Hazing still clouds FAMU's Marching 100
Records show the band members have a history of violence toward their fellow members.
Hit a wrong note on the trumpet and get whacked on the elbow with a mouthpiece.
Miss a dance step at practice and later get pummeled in the head by fellow band members taunting you with a sing-songy rhyme of "Little Bunny Foo Foo."
Get invited to a party at an upperclassman's apartment, only to be ordered to squat in "The Thinker" position and get paddled so many times your buttocks swell.
Public records from FAMU police, which were requested by the Democrat, reveal a pattern of abusive hazing at Florida A&M University's world-renowned Marching 100 band through the years.
A code of silence has kept secret the worst behind-closed-doors abuse -- where both young men and women were hazed, most often the lowly freshmen. But police and court records show band members have been arrested, even jailed, for hazing.
Hazing in the Marching 100 is a ritual that has plagued the band since the '50s, said William P. Foster, who retired in July after 52 years of leading the band. Foster said he pleaded with band members to stop the hazing, to no avail.
Currently, there is an ongoing investigation, following an Oct. 20 letter signed only "Angry Marching 100 Parents," from four mothers who detail new charges that students were punched with fists holding protruding keys, paddled and struck by thrown shoes.
"So far, 12 members of the Marching 100 have been suspended," said FAMU spokesman Eddie Jackson, who declined to reveal further details while the investigation continues.
"It's not over yet. We intend to move swiftly and put a stop to it."
Hazing has been illegal in Florida since 1990, the same year the National Pan-Hellenic Council banned hazing following two fraternity members' deaths at other schools.
Marching 100 Director Julian White, College of Arts & Sciences Dean Arthur Washington, and President Frederick Humphries insist they have "zero tolerance" for hazing.
But these questions remain: Why haven't FAMU officials been able to stop hazing that crops up year after year? And why does it happen to begin with?
Teddrick Page is a Marching 100 percussionist who served 10 days in jail after he punched a fellow drummer in the face in 1994, because he refused to carry someone else's bass drum. Page got jail time because he failed to show up in court and refused to write an apology letter.
Page clings to his view that hazing is essential to continuing the greatness of a band that holds spectators in awe with dazzling dance moves.
"If you suffer together, you play better together," said Page, 23, who said he was not working on a degree at FAMU and took a few classes at Tallahassee Community College while playing in the 100 in 1994 -- and again in '95 -- even after his stint in jail for battery.
He marched a few games this season -- until another arrest, this time for disorderly intoxication. From his cell at the Leon County Jail this week, Page continued to justify the Marching 100's hazing tradition, without apology:
"I was paddled. It was painful, true indeed. But it brought me closer to my peers and upperclassmen. Part of that humiliation is part of getting strong," Page said.
The worst hazing goes on behind closed doors, Page believes, and will never stop. At least, he hopes it won't, because he predicts the 100 will "start falling apart" without the discipline that fear brings.
"Whatever happened behind those closed doors, nobody said anything. Dr. White and Dr. Foster didn't know. And they didn't care," Page said. "They just knew the students in the band were giving 100 percent or 125 percent."
Problem snitches is how Page considers those who report hazing, as instructed by FAMU officials.
"Why jeopardize that person's marching career because you are the sorriest person and can't play like they play? The new generation -- they're just soft."
A lawsuit
waiting to happen?
As Foster explained in a recent interview: "No amount of pleading or understanding would get rid of it."
And White echoed: "Kids are kids. But we don't tolerate it. That's 100 percent assured. We have seminars. We have university vice presidents and deans come in and talk to students. We take very strong steps to ensure we have zero tolerance for hazing."
Yet, year after year, another investigation into hazing occurs -- and those caught hazing are back in the band again next football season.
"Every year, we would always have some kind of investigation. We used to sign contracts that stated if you are being hazed or you are doing the hazing, you will automatically be kicked out and your scholarship will be taken from you," said Kalomo Bailey, a drum major and saxophone player in the Marching 100 from 1991-96. He's now the band director of Thomas County Central High School in Thomasville, Ga.
The first year Bailey joined the 100, he saw how hazing could hurt the band: Forty-seven members of the percussion section were kicked out of marching that season because of hazing, leaving only a few freshmen to keep the beat. As a drum major, he saw how difficult it was to break the code of silence.
"Your best friend would keep a secret from you because you never knew who would go and tell or who would allow it. Something could be going on right next to me, right under my nose, and I wouldn't know about it," Bailey said.
Paul Ruffins, who has a master's degree in psychology from Columbia University, won an award from the National Association of Black Journalists for his 1997 investigation on violent hazing in black fraternities.
"Nothing is likely to end the great band tradition at FAMU than a lawsuit," said Ruffins. "It's the lawsuit that will be the 2-by-4. In this case, the university is profoundly vulnerable because marching in the band is officially required."
Pledging a fraternity, on the other hand, is voluntary. But, Ruffins said, the dynamics of hazing remain similar -- the willingness to be humiliated and beaten in order to belong; the knowledge that one day you will be the one to swing a paddle and deliver the blows.
"You're on absolute solid ground when you compare it to the fraternities," Ruffins said of the Marching 100. "The things that make the black bands most distinctive and famous for their fancy footwork is extremely similar to the most public part of black fraternities: the step shows."
Ruffins' research showed that white fraternities are more likely to drinking to the point of abuse, while black fraternities are more likely to require violence in hazing rituals.
And Ruffins said, as hazing is shoved underground because it is illegal, he is convinced the abuse has gotten more violent.
"The worst thing that can happen is that they can kill somebody. I'm not exaggerating," Ruffin said. "They can kill somebody or cripple somebody. From the university's perspective, they can get sued."
Hazing forced him
to flee FAMU
When Dr. Spurgeon McWilliams and his wife, Barbara, learned their 18-year-old son was beaten by fellow trumpeters in the Marching 100 a decade ago, they were so upset they got then-Chancellor Charlie Reed, a family friend, out of bed.
"Chancellor Reed told us there was zero tolerance of hazing in the state universities in 1989," said Dr. McWilliams. "That was a whole decade ago. They've had adequate time to root it out. I really think that people who are victims will have to have the responsibility to report it. If you are a victim and you don't report it, you should be suspended from band, too."
His son, Spurgeon McWilliams, was required to march in the 100, because he was pursuing a music-education degree. He didn't last the first season. After being beaten by a several trumpeters, he withdrew from FAMU, took classes at TCC and returned in 1993 to receive his degree from FAMU.
"You're losing time in school. I'm a music major wanting to get a degree, then I had to switch schools to get away from the harassment. It's ridiculous!" said 27-year-old McWilliams, now a music teacher at the Quincy Educational Center and at Stubbs Music School in Tallahassee.
He joined the Marching 100 in 1989, only to find out the hard way that hazing was part of the program.
"They'd tell me, `You don't know about our tradition?' I was scared a lot of days of going to practice," he recalled. "You didn't know if someone would harass you or you'd get hit. A lot of people were scared to tell the authorities. Because if you tell, it could make the situation that much easier for someone else to get hazed."
McWilliams told his family, who pushed him to prosecute his attackers, after the following incident:
On Nov. 13, 1989, as he was leaving "The Patch," the 100 practice field, McWilliams was told by other trumpeters to attend an extra meeting in the basement of Sampson Hall. When McWilliams said he could not attend, he was surrounded.
"There was no way to escape. They told me to put my trumpet down and stand front and center. They called me names and came at me. The freshmen kept on kicking me and eventually knocked me to the ground. Then all of them started to sing a song," McWilliams told FAMU police at the time.
The trumpeters began chanting: "Little Bunny Foo Foo, hopping through the forest, scooping up the field mice, popping him on the head."
Because he'd messed up in practice, McWilliams was the field mouse, witnesses told FAMU police. At the point of the rhyme that goes "popping him on the head," all of the trumpeters hit McWilliams in the head. Then, they held McWilliams down and pummeled him in the head with their elbows.
In the end, eight trumpeters were charged with battery, according to court records: Corey Cottrell, Lin R. Roundtree, James Seda, Vincent Jones, Donover L. Butler, Rodderick Jones, Edwin Lang and Antonio Allen.
The prosecutor dropped the charges, because FAMU officials carried out the discipline of suspending them from band temporarily.
"It's not like they broke my leg. But it was a combination of humiliation and hurt," McWilliams said. "If they want to change the situation, the power is in the students' hands."
Yet, hazing continued:
In 1991, 47 members of the drum section were suspended from marching for hazing, as documented in a story in the student newspaper, the Famuan.
In 1994, two percussionists, Page and Raft J. Taylor, were charged with battery for punching another drummer after he refused to carry someone else's bass drum.
In 1996, a flag corps member told White that she had been slapped in the face by another flag corps member while on an away game to Nashville, Tenn. She was hit because she questioned an order for all of the freshmen to give an upperclassman money.
Again in 1996, White reported to FAMU police that members of the clarinet section -- called C.O.C. or "The Clones" -- were invited to an upperclassman's apartment, purportedly for a party, between 10 p.m. and 3 a.m., during "pre-drill," August band practices before classes began.
Witnesses told police the freshmen were all put in a room and called out one by one. In a dimly lit room, they were called "whores" and other names by the clarinet section members, then told to strike "The Thinker" position. They described their version of the famous statue to police this way: "supporting their weight on their toes and elbows, with their head resting in their palms."
"All of the freshmen reported that their buttocks were bruised and painful to sit upon after this event," according to police reports.
At a second after-hours party, the paddling resumed -- only it was worse.
"One member was cleaning up the kitchen and started to black out several times," according to police reports.
"Three members told police that this paddling session was worse than the first, causing their buttocks to swell because of severe bruises. Two or more witnesses identified a dozen clarinet players participating in the meeting."
Seventeen band members were charged with hazing.
In 1997, seven members of the sousaphone section -- nicknamed the "White Whales" -- were suspended after a meeting was called at a student's apartment because of poor performance at the Jackson State game and a pro football game in Tampa. Five students corroborated for FAMU police the following scenario:
Sometime between 6 p.m. and midnight on Sept. 3, 1997, freshmen were driven to Popeye's and told to buy chicken. They were ordered to bring a stocking. Once at the student's home, they were forced to sit in a bathroom and eat the food. Then, with stockings over faces and blindfolded, when their number was called, the freshmen were told to get on hands and knees and each was paddled on the buttocks about 10 times.
Bailey, a drum major from '91 to '96, said he had hoped the hazing had stopped and is saddened it hasn't.
"That's the first thing on my resume, the Marching 100," said the Thomasville High School band director who teaches his students some of the 100's moves.
Bailey's plea to his beloved Marching 100:
"Continue to fight it. Keep kicking people out of school. Keep doing the investigations. And keep it out in the open. I guess that's the only way it will stop. One day, somebody is going to get seriously hurt. And I would hate for the band to get disbanded."
Jan Pudlow can be reached at 599-2311. Her e-mail address is jpudlow@juno.com.