The Struggle to Read, the Courage to Sing: A dyslexic kid, a choir room full of girls, and the teachers who changed everything.

Suppose you haven’t figured it out yet — I’m diving into the wave tops of my early years. Skimming the moments that matter while tossing in a little entertainment along the way.Yes, I’m keeping tabs to see if Mom goes full Diva mode about what’s being written… pretty sure Dad won’t mind. He’ll read it with a smirk and offer “editorial suggestions,” no promises they’ll be accepted.

🎺 Band Class or Brass-Powered Yoga?

Before we dive headfirst into the chaos of my upbringing and high school musical misadventures, I need to set the stage—complete with off-key horns and questionable parenting decisions.

As I mentioned in a previous post about my folks, my dad is a wildly gifted musician with perfect pitch. And despite never taking a single formal music lesson in his life, he somehow managed to master half the instrument aisle at your local music store. I, on the other hand, was apparently expected to inherit his musical wizardry by genetic osmosis. Spoiler: I did not.

Flashback to 6th grade—my dad decided I should join the middle school band. His logic? “You look like a trumpet or French horn kid.” So off we went to White’s Music Box, where I spent the next 30 minutes trying to breathe life into various brass instruments like a desperate inflatable pool toy. I still don’t know if he was actually trying to find me a musical calling or just auditioning for America’s Funniest Home Videos.

After multiple near-fainting spells and a tragic display of puffed cheeks, one of the store employees gave my dad a sympathetic nod and said, “You know, he’s a big kid. Maybe the tuba’s more his speed.” Translation: “Let’s give him something that doubles as a torture device.” So, I was handed a mouthpiece. Just the mouthpiece. No actual tuba. I looked at it like a caveman discovering a USB stick.

Fast-forward to the first day of band class. I rolled in, clueless, ready to fake it ’til I could make it. Mr. Chip Roman, my band teacher (who always looked 10 seconds away from a jazz solo), pointed to the back row and told me to grab a tuba. I locked eyes with a 60-pound brass monstrosity that looked like it was custom-built for a Dallas Cowboys lineman, not a barely pubescent, round-faced 11-year-old with zero upper body strength and even less grace.

That entire year was a disaster disguised as a music education. I didn’t learn a single note correctly, but somehow—miraculously—I passed the class. Mr. Roman would say, “Travis, I can tell you're not practicing,” and I’d reply, “I genuinely don’t know what practicing looks like.”

Eventually, they let me take an instrument home, which—plot twist—wasn’t even the same kind of tuba from class. This one wrapped around my body like some sort of brassy medieval torture harness. I swear if I’d been taller, I could’ve marched with it… But as it stood, I just prayed it wouldn’t collapse my spine.

At no point did my parents say, “Hey, should we maybe get this kid a teacher or music lessons?” Of course not. My dad assumed that since I was spawned from his magical musical loins, I’d naturally be fluent in the sacred art of blowing into metal tubes.

Now, my dad may be a phenomenal musician, but let me be clear: he’s not exactly a patient instructor. He plays effortlessly by ear, while I celebrate anytime I can strum more than four notes on a guitar. Actually—scratch that—I’m down to three reliable notes. The fourth is questionable.

Anyway, I just thought I'd set the scene before launching into the rest of my musical saga. A little context helps, especially when you’re about to hear how a kid with zero formal training tried to navigate life using nothing but guesswork and mild oxygen deprivation.

⚾ My Wingman Cody — Las Cruces’ Own Stud Muffin

Growing up in Las Cruces, my best friend leading up to high school was Cody Roberts — arguably the best baseball player our dusty town ever saw. And yes, I’m biased. This is my blog. There’s no fake news here.

Cody lived just down the street, and the guy was gifted across the board — athletically unstoppable, musically talented, smart as hell, and yes, the kind of good-looking that earned him the nickname “Stud Muffin” (courtesy of our teammates' moms during our first baseball season). When we weren’t playing baseball or pretending to be soldiers in the farm fields behind my house, we were building rafts for Burns Lake, less than a mile away.

And like many kids growing up in the 1980s and 1990s, we spent our days outside from sunrise to sunset. No smartphones, no GPS tracking. Just imagination and scraped knees.

✏️ Culture Shock at Central Elementary

I spent 1st and 2nd grade at a Seventh-Day Adventist school, and let me tell you… Switching to public school was a shock to the system. Suddenly, I realized how far behind I was. Reading and writing — I could barely do the basics.

No shots at the SDA community — they did the best they could. But somewhere along the way, my parents realized that things weren’t working out. I think it was Dad who convinced Mom to pull me out and enroll me at Central Elementary, where I met teachers who changed my trajectory. I started catching up, slowly but surely. Of course, I absolutely excelled in physical education, recess, and lunch — naturally.

🏕️ Bubble Life in the Desert

My New Mexico bubble life was rich in experiences — camping trips with the whole family, week-long summer excursions, and hunting and fishing with my Grandpa and Uncles. These were the moments that shaped me. They were simple, wild, and full of laughter.

💚 Cody, the Rival, and a Lifelong Bond

Cody and I ended up attending different middle and high schools — he went to Mayfield High, our cross-town rivals. I did my best to attend his home games and cheer him on, unapologetically. We drifted a bit, like most friends do, but still managed to hang out when our sports and busy schedules aligned.

To this day, even though I haven’t seen him since maybe 2008 or 2009, I still consider Cody one of my dearest friends. He had a lasting impact on my life, and that’s why in my second novel, two brothers — Cody and Ryder — are inspired by memories of Cody Roberts.

🎶 My “Embarrassing” Years — That Changed Everything

Let’s jump ahead to what I jokingly call my most embarrassing years — though honestly, I wasn’t all that embarrassed.

In my sophomore year, I made a significant pivot: I joined the Show Choir. Became the school mascot in my junior year. Partnered up with my buddy Matt “Joker” McWilliams and our tone-deaf legend Tim Davis.

Why choir, you ask? Let’s break it down:

• 🧠 Nearly guaranteed passing grades

• 💃 A 10:1 girls-to-guys ratio

• 🎵 My dad tuned pianos — I was raised on rhythm, again, no fake news here.

  
  

Dad stopped by the school one day to tune the piano and have lunch with me. Carrying his toolbox, I walked into the choir room and froze: it was packed with girls. I may have dropped a tool or two from shock.

Enter Mrs. Diane Schutz, Cody’s mom, and someone I’d known since I was seven. She was practically family. That day, she looked me dead in the eye and said:

“Travis, come over here and sing the notes I play.”

Butterflies. Panic. A whole classroom of girls watching.

Don’t screw this up. Don’t screw this up.

I bombed the first notes. I couldn’t match the pitch to save my life. But then… coaching, kindness, and encouragement. And for the first time under that amount of pressure, I matched every note she played.

Mrs. Schutz, my second mom at the time, had my schedule changed that day. I was in the choir now. Game on. What stories are appropriate for this BLOG?

👩‍🏫 The Village That Made Me Graduate

There were three angels in my life besides my parents and Lee Ray Hennington — who helped me survive high school:

• Anna Roman — mentor, teacher, and always a voice of reason

• Judy Carter — my Scottish Rite specialist for students with dyslexia

• Diane Schutz — music mom, guardian angel in lipstick

At one point, my school attendance became so poor that my mom took time off work and escorted me to every class. She meant business. Of course, that didn't have the full effect she wanted because I enjoyed her being around, and so did everyone else. That backfired on her, but the message was received.

From then on, I had practically perfect attendance — and Diane was on my case, too.

By junior year? I couldn’t get away with anything.

📘 Diagnosed, Discouraged, and Then Determined

During my freshman and sophomore years, after long-standing academic struggles, my mom and Anna Roman suspected I had undiagnosed dyslexia.

Turns out, they were right. I was reading and writing at a second-grade level, though everything else was below or barely average.

Enter the Scottish Rite Institute — a one-on-one class every day for two years. That’s where I met Judy Carter.

I felt stupid. I acted out. I used humor as a shield, masking the insecurities I didn’t know how to face. The program stripped me down to the basics — forcing me to relearn everything from square one. It was slow. Painful. Embarrassing.

But then, something shifted.

One note, one lesson at a time — literally — through reading music in choir and classes with Judy Carter, things started to click. My reading improved, even if my comprehension lagged. Still, it was progress. It marked the start of a transformation.

Three women — Judy, Anna, and Diane — never gave up on me.

Their belief became mine.

Humor masked my fears. Music rewired my brain. Faith rebuilt my confidence.

🪖 What’s Next

The next chapter? How a kid with a choir schedule and a patched academic record walked into a Navy recruiting office and found his calling.

Stick around, more stories are coming — ridiculous, raw, and honest.