In 1983, at the end of my freshman year, we moved across town, which meant my high school changed from Mt. Diablo to Clayton Valley—well, kind of. Technically, we lived in Concord High School territory, but our close family friends attended Clayton Valley, so we used my grandmother’s address so I could go to school with them.

That summer, our friends asked if I wanted to be part of the marching band program. I said yes without hesitation. They needed someone to push an amplifier for a guitar player during their production of “Go For It” from the movie Fast Break. I didn’t care what my role was—I was just excited to be part of something.

When band camp started, the guitar player dropped out, so they moved me to cymbals. I was thrilled. As far as I was concerned, I was officially part of the band, and that was all that mattered.

Once school started, the principal would make announcements every Monday morning. Week after week, he talked about how well the football team was doing. But he never mentioned the marching band.

Then, after just a few competitions, we took first place at a band review. I remember waiting for Monday morning announcements, certain that this time he would recognize us.

He didn’t.

That really bothered me. The band worked incredibly hard, and I couldn’t understand why our accomplishments seemed to matter less. So I sat down and wrote a strongly worded letter to the principal. I told him that while the school regularly celebrated the football team’s successes, the marching band worked just as hard and deserved recognition too. Then I dropped the letter off at his office.

The next day, I was called into the principal’s office.

I was freaking out.

But instead of being angry, he told me he had read my letter—and that I was right. He explained that no one had ever really kept him informed about the marching band program and asked me to let him know about our competitions and placements.

True to his word, the following Monday he announced that the marching band had taken first place over the weekend.

To his credit, he also began stopping by some of our rehearsals to see for himself what the program was all about.

Looking back, though, the most important thing that happened had very little to do with band recognition. Writing that letter was one of the first times I broke away from being the shy kid who stayed quiet and simply went along with things. I saw something I thought was wrong, found the courage to speak up, and discovered that my voice could actually make a difference.

That moment changed something in me. I was beginning to understand that I didn’t always have to follow. I could speak up. I could make things happen. And, for the first time, I was ready to lead.