My brief and shocking cheer-leading past

You know how it is… You wake up from a terrible nightmare, sitting bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, clutching your blankets, hoping that the axe-wielding murderer isn’t still chasing you or that your car didn’t crash over the cliff after all. I had this experience a couple of weeks ago, and it wasn’t a murderer or terrifying car crash that invaded my sleeping subconscious. Nope. I was having a vivid, horrible nightmare that I was a cheerleader.

Clearly, I’m not currently a cheerleader, unless you’re counting the kind that chauffeur their kid to a gazillion sporting events. I’m way too old to be the tiny-skirt-wearing, pom-pom shaking type. I mean, I’ll go to a hot yoga class half-naked (pre-pandemic, of course) and I’m 99% confident that I could bust a move as well as the Phoenix Suns dancers that I saw at a game a couple of years ago, but I can’t imagine a scenario where it would happen, in public, on the sidelines of an athletic competition, at this point in my life.

Despite all reassurances of logic and reality, the terror of my nightmare stuck with me throughout the day. I am most certainly not a cheerleader now, and I would say the risk of me becoming a cheerleader any time in the future is akin to being struck by lightening or winning the lottery, but what about the past? Had I ever been a cheerleader? I didn’t think so, but I had to admit, there was a niggling doubt.

I delved into the depths of my history – or at least dug through a bunch of old photos – and my shocking discovery took me on a trip down memory lane into my brief cheer-leading past.

Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate….

Well, here you have it, photographic evidence that I was indeed a cheerleader. The weird arm pose is somewhere between reluctant cheerleader and aspiring body builder, but I think we can all agree that the stick-thin limbs, coupled with the itty-bitty skirt point toward the former. My memories of this are fuzzy and elusive – much like a dream I’m trying too hard to remember, but I think I spent one season cheering for a junior football league of some sort when we lived in Arizona. My favorite part about this photo is that I’m wearing my beloved red Snoopy watch. Bonus points for anyone who can figure out what brand of sneakers I’m wearing. I can’t tell. Some long-defunct ‘70s label?

Another chapter in my apparently storied cheer-leading history. (I’m the one with the bright blond pigtails.)

This gem was taken at “Mini Cheer Summer Camp” in 1980 (as the t-shirts indicate), and while the memories the former photo sparked are murky at best, these came rushing back, crystal clear.

The highlight of cheer camp for me was the pom-poms. If I close my eyes, I can still see, hear, and feel them. They seemed so enormous and glamorous. They were black and gold (the high school colors) and they made such a happy noise when shaken. I’m talking about big, round ‘70s pom-poms; not the sad little nubby ones you see these days that barely poke out of the cheerleaders’ hands. These babies were a rare commodity and highly in-demand. I think each camp participant got dumb little pretend pom-poms made of cheap crepe paper, but the big, fluffy, crinkly, REAL ones . . . there were only seven or eight pairs of those in existence and they belonged to the super cool, sophisticated members of the high school cheer-leading team, who were also our camp teachers.

At the end of each camp day, the cheerleaders gathered all the kids in the gym and gave awards. Each cheerleader picked a camper who had shown the most “spirit” (whatever that means) or who had learned a cheer particularly well or who had perfected a dance routine, and that lucky little girl’s reward was taking a set of pom-poms home for the WHOLE night! It was almost too wonderful to be believed. I KILLED myself every day trying to win the pom-poms. Oh, how I wanted to feel them in my hands, to hear that faint crinkly, swishing noise when I shook them. Finally, several days into the camp, my dream came true. And I didn’t get just anyone’s pom-poms – I got Shannon’s pom-poms.  She was my favorite. She seemed beautiful and cool and impossibly glamorous, and I was blessed with possession of her pom-poms for a whole 15+ hours!  I was so happy, I couldn’t stop smiling. I didn’t let go of the pom-poms all night.  I shook them to my heart’s content. I danced with them and cheered with them, and took them to bed with me. I spent the whole evening creating choreography that was specifically designed to make the most of the pom-poms.

As if winning the pom-poms wasn’t fantastic enough, there was also a bonus prize. When you won the pom-poms, you also got that cheerleader’s “spirit stick.” I thought that maybe spirit sticks were unique to where I grew up or were just a 70’s thing, but a quick Google search proved me wrong.

According to my internet research, the spirit stick tradition was born at a National Cheerleaders Association camp sometime in the mid-20^th century. Over the course of the camp, one team stood out from the rest. They couldn’t jump, or stunt, or tumble as well as the other teams, but their positive attitude and spirit promoted enthusiasm and unity among all the camp participants. Their scores wouldn't land them in the winner's circle, but Lawrence "Herkie" Herkimer (cheer-leading innovator and pom-pom patent holder!!!), wanted to acknowledge their efforts in a special way. With such short notice, he didn't have many options, so he cut a branch off a tree, painted it and allowed it to dry in his garage. He presented the stick to the team as a "spirit stick" to honor the attitude and enthusiasm that the team embodied.

Wow. This guy really knew how to give a special award. “Hey, um, you kind of suck, but because of your great attitude and everything, I cut this stick off a tree and put some left-over paint on it. Enjoy.” Next time you’re lecturing your kids about the lameness of participation awards, you can tell them, “Look, when I was a kid, we didn’t get a trophy just for participating. No, we got a gnarled, broken-ass stick.”

Despite the humble and, let’s face it, lame origins of the spirit stick, the stick clearly stuck. Now there are many options for purchasing commercially manufactured spirit sticks, or you can get crafty and make your own to put old Herkie’s DIY job to shame.

A glitzy, modern version of the spirit stick.

The spirit sticks at my Mini Cheer Camp were large pieces of dowel that were about a foot long.  They were painted gold with black stripes on the end and they had the cheerleader’s name on them. Other than serving as an award for effort and a perky cheerleader attitude, I’m not sure what the spirit sticks were used for. I think we were supposed to yell and scream and “show lots of spirit” when the cheerleaders held them in the air. I imagine they used them in the same manner in their official cheerleader capacity at games. 

Does this gang of spirit stick wielding cheerleaders inspire you to cheer for your team or run for your life?

In my mind, the spirit sticks paled in comparison to the pom-poms, but the cool thing about the spirit sticks was that, on the last day of camp, each cheerleader picked one “overall best” girl who won that cheerleader’s spirit stick and got to keep it FOREVER.  They must have made new ones for themselves each fall.  Or maybe their pot-smoking boyfriends made them in between designing and building new bongs in wood shop. It was the end of the ‘70's after all. Anyway, the last day of camp rolled around and I was a nervous wreck wondering if I would win a spirit stick. I knew I would be in the running, since I was one of the daily pom-pom winners. The awards process seemed to take forever. The suspense with each name they called was excruciatingly painful. At long last, the ever-cool Shannon called my name! I could hardly believe it!  It was the best summer ever. I treasured that spirit stick with the black block letters that spelled S-H-A-N-N-O-N for at least the rest of the summer. I have no idea what ever happened to it, or Shannon for that matter.

If only I had been able to keep the pom-poms instead, I truly would have cherished them forever and the arc of reality could have been altered. Like the Chaos Theory’s Butterfly Effect where a butterfly flapping its wings on one side of the world causes a hurricane on another, small changes in initial conditions can lead to drastic changes in results. Maybe I would have leaned cheerleader instead of dancer? Maybe the Seattle Mariners would have played in a World Series. Maybe they would have even won?! Maybe the Russians wouldn’t have influenced the 2016 election? Who knows the power of pom-poms? At the very least, I could be having very different nightmares.

8th Grade Graduation – Then and Now

It’s graduation time. Despite the very strange circumstances imposed by a global pandemic, I am enjoying my own family’s celebrations, as well as seeing photos of other graduates – from newly minted kindergarteners (the cutest!), to 8^th grade, high school, and college grads.

Even without having to graduate in quarantine, these important rites of passage are emotional affairs – leaving behind beloved places, people, and phases of life to embark on new adventures and bright futures. It’s all very bittersweet.

While I’ve been feeling sad for the young people who are missing out on typical, in-person traditions associated with graduations, I’ve been moved and impressed with efforts to celebrate our graduates despite the limitations of current reality. Parent volunteers, dedicated administrators, unendingly fantastic teachers, and even students themselves have gone above and beyond to celebrate graduation accomplishments this year – from yard signs and gift bag deliveries, to graduation parades and virtual commencement programs. It hasn’t been the same, but it has been special, and it will certainly be remembered.

All the graduation fanfare got me thinking about my own graduations and how they measured up to this year’s batch of commencements. Since my son Chester graduated from 8^th grade this year, I dug into my memory banks (and old photos) to conduct a comparison of our 8^th grade graduations, including all the important elements: Ceremony, attire, and, of course, hair.

8^th Grade Graduation of Chester Billerbeck: Present day (2020), Westside School, Seattle, Washington

Because of the corona virus pandemic, Chester’s graduation looked a lot different than it would have under normal circumstances. His class should have gone on a camping trip the week before graduation – a tradition all Westside kids hear about and look forward to throughout their years at the school.

Instead of gathering around a campfire and sharing insights and memories about each other, the students wrote little notes that were delivered on graduation day. Another important camping trip tradition involves students hiking into the woods and spending solitary time reading letters secretly written in advance by their parents. In lieu of this experience, Chester asked me for the letter on graduation day, after his class met via Zoom. He proceeded to the backyard, where he valiantly attempted to recreate the forest vibe by setting up a camp chair facing a Japanese maple and some nearly-blooming peonies. I think he appreciated the letter (as much as any 8^th grade boy could), but reported that the attempt to conjure a wilderness setting was, sadly, unsuccessful.

A couple of hours after Chester’s backyard “hike” experience, a wonderful graduation procession came by our house, including the Westside bus and several carloads of teachers, administrators, and even the Westside Wolf mascot. They came bearing colorful signs, flowers, Chester’s 8^th grade diploma, and a bag of cards and goodies. There was so much honking and happy chattering that our neighbor even came out with her own “Congratulations Graduate!” sign (She is, and has always been, presciently prepared for any festive occasion. It is inexplicable and lovely.)

Finally, instead of a ceremony in the school’s auditorium, we all tuned in for a pre-recorded commencement ceremony on YouTube, followed by a Zoom reception. I had my doubts about an online graduation, but the Westside staff pulled off a ceremony that was thoughtful, meaningful, and moving. It truly honored each graduate as an individual and celebrated their uniquely wonderful class.

 

This photo was taken before the online ceremony. As you can see, we took the opportunity to don a slight more dressed-up look than our typical quarantine-wear. Chester put on a dress-shirt and some jeans that he clearly outgrew since the last time he put them on, pre-pandemic. When his future friends make fun of his hair, he’ll have the excuse that he had been in quarantine for three months and was left with a partly grown-out haircut that his mom felt convinced she could handle after a YouTube tutorial. I had no such excuse for my 8^th grade graduation hair, unless you count the fact that it was the 80’s.

  

8^th Grade Graduation of Ronda Billerbeck (née Simons): 1986, Azalea Middle School, Brookings, Oregon

 I honestly don’t recall if my class had a graduation ceremony for 8^th grade, but we must have. The part of our festivities that really stands out in my memory is the graduation dance. It was our first “semi-formal” dance before the barrage of high school homecomings and proms, so I remember it feeling very special and grown up.

A vague memory of a graduation ceremony is lurking in the recesses of my brain. I think it took place in the gym, prior to the dance. I remember being bussed to and from a pre-dance “banquet” which was basically a spaghetti-feed. (Who feeds spaghetti to a group of 13 and 14-year-olds dressed up in semi-formal clothing?!)

The dance took place in our school’s “wresting room,” which was a smaller gym connected to the main gym. It was filled with wrestling mats and an assortment of athletic equipment used daily by junior high boys. It didn’t set the tone for a fancy event for many reasons, not the least of which was the smell.

Here I am, at the dance, with my date, Adam. Let’s take a moment to admire my totally bitchin’ 80s dress…

 

I. Loved. This. Dress.

 

I loved this dress, and it involved quite a lot of drama. I saw it in some magazine (Seventeen probably) and fell completely in love with it. Nothing else would do. I HAD to have this Jessica McClintock number. Any girl who grew up in the 80s will remember that Jessica McClintock dresses were THE dresses to have. (Jessica McClintock prom dresses were in the 80s what Vera Wang wedding gowns were in the 90s.)

So, I had identified the desired dress; all I had to do was go out and purchase it, right? Wrong! A dress this fabulous certainly wasn’t available anywhere in or near the rural Oregon community where I grew up (this is pre-Al Gore’s internet, remember?), so I begged my mom to enlist the help of my aunt who, at the time, lived in Seattle.  She scoured the city and found the dress! In my size! I was thrilled! Little did I know, trouble was brewing. Trouble of the most serious sort. 

A classmate returned from a family spring break vacation to California with a “totally cute” graduation dress.  It was Jessica McClintock and it had a ruffle around the top; it was tea-length, with a slight princess waist-line, and bows on the shoulders. This dress was sounding awfully familiar and my worst fears were confirmed. This bitch had the EXACT same dress (Oh the horror!) in light pink. Mine was clearly more sophisticated in seafoam, but still.

Tears were shed.  Threats were made. Names were called. Mothers conferred via telephone. At long last, the copycat bitch and I were convinced (sort of, but not really) that the color difference made the whole situation acceptable. I compensated with a handmade choker, crafted of ribbon a few shades darker than the dress, adorned with a real rose with petal-tips dyed the same color. Breathtaking. Please ignore my hideous hair. I look like a cross between a poodle and Sammy Hagar.

After all that drama over my dress, you can image how careful I was to avoid splattering red sauce all over it at the spaghetti feed. I emerged unscathed from the banquet but someone spilled fruit punch all over the front of my dress about five minutes after this photo was taken at the dance. 

So, in review, after worrying about Chester not having a meaningful 8^th grade graduation, I think he ended up with a ceremony that was much more memorable than mine. He didn’t have to endure a socially awkward formal dance in a stinky gym, and he certainly came away with much less cringe-worthy photographic evidence. (We both have mouths full of braces, so that’s a wash.)

Congratulations 2020 graduates!

 

 

Drive My Car?

I’m not sure if I’m ever going to be able to do what I do again; at least not in the same way. I’m an arts administrator and performing arts presenter. My whole professional purpose is bringing people together to see art, to be entertained, to build community, to witness beauty and to share that experience with each other.

We’ve all read countless essays, articles, and stories about how profoundly the arts and entertainment world has been impacted by the COVID-19 pandemic. And, I know it’s not just the arts, or restaurants, or retail, or … (insert one of many devastated sectors). Let’s face it, almost every nook and cranny of our economy is feeling the pain.

So far, I feel lucky. I run the arts program of a suburban city, so my arts job is more stable than many. But now state and local governments are falling into deeper and deeper deficits. Each day I hear about another city in our region that has cut millions of dollars, laid off employees, and decimated arts, music, and park programs. In this new reality, it feels like stability is slipping away, like a car in an action movie teetering on the edge of a cliff after a hairpin switch-back chase scene. Time stops as the protagonist sits frozen in the driver’s seat, simultaneously thrilled that she is still alive and terrified that she soon won’t be. The car lurches, then stills before lurching several more inches toward the drop below. It’s silent except for the sounds of slipping rocks and creaking metal. Should she try to climb out? Should she lean one way or the other? Should she remain motionless until someone comes to rescue her? Every minuscule decision, every tiny action seems to matter immensely and not matter at all.

Every day, when I get up and turn on my laptop to tackle another day of working from home, I’m in that doomed car…

Bad-ass Paul Walker (R.I.P.) as Brian O'Conner in Furious 7 (Universal Pictures) 

Some days I’m all adrenaline and focused confidence. I’m leaning. I’m shifting my weight. I’m wriggling slowly toward the shattered window. I’m going to climb onto the hood and leap to the safety of solid ground as the car gives way and sails through the air before crashing in a spectacular explosion on the rocks below. “Well that car is destroyed,” I think, “but we’ll create a brand-new car!” If there is anyone who can do it, it’s artists and people who work in the arts and culture sector. I’ve spent my entire career in this field and have always counted myself lucky to work with smart, creative, hard-working and committed people. We can do it. We’ll build a new car. So many of my colleagues – those I don’t know and those I do – across the country and world are showing inspiring creativity in coming up with ways to keep making and sharing art. Live streaming performances with audience interaction, murals on the boarded-up windows of neighborhood businesses, online platforms for sharing art, virtual museum tours, socially distanced events of all different kinds. This is a brand-new car, a completely different car. Maybe even an exciting car!

Other days, I’m lost and hopeless. I’m frozen behind the wheel and I feel like it doesn’t matter what I do. I can hold my breath. I can shimmy and crawl. It doesn’t matter because I’m either going down with that beat-up car or hanging onto the edge of the cliff by my fingertips. Maybe I’ll muster the strength and get a foothold. Maybe I’ll drag myself to the top and limp to a new car. But it feels like this new car isn’t nearly as fun as the old car. I’m not racing around corners with the windows down, my hair blowing in the breeze and the sun on my face. It’s a driving simulator – it looks like a car, it offers all the key components of driving a car, but none of the essence, none of life, none of that magic that happens when you’re speeding down a real road.

I’m spending my days working on Plan B’s, and Plan C’s, and even Plan D’s. Sometimes it’s exciting to flex my creative muscles a little more than usual, to feel like maybe this whole thing has jostled me out of a “this is how we’ve always done things” rut. But there’s always a niggling doubt… Are people even going to want to watch a live-streamed version of this show? One where they can’t hear the reactions and applause of the people sitting next to them. Are people going to go out of their way to take a virtual tour of a museum or gallery? Is seeing Starry Night on video that much different than seeing it in the book sitting on the coffee table? Aren’t we missing the essence of the thing if we can’t share it? If we can’t see our own wonder and emotion reflected on the faces of those around us?   

Here’s the thing… I don’t want to have those kinds of arts experiences. No matter how clever and how many technological bells and whistles, they seem a little empty. I immediately appreciate the ingenuity, but that wears off and then… it’s a driving simulator and not a Ferrari. So, if I don’t want them, why am I knocking myself out to plan them for others? Does anyone want them? Is all my leaning and wiggling and trying to pull myself and my work up from that cliff worth it? Can I deliver a car that anyone wants to drive?