Cheerleader Me

The Angry Baker, Columbus, OH, is on the corner of Oak and 18th, just East of Downtown in "Olde Towne."

It is a question I have been asked repeatedly in my adult life.  It is a question for which I am never quite prepared.  It is a harmless question.  To anyone else, it is meaningless:  "Were you a cheerleader?"

Often it is not even posed as a question.  Often it is half accusation/ half "I-know-your-type":  "You were a cheerleader, weren't you?

It's been 20 years since high school.  I am a grown woman.  And I am frightfully flattered by the question.  What is it they see in me?  Am I little and peppy?  Am I popular?  Am I cheery!?!

In 1988 as I prepared for the Bishop Hartley Cheeleading Try-Outs, I believed in my heart and soul:  I am a cheerleader.   I  knew all the words to all the cheers, I had the right hair, (well, I had big hair, but that was acceptable), my big sister Katie was already a BHHS cheerleader and coached me mercilessly in the weeks prior to the try-outs ("straighten your wrist, straighten your leg, more to the side, more to the front, higher.... higher.... higher!!!!  Well, you asked me to help; don't get mad.")  I can still remember the first 16 counts of choreography we learned to a New Order instrumental.



The cheerleaders at Bishop Hartley were remarkably good.  In Columbus, Ohio, sports are everything.  Competition for any squad in my town was stiff, and BHHS was no exception.  One Jennifer in my class not only was a high school cheerleader for four years, but then went on to cheer for Ohio State!!! These bitches were serious.

And so was I.

You cannot imagine how much I practiced.  In the basement.  On cement floors.  In the back yard.  I did that fucking routine waiting in line at Wendy's.  When the big day came, I nailed the routine.  But the rest of my try-out was, okay, at best.  My jumps were the weakest aspect of my package.   My pep could not compensate for my form.  And all those picky little observations that my sister made had, as predicted, bit me in the ass.  I can still remember the four judges, all former cheerleaders... oh, how I wanted to be part of that elite few.... wearing their invisible Badge of Cheer for eternity.

But they overlooked my inner passion and focused tritely on the physical details.  Six names were called that day and I was not one of them.  My sister found me fifteen minutes later, tearful and snot-smeared in the back stall of the C-wing girls' restroom.  She tried to comfort me, but found it amusing that I was taking it so hard and Katie had no talent for concealing snickers.  

Thanks, Sis.

As we walked outside to await the mini-van pick-up, the Vice Principal paused us in the hallway and said to me (I remember it like yesterday)  "You were very close."  The snot and tears made me unable to respond, so I nodded and Katie said "thanks," as she patted my shoulder and we departed for the day.  High school was going to suck.

Then, over the summer, just before school was to begin, news surfaced that a tall (and reputedly mean) Freshman cheerleader had changed schools and there was a new opening.  I was beside myself.   V.P. Mauer's words echoed in my head day after day, hour by hour: "You were very close."  But the announcement came, and sadly, I would not be the sixth BHHS Freshman Cheerleader in 1989.  

I tried out again for Sophomore year.  This was a tougher year because I would have to compete with both Sophomores and Juniors.  Again, I failed.  (Those goddman herkies!)

At the end of Sophomore year, I attended the first few days of cheerleading try-out training for the following year.  This would be my best opportunity because a Junior could be placed on one of two squads.  I was not vain enough to hope for Varsity, but Reserve would be fine with me.  (I just wanted to wear the fucking skirt!)  After two days of learning the routine and various requirements, I realized that high school had been awesome for two years without being a cheerleader, and maybe I didn't want to feel that rejection again.  By then, I was busy with the theatre productions and student counsel.  I played field hockey in the fall (another legitimate skirt-clad activity.)  Busy and happy, I saved myself some heart-ache by dropping out of try-outs and accepting that I would never be a cheerleader.

It's 2013.  I have lived a full life so far.  I have many accomplishments of which to be proud.  Yet, nothing makes me flush with self-worth like the occasional incorrect assumption, "you were a cheerleader, weren't you?"  But, then I have to say no.  

... and it is a great source of pain for me, so thanks for bringing it up.

On this corner in my high school years stood a convenience store which had a reputation for  selling alcohol without checking I.D.s.  I wasn't surprised that it was gone 20 years later, but I was surprised that what stood in its place was the charming bakery and coffee shop, "The Angry Baker."