 Marlaine Cover |
Chastened by a Cheerleader...
Ashamed though I am today confessing, I once hated cheerleaders. Actually, once is too small a word because it was truthfully decades and hate is too strong a word because I have never really hated anything except peas and brussel sprouts. As second of five girls growing up in the era of budding feminism however - I definitely was not a fan. Why, if it was so important I wondered, didn’t boys cheer for girls?
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The disparity caused me to view cheerleading on the whole as suspect and their forced smiles in particular as degrading to our gender. Then God, in all his wisdom, gave me daughters…
Possessing - as all children do - a magnetic attraction to that which we most want them to avoid, my girls insisted (at age three and six) on being cheer princesses for Halloween. Hoping a small taste would cure their appetite, I braved my own false smile and adorned them with pony tails, ribbons and cheer pomes; I also enrolled them in gymnastics. As the months progressed, my eldest daughter's rapid growth resulted in her switching to basketball but my youngest - Alexa - was soon on a competitive team practicing four hours daily. The rigors of performing back flips on balance beams earned her a critical eye when evaluating cheerleaders attempting the same on solid ground.
My strategy to steer my daughters clear of cheer was so successful, I even found myself lecturing to them that it was important to view cheerleaders with – if not admiration – at least compassion. All proceeded well until one day when Alexa was in the sixth grade and fractured her knee while vaulting. Her injury was sufficient to require she fall back from the team (with whom she’d practiced for years) and make her want to quit gymnastics entirely. At the same time, school friends were pleading with her to be the flier for their summer Pop Warner cheer team. “Just six weeks Mom,” she promised.
Denial though I attempted to maintain, I was forced to suffer reality when seated on the sidelines of the football field and asked by fellow parents which player was mine. My pinnacle of inner turmoil however was delivered one sweltering hot afternoon while watching Alexa dance in front of a team of exhausted, dirt covered boys following a brutal loss. Adorable though she and her fellow cheerleaders were, I simultaneously envisioned her pursuing a future career pole dancing and truly feared I could not survive my newfound parental obligations. And then it happened, I experienced an epiphany. As the girls' optimism and cheers restored smiles to the boys' broken grins and spirits, I asked myself "What role on Earth was higher than selflessly encouraging others in the midst of struggle and disillusion"? |
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