Good Cheer
Words and Art by Cassandra C. Jones | Originally written and performed for The Townies, Inc. at Kim Maxwell’s Studios in Ojai, CAI am in the 9th grade and attending Bellarmine Jefferson, a Catholic High School in Burbank. My parents, liberal-minded ex-hippies, are not religious, but the campus is a block away from our apartment, and I had some trouble in the public school. So they transferred me here.
My unkempt uniform is a white short-sleeved button-down, with a tie tucked into a dark blue polyester skirt, which never fits right. I am slightly overweight, and the hemline that is supposed to fall below my knees is an odd cut, and it makes me feel frumpy. Therefore, I am always trying to fold the waistline over a few times and hike it up a little higher when the nuns aren’t looking.
I am awkward, artsy, and not terribly popular. My friends in school are a group of misfits. They are the stoners, and the heshers, one boy who gets chastised because he has two moms and a girl who’s Mom is so young she feels like one of us.
I am dating David, a varsity football player from Burbank High, the nearby public school. We have nothing in common, and I have never had an athletic pursuit in my life, and he is far from creative. But he is funny and confident, and he likes the idea that I want to be an artist, and it makes him feel edgy around the other players.
I had recently drawn a realistic full-length portrait of him in his football uniform using the pastel set I got for Christmas. His Mom had it framed. The fact that he likes it makes me feel special. And the fact that I took the time to draw it makes him think that I like him enough to put out. I know what he assumes, that I am a token fling. But I don’t want to admit it. I am eager at 14 to experience what it is like for a boy to love me, and I go through all the motions of falling hard for him.
He dumps me right before his Spring Formal for the opportunity to attend the dance with not one, but two Burbank High School Varsity Cheerleaders. He delivers the news matter-of-factly, that morning, over the phone, before school, as if it was just the logical thing to do. “Come on, Cassandra, why wouldn’t I go with them? They’re hot. Be cool about this.”
So I spend my lunch hour weeping, alone on a pew, in our empty school chapel. How could I argue? How can I compete? I am just a chubby, weird girl in a dumb, ill-fitting school uniform.
The next day, sullen and sulky, I see a sign in the gym that changes everything. “Cheerleader Tryouts! No Experience Necessary! Everyone Welcome!”
At that moment, I run through a whole gradient of pros and cons.
I acknowledge that the idea of me trying out for the squad is ridiculous. But I also keep thinking about David and his two new girlfriends and how much I want to win him back.
I’ve always seen the cheerleaders as stuck-up, overly-objectified airheads. But now that I am in a full-blown state of self-justification, they look like strong, confident athletes, spirit-raisers, and feminist leaders. All of a sudden, I envy them.
In contrast, I am by nature reserved, wildly uncoordinated, and out of shape. I can’t even touch my toes. But then I get excited. I like the idea of training for something, breaking out of my shell, and turning all that around. And I pump up my ego with encouraging thoughts like, “It wouldn’t hurt to apply myself every once in a while,” and “Don’t be afraid to try new things.”
The last to go is my cynical self. I think, “Aren’t Catholic School Cheerleaders an oxymoron? A contradiction in terms?” School policy requires us to cover our shoulders and wear hemlines below our knees, but the girls on the team wear tank tops and teeny-tiny skirts. Trained to throw their legs up in the air, most of their routine stunts flaunt their briefs.
We are supposed to be learning God-fearing moral values in this place, but Coach Sister Mary Patrick is straight-up pushing erotica for kids. How do they not see the paradox of ethical ambiguities in this pursuit?
My resolve is swift, and I decide, “Fuck it. I don’t care. I’m in.”
So I sign up and try out.
Right out of the gate, I am magnificently bad at it. I can’t jump or kick or remember the cheers. I mix up my left and right, and I get dizzy when they try to put me on another girl’s shoulders.
But what I don’t know is that Bellarmine Jefferson has an Inclusion Policy. Anyone who tries out to be a cheerleader gets to be a cheerleader, which isn’t necessarily a good thing. To get me through the tryouts, they have to designate me a pep squad tutor that I work with privately, in a separate practice room, for a solid week. But I go where I am told to go. I don’t realize that they have singled me out, and I am having the time of my life. I am stretching, working out, breathing in a fresh new persona, and noticing my body like I never have before. I feel the beat and the rhythm of the cheers on the football field, and even though I am the bumbling weak link in the group, I resonate with school spirit and am into it.
When they announce that “everyone made the team,” there is cheering and hugging, and all the girls wrap their arms around each other as we sway and sing the school anthem. Then I think, “Wow, I am on an actual team.” I feel giddy and a new kind of “special,” like I am part of something. Plus, I get a hot uniform, I get to go to cheerleading camp, and I will be popular. I revel in knowing that David and everyone else will like the new me so much more than ever before.
My parents...have a different experience. They feign excitement at first, then gingerly remind me that I have always wanted to be an artist, ever since I was a little girl. But I say, “No, forget that! Cheerleading is what I want to do now. I love it. Please let me be a cheerleader. It’s so fun. Please. Please. Please.” So they try to be cool with it. They pay the fifty-dollar deposit for my uniform, and I think that seals the deal. Behind the scenes, they are just biding their time until they figure something else out.
In less than one week, they lovingly tell me I “won’t be returning to Bellarmine Jefferson next year,” in what I know deep down is a protest. They say, “We can no longer afford the tuition,” but I know better. For whatever reason, they can’t wrap their heads around this as a lifestyle for our family. So after a cheerleading career that lasted a divine two weeks, I find myself, once again, on my lunch hour weeping, alone on a pew, in our empty school chapel.
I’m in the 10th grade in the Visual Arts Department at the LA County High School for the Arts. I am back with the misfits, the stoners, the heshers, and the kids with weird parents. Only in this school, there are a lot more of us. The only ones who feel different here are the ones who are not. Ultimately, I am glad for the path correction, and I don’t think about cheerleading or that jerk football player for years.
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I am in Graduate School at Carnegie Mellon University, pursuing a Master’s Degree in Fine Arts. One late night at a drunken house party, it comes out that I was once a cheerleader for two whole weeks. My colleagues laugh and ask if I have any photos. Of course, I don’t, but it is one of those funny moments in my life that I never truly reconciled, and I get to thinking about it. A quiet part of me remembers what it felt like, at 14, to be encouraged and accepted, and part of me wonders what it would have been like if I had seen it through. I might not be where I am now.
Then one day, cheerleaders make their way into my art. I find a bunch of photos on eBay of girls with their legs up in the air, performing routine stunts that flaunt their briefs. And I decide that this is a great time to embrace and explore the paradox of ethical ambiguities in that pursuit. So I cut them all up and turn them into a large-scale collage that becomes a wallpaper installation. It shows in galleries and museums all over the country. I give academic lectures on the work, where I talk about objectivity versus feminism and religious values versus erotica. It is one of the early pieces that start my career as a professional artist.
Those images remain in my work for years to come. And to this day, I still go down to the football field every once in a while to watch the girls practice, and I enjoy the beat and the rhythm of the cheers.
FUSE, an exhibition of artist Cassandra C. Jones at Abigail Ogilvy Gallery, 2017