Audio By Carbonatix
Wanda Holloway, the so-called “Cheerleader Mom,” is nowhere in sight.
But in the air-conditioned hallways of a Plano junior high school this past Saturday morning, her kind of zealotry for pompom competitions wouldn’t be out of place.
Holloway was the Houston mom convicted in 1991 of hiring a killer to knock off her high school daughter’s cheerleading rival.
These moms at the Plano school have done nothing like that. Not yet, anyway. They have simply opted to send their 3- and 4-year-old girls–that’s right, pikers who have been in diapers longer than they have been out of them–to cheerleading class.
These moms plop themselves on the sidelines of the brown-carpeted floor to watch as their girls learn how to jump, shout, cheer, and work some phantom crowd into a frenzy of team spirit. For 45 minutes each Saturday morning over the next eight weeks, these kids will follow directions as two blonde, lithe, high-school-aged cheerleaders demonstrate toe tucks, “hey, hey, what do you say” chants, and pyramid stunts.
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The Plano Parks & Recreation Department has offered such classes for the post-toddler set on and off for several years now, says Lynn Welsch, the director of the Clark Recreation Center, which is sponsoring the current session at the school. Welsch doesn’t know if the program has ever been available for such a young group before, but the cheerleading class is just an extension of the sports programs–the soccer and tee-ball–that the rec center offers that age group.
The six mothers who brought their girls to class offer varying, sometimes transparent, reasons for teaching their tots the fine art of shouting under controlled conditions.
“I didn’t want to put her in,” says Susan Akmon, as she ushers her 4-year-old into class. Little Sarah wears a red pleated short skirt and white shirt; the outfit distinctly resembles a cheerleader’s uniform. “She insisted,” says Akmon apologetically. “I know they’re a little young for this.” But her neighborhood, Akmon explains, happens to be full of aspiring junior-high-sized cheerleaders. Sarah has longed to cartwheel and roll around the back yard like the older girls do. Her mom finally succumbed to the pressure and signed Sarah up for class. “Those big girls made such an impact,” says Akmon.
As if on cue, Sarah adds, “They [the big girls] came over swimming last night.” Now it is her turn to be just like them. Never mind that she is 10 years their junior.
“She sees it on television,” defends Karen Gomoa, who proudly watches her daughter Taylor, 4, line up with the others to start warmups before getting into the thick of things. Cheerleading is so pervasive in the culture, with professional and college games dominating TV, and every sports team down to the junior high school level glamorizing the role of cheerleaders within the spectacle. Small wonder that 3-year-old Yami Ododo wanted to dedicate herself to building team spirit after she watched the cheerleading competitions on ESPN. Her mother, Gloria, figured she had no choice when she thumbed through a recreation center catalogue and saw they were offering cheerleading.
Other kids seem to take on the dreams of their parents, who may be giving them a push toward a goal they may not have realized for themselves.
For Morgan Mitchell’s parents, the decision to send their 3-year-old to the class hinged on the girl’s future career plans.
“Morgan wants to be a cheerleader when she grows up,” says her mom, Laura Mitchell, somewhat matter-of-factly. Morgan’s father seems more preoccupied with holding his squirmy baby boy as mom keeps a close eye on her daughter’s progress in class. Laura, who was raised in North Dallas, says she was a cheerleader in junior high–“a long time ago,” but she didn’t make the cut in high school. She grows overly concerned about her child’s performance out on the floor. “At home, she does better,” she claims after Morgan acts somewhat tentative in front of her cheerleading teachers. It seems to take everything Laura has not to race onto the floor to help her child. But little Morgan later redeems herself when performing the flyer role in a pyramid trick, and mom claps with pride, embracing her daughter as she runs off the floor for a quick hug.
The two teachers, Melissa Garza and Sarah Williamson, who are entering the 11th grade at Plano East High School, have found that getting a bunch of preschoolers to understand the fundamentals of cheerleading is not so easy.
“I knew it was going to be hard,” says Garza, who cheered her way through junior high and failed to make the high school cut last year, but plans to try again next summer for the 12-member senior squad. Garza and Williamson spend much of the session coaxing the quietest of chants out of the row of little girls in front of them. The students look up blankly, regularly peeking back at their moms on the floor. At first, it seems as if the group doesn’t understand whether they are supposed to just watch their instructors or copy them. Told to jump, the girls stand idle. Asked to yell, the girls remain silent.
“For a bunch of cheerleaders, you don’t sound too spirited,” shouts Williamson in a pep-rally tone she must have used to cajole the junior high masses. “Yell after us,” Williamson continues, her arms stretching high to the ceiling. “Hey. Hey. What do say? Go, Cougars, go.”
The preschoolers stand, limbs still, scarcely a murmur coming out of their mouths. The little girls look puzzled. There may be some question about exactly what cougars are.
For the older 5- and 6-year-old students whom they instruct in the following class period on Saturdays, the teachers have devised a fictional team, “the Barbies,” explains Garza. “It makes it more fun for them.” Not to mention more concrete.
Giving up on getting the younger girls to actually cheer out loud, the teachers move on to gymnastics. Williamson and Garza split the class into pairs. “Everybody is going to be watching you,” says Williamson. “Isn’t that cool?”
Yami Ododo seems a natural at jumping. She must realize it and giggles her acknowledgement. “You think it’s cool, don’t you?” says Williamson approvingly.
Not surprisingly, others in the class are less skillful. Another pyramid of girls tries to form, but tumbles to the floor in a heap of arms and legs. One girl has seen enough, apparently all pepped out. She sidles over to her mother, seeking comfort and consolation. Her mom opens her arms.
It’s 9:45. Mercifully, it’s time to quit.
