In 1991, a Mrs. Wanda Halloway was imprisoned for six months for plotting to kill Verna Heath, a prospective cheerleader, in an attempt to clear a spot for her own daughter on the cheerleading squad. This sordid tale has recently been adapted into a made-for-TV-movie. The young girls were beginners, a mere 13 years old, but already young Holloway’s mother was taking action to revenge her own failed dreams. By God, if she couldn’t look cute in a mini-skirt, her daughter would! Juror Tim Evans claimed that Mrs. Holloway’s hatred was “venomous.”
The truth is that I have a right to be a little venomous myself in my criticism of cheerleaders, because in a past that I reveal to only a select few, I was once clad in mini-skirts and brandished pom-poms. I even wore face decals. In fact, I wept tears of joy when I found out that I made the Oak Mountain Middle School seventh grade cheerleading squad.
After I made the squad, I sobbed hysterically, ashamed of my selfishness when my parents told me that someone had broken into our house, stolen our television sets, and spray painted “Die Cheerleader Die” on the wall. Some jealous girls who hadn’t made the squad had terrorized my home! I had put my stupid popularity, the most important byproduct of a cheerleading uniform, before the safety of my family.
To this date, this remains the worst April Fool’s joke ever pulled on me.
However, as the case of Wanda Halloway demonstrates, I am not the only one who saw cheerleading in life or death terms. I’m not quite sure why cheerleading is such an important subculture, or why it was so important to me. It was important enough for my parents to spend money on my weekly “cheerleading classes,” where I did countless toe raises to improve my calf muscles and fell flat on my face trying to turn flips in the air. The classes were traumatic and discouraging, as I was already 5 feet 8 inches tall, an entire head taller than most girls my age. Consequently, I was nick-named “the albatross” by my coaches and peers. I knew I would have to work extra hard not to look awkward when I “showed my spirit” during try-outs. I woke up every morning before school and worked on heightening my toe-touch, looking less gangly.
And so, being on the squad was especially special for me. I, the girl who was also nick-named “Shaquille O’Neal” by the boys, was now part of the cool group of girls who’d had boobs since the fourth grade. I started wearing padded bras, with mini-skirts on game days, and before I knew it I had gross, 13-year-old boys with pre-pubescent mustaches hanging all over me. I was a cheerleader. I was popular.
I took cheerleading so seriously, that when I got my first period at our first cheerleading competition, I thought it had something to do with my squad’s incredible first place performance. After all, this day was a pivotal moment in my life, consisting of lots of team prayer, lots of cute squad photos, overzealous glitter application, and a ferocious amount of sharp motions. I was cheerleader. I was woman.
Mary Katherine Stump is a first-year in the Business school and an assistant leisure editor of The Georgetown Voice. She’s transferring to the SFS because their cheerleaders are hotter. Think Madeleine Allbright. Oh yeah.
