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Now Cheer This

And I’m jealous as all get-out. Yes, I admit it. Professional, liberated female independence be damned—I’d give anything to get out there one more time and shake my pompons. And other things. There, I said it.

Many people have defended cheerleaders, claiming they are part of the pageantry of sport, that cheerleaders are themselves accomplished athletes, and that they play a valuable role in uplifting the spirits of teams and fans when the chips are down. All true.

As for me, I became a cheerleader for one reason and one reason alone: the uniforms.

Whether they were the deep crimson v-neck sweaters with navy trim, or the royal blue vests—and this was the best part— embroidered with the girl’s name in curly stitching on the lapel, the uniforms imbued their wearers with a hypnotic appeal. I desperately wanted to be like them, those older girls at my elementary school, with their golden ponytails and satin ribbons, coronas of energy crackling around them as they swiveled down the halls, starched white pleats swishing against their tanned thighs.

And so I tried out. My first attempt, with its wobbly cartwheels and reticent rahs, was unsuccessful. But by fourth grade, I had mastered my back-handspring and was readily accepted as an official Bartlett Peewee Cheerleader.

I still remember that first uniform: a white vest with PANTHERS in red block letters and a blue skirt. Our Converse tennis shoes were snow white, sweet-smelling and emblazoned with red stars. Wearing the uniform, as we did every Friday during football season and on class picture day, was every bit as empowering as I had hoped.

As it turned out, I had quite a knack for cheerleading too. I was the tallest and the strongest, so I became the fulcrum of every pyramid and accustomed to girls’ various appendages digging into my thighs and shoulders. I was ferret-flexible and fearless of gravity, hurling my body over glossy gym floors into self-taught flips, twists and layouts. I also had the highest toe-touch on the squad, maybe in the city—at cheer camp, the instructors always had me come up on stage to demonstrate it.

But cheerleading wasn’t always fun. Or cheap. We were constantly fundraising, banging our way door-to-door with candy bars and candles, or sloshing sponges across fenders at 100-degree car washes when I would rather be home indoors painting my nails and watching cartoons.

And then there was the oddity of “Homecoming,” an event I never understood as we were in elementary school—what was there to come home to? Yet every year, we had to endure the humiliation of asking boys on the football team to be our “escorts” and, worse, lining up for them as they voted on which of us should be queen. I never won. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

The hardest part was the other girls themselves. Giving some little girls a cheerleading uniform is like giving Darth Vader a light saber and expecting him to play golf with it. Most often, I got along with everyone. But there were slumber parties I wasn’t invited to, jokes at my expense. My sixth grade Homecoming escort Shane brought me flowers before the game, then dumped me for my fellow cheerleader Crystal.

But overall, I loved cheering, performing in front of the whole school during a game, appearing on posters tacked up in every McDonald’s around town, meeting boys from other schools. Yes I liked the attention, but so what? I worked hard. I cheered for a national champion team in high school. When I look back I am amazed at how strong I was, the things I could do with my body—and will never do again—with hardly a thought. 

But the best part was still, and always, the uniform, the feel of the skirt on the backs of my legs, the vest that somehow simultaneously made your boobs look big and your waist look thin. And my name stitched on the lapel, affirming that I was once young, fit and strong.

I actually saved my high school uniform. Sometimes, for fun, I try it on. It still fits.

As long as I don’t zip it.