The day I first put on my varsity cheerleading uniform was the best day of my life. The too-short skirt made me look more Kardashian than ever, if that’s possible. There was also the red, white and blue top emblazoned with “AHS,” as well as a white ribbon. The most crucial component, however, was the bloomers. They can be metallic, sparkly or solid, depending on how much of the judges’ attention you’re seeking.
They matter just as much in cheerleading as do the tacky glitter on your eyelids and the two-pound bow in your acrylic ponytail, thickly laden with hairspray. Bloomers, or “spankies” in vulgar terms, are not consequence-free articles of clothing. They chafe and don’t cover the right spots, leaving you worried about just how much is revealed to the crowded bleachers in the high school gymnasium mid–straddle jump — and don’t even get me started on the question of wearing underwear underneath.
Having done cheerleading for 10 years when I was younger, even making my way to varsity captain, I learned everything from teamwork to physics to curing a nosebleed with a tampon.
Our team of about 18 girls was always tightly knit in high school, and my favorite memories took place with all of them every autumn Friday, under the lights on the sideline. I think there might have been a football game playing next to us we were supposed to cheer on, but I hadn’t paid attention to it.
The best part of being on the sideline was a game we referred to as “cheer sex,” which is essentially making eye contact with someone in the stands and maintaining it throughout the entire cheer. In the meantime, we performed gymnastic feats on the turf, doing back handsprings and throwing each other up in the air, hence my left shoulder’s current deteriorating state.
Our coach referred to us as her “cupcakes,” but I think she had another one for us that began with “c” as well. Can’t seem to remember. We were, however, definitely a colorful bunch, in a (relatively) wholesome way. I would always get a lot of slack for being more academically oriented than the others, but it didn’t bother me.
Being around so much estrogen and hierarchical angst definitely helped harden me into becoming a more cynical person. As a freshman in 2006, our captain made my best friend and I do pushups in front of her because she claimed we were a minute late for practice, just to impress whatever guy she was talking to. We were in fact a minute early, but being respectful freshmen, we obeyed; our time would come with patience to direct other younger teammates.
As much as I want to seem mature and grown-up, I can’t help but indulge myself in this kind of nostalgia, attempting to remember every detail, but fortunately, I stole my pair of pompoms from my high school if I ever become too wistful.
Sydney L. Shea is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences and can be reached at slshea@bu.edu.
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