Cheerleader

     You read the word and immediately conjured up in your mind an image of a well-endowed, leggy blond with too tan skin and Crest white teeth, didn't you?  You imagined a girl with an I.Q. that's as small as her skirt is short.  This is the image that used to appear in my mind when I heard the word "cheerleader."  Before I continue any further, I must make a confession:  I was a cheerleader once.  It was seventh grade.  Several of my closest friends back in Richmond, VA, were planning to try out for the cheerleading squad.  Seeing as how we did absolutely everything together, I decided I had better join them.  The day of the tryouts, I put on cute purple shorts and some vibrant 90's printed t-shirt.  My mom curled my hair.  When it was my turn before the panel of judges, I jumped and smiled and bobbed my head until I thought it might fall off.  Thankfully, it did not, and by the end of the day, I was thrilled to find my name on the list of girls who had made the squad.  For the rest of the year, every time there was a Brooklyn Middle School sporting event, I donned my blue and white and shook my pom poms with pride.  I have to admit it;  being a cheerleader was a lot of fun.  The next year my family moved to Idaho.  I did not try out for the the cheerleading squad.  All of the cheerleaders at my new school were well-endowed leggy blonds with too tan skin and Crest white teeth who had I.Q.'s as small as their skirts were short.  I was in the middle of some adolescent, angst-filled, "why did my parents make me leave all my friends and move to potato town" identity crisis.  Cheerleaders were the enemy.  They were peppy and perky and nauseating.  They were each a Barbie to a football jock's Ken.   I was aware that just one short year ago, I myself had been a cheerleader, but I was never, ever like them.
     Cheerleaders have got to be one of the most stereotyped groups around.  Rarely in any form of media is a cheerleader portrayed as a kind, intelligent girl who likes to show her school spirit.  In books, movies and tv, the cheerleaders are the mean girls, the stupid girls, and often even the slutty girls. Chances are if you weren't a cheerleader in high school, you hated cheerleaders in high school.  They were those plastic leggy blonds who got asked to the prom by no less than four of the most popular guys in school while you played the part of the shy wallflower in the corner.  Or maybe you were the band nerd or the yearbook editor, too concerned with "serious things" to be involved with such frivolity.  I was the drama nerd who hung out in the drama teacher's classroom at lunch.  Recently, I have had to look back on my high school days with new perspective; with the perspective of a parent who now has a daughter that is a cheeleader.  That's right.  My sweet little bookworm of a girl informed me last Spring that she would really like to try cheerleading this year.  My brain immediately started concocting a variety of plans to dissuade her.  It is not all too difficult to sway the opinion of an eight year old.  I asked her if she was sure she wouldn't rather try dance another year.  She hadn't tried clogging or hip-hop yet, after all.  Was she sure she didn't want to stick with gymnastics for one more year?  I assured her that it got much easier after the first year.  "Girl Scouts would be fun!  I was a Brownie myself when I was about your age. We could have lots of cookies! Ever considered under water basket weaving?  I'm sure there's a class somewhere around here."  In all my pandering, I somehow forgot that my daughter came into this world with a will of iron (not to mention lungs of steel) and that when her mind was set on something, it was set in impenetrable stone.  She looked at me and said matter-of-factly, "I want to be a cheerleader.  I want to hold pom-poms and be on a float in the parade."  Well, that was that.  Shortly after this conversation, I felt ashamed.  I realized I had tried to steer my daughter away from something she really wanted to pursue because I didn't think it was worthy of her.  I was stereotyping cheerleaders.  Having been one myself, you'd think I would have known better.  But what was far worse; I was stereotyping my own daughter.  She was the bookworm.  She was witty, artistic and musical.  She should have a brush or a violin and bow in hand, not a set of pom poms.
     Was I ever wrong!  Not about my daughter being witty, artistic and musical.  She is all of those things.  But she is also a cheerleader.  The day I watched her in the Shelley Spud Day parade I knew it.  My daughter was a cheerleader, and a darn good one at that.  My little girl, who for years had been painfully shy and who had struggled through basic dance and gymnastics steps, looked like she had been born with pom poms in her hands.  She stood straight and confident as she yelled out the Shelley fight song.  I had never seen her so sure of herself.  After that day, a new understanding began to dawn on me as a parent.  I have always said I would let my children try out whatever they wanted to (within reason of course).   I had never realized how hard that decision would be to uphold when my children came to me with dreams I never imagined for them.  And that's when I realized;  I have dreams for my children.  Of course I do.  I dream that Morgan will one day put her wit, warmth and humor to good use as a writer and that Hyrum will be the architect who designs the world's tallest building.  Ryan will of course be the next Nolan Ryan, seeing as how he can hurl his binky a country mile.  I have never dreamed that Morgan would grow up to wear a midriff shirt and be known for having the best high kick around.  And I don't think that she will.  But, if that is her dream, if that is where she ends up and it is what makes her truly happy, I will be on the sidelines for every single game I can make it to.  I guess it's my job to be the cheerleader.  Of course I am still a parent first and foremost, and I will try to gently steer my children toward things that will bring them lasting happiness, like having faith and pursuing a good education.  But I have vowed, since Morgan's decision, to no longer try to steer my children away from activities that I may not have foreseen them taking part in.  I may cringe inside and have to bite my tongue, but I will not offer alternatives.  I will simply show up,  cheering them on every step of the way; watching in amazement as they achieve remarkable feats I could never have planned for them.  My daughter is a cheerleader.  She is also one of the brightest, most compassionate, eloquent, warm and funny people I have had the pleasure of knowing.  "Rah, rah, rah.....goooooooooo Morgan!"