and “Building a Village.”

This summer with the Blue Devils B Corps has been transformative—demanding, enlightening, and deeply affirming. As director, I often find myself in the middle of logistical puzzles, performance challenges, and the emotional intricacies that come with working with young people in a highly intense environment. But this summer, more than any other, felt like a pivotal turning point, not just in how we teach music and movement, but in how we approach leadership, culture, and humanity within our ensemble. The words that ring in my ears over and over are accountability, representation, and “building a village.” These weren’t just talking points in staff meetings; they became the framework for how we functioned as an organization—and how we grew as people.

Accountability, at its core, is about honesty. It’s about the ability and willingness to look in the mirror and acknowledge what’s working and what isn’t. We started this summer with a hard look at ourselves—not just at the corps’ performance metrics, but at our internal culture. We examined the way we communicate with each other, how inclusive our policies are, how we hold both staff and members to standards of respect and integrity. And in doing so, we began a difficult but necessary process of reimagining what excellence looks like—not just in terms of scores and crowd reactions, but in the way we treat one another.

We had to confront moments where we, collectively, had fallen short. Whether it was in the language we used, the way feedback was delivered, or how we addressed mental health, it became clear that growth would require more than tweaks—it would require intention. I sat down with section leaders, instructional staff, admin, and even parents, and I asked for raw honesty. Some of what I heard was hard to digest, but I knew that creating a healthy space meant hearing every voice, not just the ones that agreed with me. And as we implemented changes—check-ins, mental health resources, revised expectations—we started to see subtle shifts. Trust began to build. People felt seen. And the corps started to gel in ways we hadn’t experienced before.

Representation became another critical thread woven throughout our season. Drum corps has long had a diversity problem—racially, socioeconomically, and otherwise. The cost barrier alone can exclude incredible talent. So one of our goals this summer was to actively push back against that status quo. We set up scholarships, recruited from new regions, and leaned into partnerships with organizations that serve underrepresented communities. But more than any structural changes, we also focused on the stories we told within our own walls.

Representation isn’t just about numbers; it’s about belonging. It’s about whether our members see themselves reflected in leadership, whether they feel comfortable bringing their full identities into this space. I remember one member who came to me early in tour and said, “This is the first time I’ve felt like I could just exist here.” That stopped me cold. For someone to feel like they’ve been navigating spaces where they had to minimize themselves, and then to find one where they didn’t—that’s a powerful thing. It reminded me that inclusion isn’t passive. It’s active. It requires listening, amplifying, correcting, and evolving.

We made conscious choices this summer about who we elevated into leadership, what kinds of conversations we had in sectionals, and how we approached programming. Our show this year wasn’t just a musical journey; it was a cultural statement. It nodded to struggle, to joy, to reclamation, and to unity. It was a show built by voices from different backgrounds, and you could feel that in the emotional texture of every performance. It wasn’t perfect. We got things wrong along the way, and there were uncomfortable moments. But that discomfort often meant we were doing the real work—pulling apart assumptions and making space for something better.

Then there was the phrase that came to define everything: “Building a Village.” It started off as something one of our staff members said in passing—about how it takes a village to run a corps—but it took on a deeper meaning the more we repeated it. For us, building a village meant fostering an environment where no one stood alone. Where care wasn’t conditional on performance. Where feedback came from a place of love and commitment to growth. We weren’t just building a drum corps. We were building a community.

That meant checking in when someone seemed off. It meant noticing when someone hadn’t eaten or when they were isolating. It meant laughing together, crying together, and picking each other up when the physical and emotional tolls of the season started to press down. This summer, I saw members go out of their way for one another in ways that left me speechless. A rookie helping a vet through a panic attack. A section organizing a birthday celebration during a long rehearsal block. Staff members sitting up late just listening—not problem-solving, just listening. These moments weren’t always loud or dramatic, but they were the soul of our corps. They reminded us that excellence without compassion is hollow.

“Building a Village” also meant that leadership wasn’t top-down. We flattened hierarchies in intentional ways. We encouraged peer mentorship, and we gave members real influence in decisions about how the corps functioned day to day. When you give people ownership, they rise to it. I saw shy 15-year-olds grow into leaders because someone believed in them, listened to them, and gave them a seat at the table. And I watched older members step back and make space for new voices, recognizing that leadership is as much about humility as it is about command.

It’s easy to romanticize a season like this—to tie it up in neat narratives of triumph and transformation. And yes, there were stunning moments. Performances where we brought the house down. Nights when we sat in a circle under the stars and just marveled at the journey we were on. But there were also days when we were just surviving. Days of homesickness, injury, exhaustion, and conflict. Those moments mattered too. They were part of our story. And I think what made this season special is that we faced those moments without pretending. We didn’t sugarcoat the hard stuff. We acknowledged it, and then we helped each other through.

As I reflect now, weeks after finals, I find myself thinking not about the scores or placements, but about the people. About the kid who walked into spring training unsure if they belonged and left the season calling this corps their home. About the staff member who shared their own story for the first time, helping others feel brave enough to do the same. About the bonds formed between people who may have never crossed paths outside this activity, but who now carry each other forward in ways they may not even realize yet.

There’s a kind of magic that happens when a group of people decide to show up fully for one another—not just on the field, but in life. That’s what I saw this summer. A group of young people, supported by a passionate team of educators and volunteers, choosing to lead with heart. Choosing to create something that mattered not just for audiences, but for each other. That magic doesn’t end when the buses go home or the uniforms are hung up. It stays. It ripples outward.

I’ve been a part of drum corps for decades now, and every season teaches me something new. This one reminded me of why I fell in love with this activity in the first place—not because of the precision or the pageantry, but because of the people. Because of what happens when you put a bunch of different souls in a space that demands their best and gives them room to find it, fail at it, and try again. Because of what happens when accountability is about care, when representation is about justice, and when a village becomes a sanctuary.

So now, as we begin to dream about next year—about what we can improve, what we can build—I carry the lessons of this summer with me. We’re not done growing. We’re not done listening. And we’re not done building. Because if this summer has taught me anything, it’s that excellence is not just about execution. It’s about intention. It’s about creating a space where people thrive not in spite of who they are, but because of it.

And that’s the village we’ll keep building. Brick by brick. Story by story. Beat by beat.