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I'd practiced hard all summer, honing my skills. High kicks, and straight
moves-even smiling through a cartwheel. I had reached a goal I'd dreamed
of since grammar school. I'd been chosen to be a cheerleader! Me! What
more could I ask for? My prayers were answered. I knew it was going to
be a great year for this 9th grader, and I planned on cheering my heart
out for my junior high school.
Tryouts had been pretty stiff, and even though I had the moves down and
the rhythm of a jitterbug dancer, I doubted I'd make it. Surely they
would pick the gorgeous girls, not "the girl next door type." Popularity
had to be a prerequisite I concluded. Although I was an honor student and
well liked, I wasn't part of the "in crowd." So when the Cheer Director
counted the votes and called my name, along with 6 other girls, I couldn't
believe my ears!
Some of my friends had tried out too, but there was no jealousy when I won
the position. My attitude was one of gratefulness and humility. I could
cheer and be the best friend ever, all at the same time! The only draw
back came in the form of a small, athletic woman, more than twice my age.
Her name was Miss Allen, the cheerleading Coach/P.E teacher. Although she
was a pretty thing, she had a pointed nose that would get ruby red when
she was angry. Her eyes could pierce through you like a dagger on a
mission. One would never want to cross her, I decided.
Nothing I did that summer even won me a "Good job Ginger," from Miss
Allen. A smile was hard to come by. My teachers, up till then, had given
praise for my efforts in keeping a straight A average. So I treated
cheerleading just like I did my studies. I hoped, in time, I would win
the challenge of this coach's approval.
Cheer Camp was enlightening and the girls and I bonded. Shopping for our
uniforms, taking photos, and daily practices left little room for much
else. The school year began with a heavy schedule, and at the end of each
day I was pooped. Yet no one knew what I had to go home to -- including
Miss Allen.
My Mom had been sick since I was thirteen, having been diagnosed with
congestive heart failure. I hated that she was suffering. My Dad was a
good father, but he was an alcoholic and I rarely brought anyone home for
fear of embarrassment. I felt like I was living a double life between
home and school. I worried daily about my mother's condition, while
pretending all was fine with me. Mom actually made it to a football game,
that year to watch me cheer. She never came again, though, as her health
declined.
Soon, the insecurity of my world began to show in my cheerleading. I
mastered the routines, but Miss Allen began picking on me anyway.
"Ginger, what kind of cheer leader can you be, if your tongue is sticking
out to the side like that?" I guess I hadn't noticed. She did intimidate
me with those critical daggers. And her pointed nose flaring open and
closed, like a bull preparing to charge it's target, definitely clued me
in on her disappointment. But the more I tried to tame my tongue, the
more insecure I became.
Miss Allen never asked about my family, or anything, for that matter. She
couldn't see that I was struggling to find my bearings at a very
tumultuous time. She apparently had no clue as to how her words could
affect a young girl's self esteem. And she was unaware that my Mom was
dying. She never asked. My performance was all that mattered. It was
serious business for sure -- that cheer squad of hers.
One day at practice, I received another one of her lethal looks. But on
this occasion Miss Allen stopped our routine, and singled me out in front
of the girls. Pointing her finger at me, she yelled, "You're still doing
that thing with your tongue, Ginger! You will never be successful in
cheerleading or anything else for that matter, with your tongue sticking
out of the side of your mouth. It looks stupid!"
At that point, you could hear a piece of grass grow on that field, and I
felt my face turning as red as her nose. Tears filled my eyes, but I
gulped back the emotion and agreed quickly with a "Yes Ma'am."
She was right. I'm sure it looked stupid. But now I felt stupid. From
that moment on, I really concentrated on keeping my tongue in my mouth as
I led the cheers for the crowd. Eventually the annoying habit disappeared,
but the hurtful comments lingered.
In between graduating from junior high and starting high school, I lost
some of the confidence I had gained. I decided not to try out for any
extra curricular activities.
In 10th grade, I got the dreaded call at school that there was a family
emergency. School was hard, but life was harder. I lost my Mom that
April. She was my best friend. Three years later my Dad passed away.
After that, I made some wrong choices in life, almost living out Miss
Allen's words! But God intervened, becoming the anchor I hung onto for
dear life. I knew that one day he'd make sense of it all, and he did. I
married my high school sweetheart three years later and was blessed with
three wonderful children that I've cheered on each day of their lives.
At a trophy ceremony for my son's Little League team, I was awarded "Best
Team Mom and Cheerleader ever." My husband and kids smiled proudly at me.
We joked about the award, but my success in life was evident in the faces
of my family and the friends that filled my world with "good cheer." The
love and approval, mutually invested, came back to me day after day. It
sure didn't take a performance to see that. What more could I ask for?
Through the years I've thought about those hurtful words spoken to me at
the impressionable age of fourteen, and how desperately I wanted Miss
Allen's approval. An utterance by one in authority can often make a
difference in how we view ourselves. Too bad she didn't really know how
"to cheer."
Now, there's probably a lesson to be learned here, but in this case I'd
say it was more for the teacher than for the student. As for me, I can
assure you that I have successfully become -- with tongue in cheek -- a
"Cheerleader for Life!"
?© 2003 by Ginger Boda
Rhymerbabe @ aol.com
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Ginger is a contributor
to various online publications, weaving faith, traditions, and humor into
her stories and poetry. Having penned her thoughts since she was a child
she writes from the heart. Ginger lives in Southern California with her
husband, Mark, and three grown children; Jason, Danny and Alisha.
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May you be blessed today.
Bob Johnston
Editor / Publisher
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