It’s nearly impossible to describe Scotfest 2023, a festival of such magnitude, into a few paragraphs. Maybe if I were someone working a nine to five job at a newspaper or social media company who’s been paid to spend a few hours out on the grounds, taking in some moments of the highland games, at the whisky tasting, browsing the vendors, glance at the highland dance, ask a few people what they think, and then go home or back to the office and type out a few words on the computer before I submit it over to my boss and collect my paycheck. Maybe then it wouldn’t be so complicated. But Scotfest isn’t my job. Scotfest is my passion.
I think almost every one of us who is involved with Scotfest asks ourselves at least once throughout the chaos, “What am I doing here?” We pour so much of ourselves into the event and never get paid. We don’t do it because it’s a job. We don’t do it because it’s an obligation. It’s a labor of love. And Scotfest 2023 was no exception.
My second year photographing the festival, it was Sunday evening after the gates had closed and some of the staff were playing barrel pong with a rugby ball and I remember sitting at one of the picnic tables with a beer, watching and smiling because I had had so much fun that weekend. One of the staff members made the comment that I was part of the family now and in that moment it felt right; it felt true.
As the years went on, that sense of family didn’t ring so true. I started to feel more like a weird second cousin twice removed who was only invited to the family reunion because of social obligations. Scotfest was the family reunion and I felt like an outsider. I had even been told by that (now former) member of the board who had claimed I was part of the family that there was an inner circle and neither one of us were part of it.
Every year I asked myself over and over why am I doing this? I was seeking something. Camaraderie. Belonging. Call it whatever you want but I was a junkie looking for that high I felt the first time I was told I was part of the family. But every year I still felt like the weird cousin standing on the outskirts, missing out on the inside jokes everyone else was laughing at. I felt like the token wall flower the rest of the group was whispering about wondering why I actually showed up.
But if this is a family, Scotfest is the baby. Scotfest is not about one person. We’re more like a village all trying to raise a child together. There’s highs and lows and there’s fights and politics and good and bad. It’s not always easy; it’s not always perfect. But it is always worth it and at the end of the day each of us has a sense of pride because each of us cares and pours ourselves into something that is precious and means so much.
I could write pages and pages about the bands and vendors and athletes and volunteers. I could flood this blog post with photos to show people all the things they missed out on or remind them of special moments. And maybe that’s what I should do for a good SEO rating. Maybe ChatGPT could do a better job writing a post that reads well on social media. But I don’t care about SEO. I don’t care about looking good on the internet. What I know is how Scotfest has changed and shaped me as a person.
I’ve never sugar coated that I started my involvement with this festival for selfish reasons. There are people who got involved because of their culture, because of childhood experiences. They’ve always had pure intentions. And I fully intended to insure this blog shares those stories because those stories are an intricate part of what makes Scotfest a community. But I can’t not start at the heart. Call it an inner circle, call it a family, call it what it is: board members. These people at the heart of the festival work year round with no pay, little recognition, often behind the scenes, working while other people get to party and drink. They are the heart of the festival- the heroes with no capes.
When I deemed myself the weird second cousin twice removed, it was a self-inflicted title. Just like the unrealistic, high expectations I place on myself- it’s all self-inflicted. Not once has anyone actually told me I’m not good enough. Not once did anyone question why I’m there. In fact it was the opposite. Countless times I’ve been told I’m appreciated and my photos are amazing (their words, not mine). But that little devil on my shoulder whispered lies into my ear telling me they’re just being nice because they have to be. But if you’ve ever worked the event, you know no one has the energy to go out of their way to make sure they lie to someone just to save face.
Every year my own foolish expectations get the better of me and all of a sudden the festival is over and I feel like I spent more time stressing about getting photos than I actually spent enjoying the event. And every year I go home with regrets.
If Heather is our Mother of Morons- the one who somehow ended up adopting us all and yes, this IS her circus and we ARE her monkeys, Eric is our Favorite Uncle. (If you’ve seen Avatar: The Last Airbender, Eric is Uncle Iroh.) Eric and I joked all week- before, during, and after the festival- that we’re “MS”, Moral Support. But in Eric’s case, it’s not actually a joke. Eric is truly the moral boost we all need.
On Saturday I was exhausted and overwhelmed. I lacked energy trying to be everywhere all at once. I had promised Tiffany, my right hand photographer, that she would only have to cover the bands in the main tent so she could still enjoy the festival with her family. But I had been so stressed at work trying to make sure I hired enough people to be staffed up before I took off for Scotfest 2023 that I didn’t actually have the time to focus on finding photographers to help capture the event. Instead, I decided I would just cover everything else myself and it would be fine. But Saturday afternoon hit and I felt like I was drowning and again I would go home beating myself up for not being good enough.
While the team was setting up for the Rubright & Hardagain whisky tasting that afternoon, I went up to Eric and he asked me how it was going and all I said was, “I need moral support.” The tent was full of people already checked in waiting for the tasting to start. Donna and Katrina were pouring whisky into the serving cups. But Eric put his arm around my shoulders and asked what was wrong. I said I didn’t want to talk about it but I just needed moral support. I didn’t say this but it was all too much and I wanted to cry but I didn’t have time to sneak away and have the one emotional breakdown I allow myself each year. (Spoiler alert: I always break my own rule and wind up having more than one.) He proceeded to gesture to the whole festival and talk about how we had a great turn out and there were more people here than Friday and people were buying beer and enjoying themselves and we were doing great. I nodded and then asked, “Just tell me it’s okay I missed photos.”
It’s those small moments, the behind the scenes you can’t capture in a photo. Those moments that social media doesn’t share and the masses don’t experience. It’s those moments that make up all the reasons Scotfest has a special place in my heart.
Saturday is the longest and most draining day of the festival. I had only 2 hours of sleep the night before and I knew I wasn’t going to get much sleep Saturday night. I had forgotten to eat all day. I was ordered by Mandy at one point that afternoon to sit down and drink a bottle of water with liquid IV and eat a snack. Honestly, it was the first time I had sat down all day. I was pushing and pushing myself to cover everything, capture every moment, because of the unrealistic expectations I put on myself. I had to get rugby; I had to get the highland games; I had to get the vendors, the whisky tasting, the other music tents, the kids glen, the clans, the highland dance, the pipe and drum bands, the blacksmiths and craftsmen, the volunteers, etc. I was so overwhelmed that Saturday night I watched as Celtica performed in the main tent and I didn’t even have the energy to be inside the main tent to get photos. Instead I stood on the outskirts and heard them play the Skye Boat Song from Outlander and beat myself up for not actually enjoying or capturing the moment.
Even that night at the staff meeting, after the gates closed, I couldn’t pull myself together enough to join the team. I sat further back, away from the whole group. I could still hear but I didn’t want to join in. I had no energy left in me. I didn’t know how the rest of them had any energy to even go over what had happened and what needed to happen for tomorrow. All I wanted was a cold beer and some quiet away from people.
On my way to the festival grounds on Sunday, after only 3 hours of sleep, I forced myself to pick up a breakfast biscuit and bottle of water from Quiktrip because I knew if I didn’t, I wouldn’t get breakfast while on the grounds. I sent a very chaotic voice text to a friend where multiple times I said my brain couldn’t function and went down different rabbit holes telling random stories and interrupting myself to chase after another thought. At one point I almost said, “I’m just ready for it to be over.” But I stopped myself and refused to say it because I knew that when the gates officially closed Sunday evening I would be sad and regret making the statement in the first place.
I can’t tell you the exact time because time doesn’t exist at Scotfest. Clocks, watches, cell phones- I ignore them all while at Scotfest. I pretend I’m not even in Oklahoma. I won’t go home no matter what I forgot. I don’t answer work calls. I don’t respond to texts about anything not related to Scotfest. Reality does not impede on my time at Scotfest. So, whatever time it was when Morrison told me Lambie was going to be in the Big Wullie costume at the Pub Tent, I don’t know. I just hopped in my golf cart and went to capture the moment Waxies Dargle was on stage, waiting for when Big Wullie showed up.
Before they even showed up, the tent was already in full swing. Waxies Dargle played the theme from Outlander. The TV show had brought people out to Scotfest but it’s the book that originally piqued my interest years ago and caused my Facebook algorithm to promote Scotfest to me. The Skye Boat Song will always make me emotional no matter what band is performing it.
There was no light bulb moment; there was no epiphany. I just remember the band saying they were going to play the song and they wanted to see people swaying and then a few members jumped off the stage to join the crowd. And I was smiling- genuinely smiling- enjoying the moment. I wasn’t worried about what was happening out on the athletics field. I wasn’t worried about Scotfest moments I wasn’t getting photos of. I wasn’t worried about other bands in other tents. I was just listening to a song that held so much more meaning to me than just a simple TV show theme song. I took photos and the song changed into the next and Big Wullie and Morrison and Woody and Steve showed up dancing on tables with others and I glanced at the back of my camera every now and then to see if I was getting a good shot and I was. It wasn’t just me smiling to myself, enjoying the moment; everyone was. It was genuine and pure and I was there to capture it.
From that moment on I felt at peace about the whole thing. I wasn’t going to hold myself to an unrealistic, unattainable standard. I was going to enjoy the festival and capture it in photos as I went along. After experiencing Waxies Dargle, I hopped on my golf cart and took a moment to drive around and just take a minute to breathe. If I missed a photo, if I missed a moment, that was okay. Because sometimes there are moments you don’t capture in a photo. Some moments you just have to experience and appreciate in the time you have. I swung by the blacksmiths, Jeff gave me a hug and told me everything was going to be fine and I was doing a good job. Brahk jumped on my golf cart; we ran across Kira, one of the security officers off duty, and she joined us. I stole drinks from Brahk’s beer mug and decided, fuck it.
Scotfest is what you make it. Scotfest is not about timelines and agendas. It’s not the politics and the stress. It’s not the complaints and negative comments on social media. It’s not the behind the scenes drama. It’s not labeling yourself as a second cousin twice removed. It’s the little moments. It’s running into people you haven’t seen in a year and talking like no time has passed. It’s lack of sleep and running on pure adrenaline. It’s golf cart races and spilled beer. It’s Moral Support and Mother of Morons jokes. It’s dancing on tables and flaming bagpipes. It’s late night talks over beer and last minute staff meetings minutes before the gates open. It’s kids playing with toy swords and members from other bands jumping up on stage to sing a song with a different band. It’s the opening ceremony when the bands play Amazing Grace. It’s inappropriate jokes during a whisky tasting and athletes yelling their support for one another across the field. It’s quiet talks before the gates open each day. It’s words of support from volunteers and staff members. It’s radio chatter and orders from one another to drink water and don’t forget to eat something. It’s bagpipes ringing throughout the park no matter what corner you sneak off to.
Scotfest is bigger than any one person and yet it’s each individual person that makes Scotfest what it is.
Sunday night I remember standing in the main tent long after the gates had closed. Only a handful of us were left and I looked out across the grounds. It feels like when you look outside on Christmas night after all the presents have been opened, after all the family has gone home and the kids are asleep. That moment when the moon is reflecting off the snow and there’s a silence that spreads far and deep. But it’s not an empty silence. It’s a silence full of comfort and fulfillment. So much leads up to that one grand event which only comes once a year.
I have a playlist on my phone full of songs from bands who’ve performed at Scotfest along with some songs sprinkled in which have ties to the team. As I drove home on Sunday night I played it and I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) by The Proclaimers came on. Instantly, I broke down crying because I was both exhausted and also because I was so depressed that Scotfest was actually over. It comes and goes so fast. I cried the whole way home. Reality started setting in. In a couple days I would have to go back to a chaotic and stressful work environment. I would have to go back to a job where I kept pouring my all into but, unlike with Scotfest, I don’t feel valued or appreciated. I didn’t want Scotfest 2023 to be over. I wanted to rewind the clock and start it all over again.
On Monday the tear down started and by Tuesday morning, they were taking the main tent down. Scotfest 2023 was over. How fitting for it to be a cold, rainy morning as I stood there, bundled up in a blanket, standing vigil while the main tent I had just days ago described as standing tall, came down. I wanted to cry but there were people around and it felt silly to be so emotional about a tent.
I remember Steve standing there and saying, “It’s a strange feeling when it’s all over, isn’t it?” And though words flooded through my mind and tears choked me up, all I could say was, “Yeah.” One word could not possibly sum up everything I was feeling but also no amount of words could either. Even as I write this, no number of words, no amount of photos, could ever truly project just what Scotfest means.
Scotfest means something different for every person involved. For some it found us when we needed it. For some it offered an escape. For others it gave a sense of purpose. For me, it provided exactly what I needed year after year even when I didn’t know what it was I needed. It taught me life lessons, it pushed me, it molded me, it gave me escape and closure. Because Scotfest isn’t just a festival. Scotfest is each individual person that shapes it and grows it year after year.
If home is where the heart is, my heart is scattered across the map with the friends and family I have made throughout the years- pieces in different states for people I have met along the way. But there is a permanent piece of my heart that will always hold fast in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. It lies there just off the Creek Turnpike, in the middle of a field where once a year a large tent is constructed and stands tall to welcome thousands of people home. And no matter where life takes me, no matter what the real world throws at me, no matter the politics or my personal struggles, I will always return home. No matter what, I would walk 500 hundred miles and I would walk 500 hundred more, just to return to that park, to come home to Scotfest.
