Performing Without the Script: On Autism and What the Marching Arts Gets Right — and Wrong

April is Autism Acceptance Month and the marching arts has long been a place where neurodivergent people find structure, belonging, and a place to thrive. But belonging conditional on performance isn’t really belonging at all. Too many autistic performers and students move through this activity undiagnosed, unsupported, and valued only for what they can produce on the field or the floor, not for who they are. In this article, MAASIN member Sam Chase shares her own experience navigating drum corps and marching band as an autistic person and what she wishes the adults in her life had understood sooner.

I have both autism and ADHD. Many people use person-first language when talking about disability. However, in this article, I will use disability-first language when I talk about being autistic, because it changes every part of how I experience the world and how I think. My autism defines me. Because without my autism, I’m not me.

I was not diagnosed with either autism or ADHD until I was in my late 20s (which is an issue in and of itself), and while many people acted as though I should be worried or distraught about my diagnosis, I was mostly relieved. I had spent my entire life feeling as though everyone around me had a script they wouldn’t give me, and yet, they still got mad at me for improvising my lines. No matter how hard I tried to learn them, no matter how good I became at performing neurotypical behavior, the mask eventually slipped.

When I was a middle school band student, I did not really know what marching band was. I wasn’t planning on staying in the band program when I got to high school, but I went to the high school band’s 8th-grade night anyway because my friends were going. That one performance changed the trajectory of my life. I had never seen a marching band outside of parades before, but I’m glad I went, because I loved the show so much, I stayed in band, and now I’m a band director myself.

It was more than just the thrill of performing and a love for music that kept me in band. A large part of why I stayed was that, for the first time in my life, someone gave me the script. My high school program had a 30-page Band Handbook that outlined every rule, every procedure, every level of the hierarchy, and every consequence for not following these structures.

I held onto that Handbook like a lifeline. It lived on my bedroom nightstand, and I read it at least once a week. For once, I was able to memorize my lines. The Handbook became my Bible.

As an autistic person, I struggle with gray areas. But in band, everything was black and white. Early is on time, on time is late, and late is not an option. You are either in time or not. You are either in tune or not. You are either on your dot or not. I had the script. I knew my lines.

So, for the first time in my life, I thrived. Band became my hyperfixation, and I was rewarded for it. My rigid personality and strict adherence to the rules led to my being labeled a role model and leader. In the rest of the world, I was “quirky,” which is how people in the South describe you when they think you are strange or hard to deal with. But in band, I wasn’t just tolerated. For the first time in a group setting, I felt valued and celebrated. I felt like I belonged.

And that feeling became something I would chase at all costs.

I threw myself into the activity. I signed up for every honor band, every extracurricular ensemble, every opportunity to perform. I picked up instrument after instrument, adding to my arsenal of skills that made me feel useful and wanted. I developed a fanatical devotion to my band program. I sacrificed sleep, relationships, and my mental health so that I could spend every waking moment either in the band room or practicing.

And, while unhealthy, this gave me the results I wanted. I was accepted into the All-American Marching Band, a national-level ensemble comprised of high school seniors from all across the United States. I was one of thirteen clarinet players accepted. I made All-State on two different instruments. I attended a conservatory-model school for my undergraduate degree, where I was one of only two education majors in my studio. I chased dreams of marching in DCI despite being a woodwind player and received an offer with a top-12 horn line my age out year.

But no matter what I accomplished or where I went, I wasn’t satisfied. I knew the only reason I was accepted was my performance, and if I did not keep pushing myself, I might lose it.

I once read something by an autistic actor who said they weren’t sure how much they actually loved the stage, or whether they’d just realized that if they performed at a high enough level, people would accept and tolerate the autistic parts of them that they usually wouldn’t. I honestly cannot tell you how much of what I have done in band and drum corps is because I love it and how much is because I knew that as long as I played the ink and marched my dot, I would be accepted. Social acceptance has been tied to my performance experience for so long that I do not know how to separate the two.

As my sense of belonging depended on my performance, I prioritized my performance over everything else as a high school and college student. However, I did not receive any support throughout those years. While, in hindsight, I feel like my extreme hyperfixation on music and my strict adherence to the Laws of Band should have made my condition obvious, not a single instructor (of the many I had) ever suggested that I might need support or be neurodivergent.

I was an All-State player; therefore, I was not a problem.

But that did not mean I did not need support. While I held the Band Handbook to be law, many of my peers did not, which left me without many friends. If I ever failed to follow these “laws,” even with something small, I would spiral. It made me feel like a failure, and the damage it did to my self-esteem and self-worth is something I am still unraveling in my 30s.

It also led to my developing some extremely unhealthy coping mechanisms and habits. My teachers encouraged me to practice, but no one ever told me how much was too much. In fact, I was often encouraged to overdo it. This led to me pushing my body past its limits and incurring several performance-related injuries. It took an entire extra year to get my bachelor’s because I couldn’t play due to a jaw issue, and I lost my chance at my age out because I tore the ligaments attached to my tailbone. I refused to accept pain as a reason to quit and only accepted that my age out wasn’t going to happen when the injury caused me to collapse in the middle of a rep at a camp. I was willing to give up anything to have my spot on the field, but I couldn’t give what my body no longer had.

Although by this point I was extremely burnt out and found only pain and emotional turmoil in performing, when I no longer had the option to perform, I had a full-blown identity crisis. I defined myself by my ability to perform. I was valued and accepted only because of my ability to perform. My autism was only not a problem when I could perform.

Without my performance ability, I no longer had the script. I had to go back to improvising my lines, and that was both terrifying and demoralizing because I knew how people would react when I did.

And so, getting my diagnosis felt like a lifeline. I finally understood why I had to resort to improv when other people did not. Through talk therapy, I have been able to redefine myself in a way that does not center my ability to perform, and through physical therapy, I have regained the ability to play again. And this time, I perform because I love it and enjoy it, and not because I need the script to find peace within myself.

While I have found my own balance and solace, there is still a lot of work to be done regarding autism awareness. Pre-diagnosis, my teachers rarely gave me support because I appeared self-motivated and independent, even when I was drowning. Even post-diagnosis, one of the most common responses I get when I share my diagnosis is that I “don’t seem autistic,” because I am not performing their stereotype of what an autistic person is like. I mask highly enough that I don’t “seem autistic,” but not well enough to stay on-script, so I still get labeled as difficult or weird and am given less support than I truly need.

I have no doubt that the world of marching band, drum corps, and classical music is rife with students and performers like me, both diagnosed and undiagnosed. The rigid structure of drum corps and band, which has carried over from military bands, combined with the long hours of practice and the focus demanded by the activity, creates an environment in which many neurodivergent people can thrive. However, most band directors only get a single class in their college experience on working with students with disabilities, and your average drum corps tech likely has none at all. Autism awareness in the marching arts is important because, without it, people like me remain undiagnosed, misunderstood, and undersupported.

In the interest of fostering awareness and understanding, I am very open about being autistic. It is usually the second thing I tell people when I meet them, right after my name. If I don’t, many people do not realize I’m autistic; they just think I’m “quirky,” because their idea of what autism looks like is too narrow. I want to expand what people think of when they think of autism, so that other people like me do not go until their late 20s undiagnosed and unsupported.

Austism is a complicated spectrum. It is not a straight line from “high support needs” to “low support needs” but a set of symptoms that have their own individual spectrums. You often hear the phrase “If you have met one autistic person, then you know one autistic person,” because every autistic person is different. By contributing to awareness, we create a more inclusive definition of autism that gives more people the opportunity to find support and understanding.

The biggest reason I am upfront about being autistic, though, is that I do not want my neurodivergent students to suffer as I did. I do not want them to feel alone or unseen. And more than anything, I want my students to know that it is ok to go off-script and that they are not valuable only for the way they perform on stage or on the field. That who they are is valuable and accepted regardless of how they perform.

For those of you in the marching arts and music education who innately have the script, please make sure you foster an inclusive and healthy environment in your ensembles. While I found acceptance in band, I was not discouraged from engaging in unhealthy behaviors and practice habits because my performance was valued over who I was as a person. Your students and performers need to know that they matter as people first. If you know you have an autistic student, make yourself aware of what their specific needs are, as the supports one autistic person needs may be wildly different than what another does.

And for those of you, like me, who feel like you don’t have the script everyone else seems to have, give yourself some grace. Your brain is not faulty; it’s just on a different operating system than neurotypical people. Neurodiversity should be celebrated because our differences make us stronger. Autism is a large part of what makes me a skilled and passionate performer.

And, lastly, it’s ok if you go off script. People love improv theater, too.

Sam Chase
MAASIN Member

Sam Chase (she/her) is the Band Director at Social Circle High School in Social Circle, Georgia. She graduated from Columbus State University in 2017 with a Bachelor's in Music Education, from the University of Georgia in 2019 with a Master's in Music Education, and from Augusta University in 2025 with a Doctorate in Educational Innovation with a Concentration in Music Education. She is a core member of MAASIN, where she serves on the research team. Her research interests include ludomusicology, marching band/drum corps, teacher identity, teacher leadership, student leadership pedagogy, leadership studies, and the experiences of female band directors. She is also an alumna of the Atlanta CV Drum and Bugle Corps, where she has marched in both the horn line (baritone) and the front ensemble (synth).