A popular new movie is shining light on Mister Rogers and the tremendous impact he had, not only on children, but also on society and its transformation. Perhaps his most salient quality was his innate ability to affirm individuals — to see them. He communicated to every young viewer that they were important, that they mattered, and that they were worthy of love.

One of the first people to teach me these things was George Zingali.

I am one of the thousands of young people George inspired through the art of Drum and Bugle Corps. He taught us how to be passionate and precise performers. But, more importantly, he taught us how to grow into extraordinary human beings.

When you stood in front of George Zingali, whether two feet or 50 yards away, you felt seen. You felt validated.

Now, with George, it was often the case that you didn’t want to be seen by him. From 20 feet up on the scaffold, when his eyes were following the form as a whole — an amoeba moving as one — if he saw you, it meant one thing: you were not where you were supposed to be. You were out of place and, thereby, corrupting the design.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” he’d yell vehemently in his indelible East Coast accent. “So and so (usually a nickname he’d given you), what are you thinking?! You’re not supposed to be there! You’re supposed to be on the other side of the field!” I remember him reprimanding a horn player by saying: “Now you go do a thousand push-ups.” The other 119 of us stood like sentries: silent and poised to obey.

We always wanted to do everything right — to excel for George and for the audience. By the end of the season, however, we’d learned the most important lesson Drum Corps has to teach: We learned to excel for ourselves. That was George’s goal for us all along.

I think that he sometimes yelled at us for stuff we didn’t even know we were (or weren’t) supposed to do. Maybe he was thinking of drill changes in his head before he let anyone else know about them. That was the breadth of his genius in this visual and musical art known as Drum Corps. I imagine that images moved through his mind fast, and that the act of catching all those ideas was an art in itself.

Sometimes, with George at the microphone, it wasn’t such a beautiful day in the neighborhood — at least not until rehearsal was over. But we could never be upset with him for long. Why not? Because we loved him. We adored his passion, his humor, and ebullient laugh. We appreciated the care and guidance he offered when talking with us one-on-one, and the inspiration he projected from the middle of the circle after a grueling rehearsal or an emotional performance.

George just made us better: Better performers, better humans.

He never yelled at me, specifically. In fact, I can’t recall him ever yelling at any colorguard member individually, just the “Colorguard!!” in general. I can still hear him expressing exasperation as 35 of us ran around with bamboo sticks having no clue what we were doing (early on in the season, of course).

George was the first man to call me “beautiful.” Once, while he was demonstrating a particular dance move (which was always endearing), he captured me with a hula hoop and we went around in circles smiling at each other, his long eyelashes fluttering — such a flirt! To say that this sweet comment and kind attention from a legend “boosted my self-esteem” would be inadequate. He showed me that I am important, that I matter, and that I am worthy of love.

I was a lost teenager trying to recover from traumas at home — not sensing hope, not believing in myself…not feeling seen. Whenever I had tried to express myself at home, I was shut down, my voice squelched. By contrast, George invited my expression — and would accept nothing less.

One day from the top of the scaffold, microphone in hand, George told us he was dying. He said that we should care more deeply about what we were doing because life is precious and not guaranteed. He said that we should perform as if each of us was holding a sign emblazoned with one simple word: “HONEST.” George didn’t tell us we could be great. He told us we were already great. We just needed him to show us.

His message permeated every one of us. Forever. I’ve never known a Blue Knight from those years to be anything less than extraordinary.

Just as Mister Rogers had the ability to see deeply into people, so, too, did George Zingali. Days with George were tough, sweaty, and painful. But they were, above all, beautiful. He instilled in young performers a passion for living. He dedicated his life to inspiring people to overcome their fears, let go of their burdens, and strive for excellence.

He helped people become their best and highest selves.

If we all did that, imagine how different the world would be! Every day would be a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

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Marie Marchand marched in the Blue Knights Drum and Bugle Corps

1989–1991.