It was my first week of classes, freshman year at Cornell, and I was walking “home” to my dorm, with my khaki messenger bag slung over my shoulder, while the late August Ithaca sun baked down.  As I strolled under the Balch Hall archway, I attracted the attention of a rowdy group of upperclassmen.

“Everybody wants to join the Big Red Marching Band!” they were shouting, adding witticisms about their group’s fame and excruciating coolness.

The Big Red Marching Band was famous on campus, along with the a cappella groups.  No music geeks they…  Or perhaps they were, but on a campus where everyone flew their “nerd” flag with pride, they might as well have been rock stars.

“Hey, you!” one of them shouted after me, a little teasingly.  “Do you play an instrument?  You look like you play an instrument!”

“Yeah!” I called back, with a teasing note of my own, “But I don’t think you want me!”

Two of the upperclassmen raced up to fall in step beside me.  “Yes, we do want you!” one of them insisted.  “What do you play?”

I stopped and grinned at them.  “The violin.”

Their faces fell for an instant, but they recovered quickly.  “You can join the marching orchestra!”