Cheerleading Week

I heard that it was National Cheerleading Week on BlogHer, I think. The stories were sort of sad and spirit crushing, and since I have a huge list of things I should be doing instead of writing a trivial blog post (i.e. reading the 500 page textbook I'm supposed to teach next week, abdominal breathing, finding an affordable yoga class, making C feel loved and cherished after what I just spouted off, etc.), I'm going to post the upside of cheerleading. No really, uncoordinated me was an actual cheerleader, or well, I pretended to be for three years.

So, the background story is that sophomore year of high school, I up and quit school. The high school of 2000 was too big for me and so uncomfortable a fit. I refused to go back. I had friends and wasn't too much of a social outcast, but I couldn't go back. My ultimatum to my parents was to homeschool me, send me to the "country" school fifteen miles away, or send me to the christian school two blocks away. I sound like a stuck-up princess, but it was the best stand I made for myself at the time. I was going to get lost and I wasn't sure I'd find my way. The parents decided (angrily) on the christian school. I walked into a high school of less than 40 kids. Some girls were talking about cheerleading (and I almost worked up the nerve to try-out in ninth grade at the huge school, but not quite) and I mentioned my interest. The coach was my English teacher, her daughter a freshman cheerleader, and they told me if I brought money for shoes and socks that I was on the squad. So, I guess I bought my way on.

I loved it. Loved it. Loved it. We weren't incredibly talented or even remotely competitive, but we had a lot of fun. I had a lot of fun. I learned cheers, always sucked at jumps (except the karate kick one), and wiggled my hips without ever actually wiggling my hips. I was a flyer and I was a base. I loved my fellow cheerleaders and I really didn't like some of them - but I would throw my body under anyone who ever fell (dude, that is your JOB - to protect your other cheerleaders). My first year, a couple of freshmen allowed me to be me and I love them for that. We talked about everything: farting, body hair, and even periods. Those girls made me proud to be one of them and proud to cheer with them. We laughed so hard at so many things. Hell, we even wrestled (I don't think any boys read this, but yes, we wrestled and yes, it was hilarious, and yes, I'm betting that it happened in uniforms at least once). I even went on to cheer without the original bunch. I loved cheering the basketball teams on (sometimes three per night: JV boys, V girls, and V boys). I made myself loved by the players and their parents. My smile was rarely fake - and then, only because of hs drama.

I wasn't obsessed with cheerleading, but it was so nice to be a part of something. I was probably mediocre at best, but I definitely had the enthusiasm. Cheerleaders were not the popular girls at our school, in fact, they were looked on as useless and as an activity that took warm bodies away from the girls' basketball team. But I (we) overcame that. We fought for the acknowledgement that we were supporting all of the players and that our encouragement meant something. I was the annoying girl that would go up in the stands during the cheer "Up Up on Your Feet!" and drag people to standing. If I was going to cheer on the players, and they were there to watch the game, they could support the players as well. I saw us as facilitators as well as cheerleaders. Okay, so maybe I took it a little bit seriously. But not in the "Bring It On" way.

I cheered with as many as five other girls and often ended the season with one or two others due to grades (not mine, obviously). I was threatened and walked out on by a coach. I refused to accept any authority endorsed by the coach, and therefore, was never captain - but somehow always listened to. I have always and will always hate white bicycle shorts and spanks and love LOVE love the color kelly green. Don't care for the way sweat smells on polyester and I know that those old uniforms can be washed in a regular washing machine - repeatedly, even if the tag says 'dry clean only.' I know that the reason you order uniforms instead of altering uniforms is so that the mascot name doesn't start in one armpit and end in the other. The metallic braiding on said uniform should never, never touch your bare skin - especially where there is a possibility of friction (re: arm holes) because there will be rashes and burns.

I know that you have to trust your bases to catch you and that you really shouldn't stunt on concrete or gravel. I know that bruises fade, for that was the motto: Bruises Fade! And you weren't a real cheerleader without loads of stunting bruises. Yeah, I loved it. I loved (almost) all of the girls who were in it with me. And for the record, there is no crying in cheering - just so you know. I will kick you off the court if you are crying during a game you are supposed to be cheering.

Yeah, so. Cheerleading was good to me. I didn't feel like a loser or a reject, instead I felt loved and accepted and like I belonged. It was a small fishbowl environment, I know. But can you say too many bad thing about it if it boosted this girl's adolescent self esteem? Thanks Coach R, C & L, EM, and thanks to my sister for following in my footsteps, but making it her own.

There are lots of other things I could say about that school (uh, written for nonfiction class), those people, and that experience, but I'll leave it for another day. This week is, apparently, about cheerleading.