Others can guide your journey. Don’t let them decide it.
WARNING: EMBARRASSING PHOTOS TO FOLLOW.
From the lunchroom to the bandroom
I grew up in rural Alabama, the son of a car man and a school secretary. I was too “husky” for many sports. Not terribly coordinated, didn’t really fit in with a lot of the athletic types in high school. I was, however, very musically inclined. So, of course, I rocked it out in band. It looked great on a resume for getting into college, so it was trumpet then euphonium (shout out to my treble clef euphonists out there) in the Cleveland High School Golden Force Band for one James E. Bullard.
We, the band, had our own table at lunch, and a couple of my closest who were a few years older than me tended to clump, talking about life after CHS. I told ‘em I wanted to be a cruise ship singer because it combined two things I knew I’d love if given the chance—performing and travel. Lofty, crazy, beyond reason. That dream would eventually come to fruition (about seven years later, actually), but there was a much clearer opportunity on the horizon that accomplished both those things.
The offer on the table
There was an honor band that took young musicians from all over the U.S. to perform in a youth orchestra across Europe. You had to pass the audition and come up with some serious moolah to take part. I was beSIDE myself with excitement at the thought of getting to participate in said program.
Well, for whatever reason—a bias against low brass or the prohibitive cost of tuition—I didn’t make the cut. A friend of mine from back in the day, we’ll call her June, had the talent and the sponsorship to spend her summer abroad.
Friends. Jealousy doesn’t even BEGIN to cover it. Tip of disappointment’s iceberg. I spent way too many nights crying over something that couldn’t have been helped. It’s not the most attractive admission, but it’s the truth. June was going off on this incredible overseas adventure and I’d be stuck hoeing watermelons or working at the car lot again in an Alabama summer.
The triumphant return
Hard to imagine, but this was before social media, so I had to actually wait until June came back before I could grill with her questions about her adventure: sights, smells, cuisine, language. I’d think of her on a French beach between rehearsals while sweat dripped off my nose onto the business end of a garden hoe. I’d grouse at the thought of her at a concert in London while I sat in the rubber and leather smell of a Pontiac showroom.
Then she came BACK. And she recanted her trip with a grimace and a sneer. I don’t know if it was the performance schedule, the company, the program itself, but she was not impressed. The one specific phrase I remember her uttering was “Venice was DIRTY.”
Crushing defeat
I had a serious conundrum on my hands. All these amazing places I’d seen in glossy magazines, movies, television—how could they NOT be amazing?! I was shaken to the core. Destroyed. Broken.
The worst part was, I had to wait YEARS to discover otherwise. I was living in staunch denial that anything June said about Europe wasn’t going to be my experience once I got there.
And y’know what? I was right.
The realization
When I finally got to Venice in 2003, I didn’t find it dirty. Yes, it felt ancient; a fragile, crumbling city built on the sea. But even in this state, it was world-famous for its roles in literature, art, glass, sculpture, architecture. The list goes on. It was stunning.
White trousers? Check.
Matching white sneaks? Check.
Swoopy hair? Check.
NORWEGIAN FJORD? CHECK.![]()
This was the same summer I got to see what was left of the Berlin Wall. Me and my swoopy hair got to see it, that is.
One of my singular most memorable performances—top 3 of my life—was an impromptu solo sung in St. Mark’s Basilica on a midnight tour of the cathedral.
I can’t ever get straight to the point. I have to story-tell around the whole thing before I arrive at the crux of it all.
Opinions are like…
People’s opinions of the exact same things can be wildly different. Cultural background, gender, age, financial standing, whatEVer can play a role in how you see or experience something in your life, at home or abroad. You can’t just take anybody’s opinion as the gospel because they’re not YOU. So if you have that ocean you need to cross or that rock you’ve got to kiss, the falls on your bucket list or the safari of your dreams, you can’t let someone else’s take on your dream stomp on it.
Because if I’d just taken June at her word, well, I might never have sung the solo. I might never have jumped out of a plane in Vegas with an Elvis impersonator. Perhaps I’d never have rafted the Nile with my favorite adventure buddy. Maybe I’d never have made it to Everest.
How this all fits together
Not only are these things enormous milestones in my life, turning points that molded me into the man I am today, they are all CONNECTED. One amazing experience leads to another. Once a dream is fulfilled, well, that position is now open to be occupied by another. And the exhilaration of accomplishment paired with the thrill of the experience itself? You’ll find no high to be higher, no substance more addictive.
So, with all the respect in the world paid to June, I want to suggest you don’t just listen to what anybody has to say about the goals you save your pennies to achieve. You keep planning the reality of fruition on ‘em. Your hopes and dreams just might lie on the other side of somebody else’s opinion.
Love y’all,
~ James
