By Jocelyn Victoria Kovach

We’re a troop of monkeys – entertainers, court jesters. 


The air reeks of saccharine perfume and sweat-soaked socks. My muscles scream as my arms cut through the air. A choreographer's fingers bury themselves in my brain, wriggling around and moving my arms and legs in a visually appealing gesticulation. I feel as though there are clips on the corners of my mouth with a string tied around my skull. My teeth are bared in an approximation of a porcelain mask. There are twenty-four girls on the cheerleading team. We’re a troop of monkeys — entertainers, court jesters.

We perform not just under the Friday Night Lights, but throughout school while wearing our uniforms. It’s a privilege. We wear this second skin when we walk the halls between classes. This label tags us as untouchable: the ultimate achievement.

When practice ends, we lumber over to the lockers holding clothes void of sterilized struggle. The girls pick on one another. They needle the appearances of others and whisper venomous barbs behind their perfectly manicured hands. We shed our school logos, and with them, the deep-seated insecurities that manifest as abrasive entitlement.

While we can come together on stage for a two-minute and thirty-second performance, we are not in the sport for the same reason. The subterfuge and treachery of girls who think that being mean masks their teenage angst reminds me of just that.

Most of the girls aren’t in cheer for the satisfying feeling of complete control over their bodies, but for the social standing and clique rewards. They clamor to climb the social structure more enthusiastically than they climb our pyramids. Our team isn’t accomplished. The girls focus more intently on receiving social favor than on practicing their skills.

I concentrate on the routine. I’m all too aware of the eyes that will monitor me during the performance with both admiration and disdain. I review the choreography in my mind. Running through the motions of a full show fills me with a giddiness that only being on stage can replicate.

I imagine standing on the blue strips of three-inch foam that seem to stretch for miles. I’m paralyzed until the music blares through the speakers, kick-starting my mental eight-count, which synchronizes to my heartbeat. My body stretches, muscles falling back on memories of skills I learned years ago. My stomach lurches as I throw myself through each flip, my arms scream when I'm holding up my top girl, my voice breaks as I screech encouragement for the figures suffering next to me. The rewarding feeling of running on stage once the music cuts off and reveling in the shared accomplishment is a high I constantly chase.

On my drive home, green trees blur as I cruise past buildings I’ve seen for years, but never really looked at. This cleanses my mind and washes away the tarnish of my teammates’ bad attitudes. By the time I’m home, my soul has been gently polished by the leaves on the trees and the routine in my mind.

— — —

The next day, I’m on a different stage. This one is built of black waxy wood on the backs of awkward teenagers. Most of the cast and crew hide behind the looming curtains, avoiding the ire of our director. On this stage, we rehearse the same scenes almost daily. I’m part of the ensemble, and I am happy to be. The students find this place to be a safe haven from the contempt of high school. These kids deserve the spotlight more. Let me hide in the gentle anonymity that comes from this eccentric community embracing my dull shell. Here, I’m not odd for seeking companionship and trust in my peers.

I giggle backstage with my friends. We stifle our snorts and pretend to pay attention while nudging each other inconspicuously. Our director wants us to work harder. He wants us to realize our potential. Many of these students spend hours reciting lines. I watch them huddled in the corners of the black box, muttering the same phrase over and over with different expressions, different tones. They try slipping on the skin of new characters, imagining lives they’ve never lived. They’re not always chosen for the main role, but they step back and study harder for the next audition.

There is less social pressure in the theater. Of course, we still have moments of tension, moments when our creative passions push us to competitive posturing. Girls tell each other to “break a leg” with more than the typical well-wishing behind it. Boys pat each other on the back a little too roughly. Yet these moments of annoyance come and go as swiftly as our performances fly. The students here don’t wish to steal the spotlight for themselves — they would rather pull each other to the front of the stage for the sacred act of the final bow.

The difference between this stage and the blue mat is that I do not feel like my stomach is turning itself inside out, or that TV static is buzzing under my skin. I relish the shared artistic enjoyment. Backstage, the technicians hustle about and whisper through headsets, controlling lights and the mood of the show. The actors mouth words and swing their bodies with a flourish. The stage lights burn through our layers of clothing, causing beads of sweat to roll down our figures, but we ignore them. We are here to perform art. We are here for the shared feeling of joy.

Our bodies fit together to create cogs in a machine; we’re a school of fish, harmonized and interchangeable. We all exist in the grand inner workings. No part is too small to have a significant impact. We interlock our skills like we’re teeth in a gear, with all experience levels contributing equally to the collaborative routine.

— — —

I miss performing. Late at night, I dream of my muscles stretching and adrenaline pumping through my veins. The crowd is a blur, looking at us with reverence and envy. Pride swells in my chest when I think of being on stage, of putting on a show to prove not only my talent but that of everyone around me. It stems from the endorphins released during exercise, the knowledge of the time and tears I've dedicated to doing what I love, and the joy of others.

Cheer was where I began to understand myself. I wasn’t the best cheerleader; my anxiety and insecurity kept me from progressing. I felt like a sheep in wolves' clothing — a weed surrounded by flowers.

It was different in the theater. Everyone was there for the joy of performing. There were still times when I felt like a fish out of water, gasping and gaping, flopping across the stage with faltering acting — but it was about taking pride in experiencing something new. It was about stepping out of my own life to make someone believe in the tale I twisted.

My last time on stage didn’t feel real. I was swept up in the emotion of the world created from the imagination and dedication of all the cast and crew. During the show, we didn’t dare breathe a word backstage. We had only 40 minutes to wrap up our show. 40 minutes to make everyone believe the story we wove using facial expressions and lines interpreted from a script written 100 years ago. Everything goes as we planned, not a prop out of place.

The show ends, the curtains close, yet we could still hear the roaring cheers and the raucous applause: a standing ovation. ■