Glorified cheerleaders
Riding my bike to work earlier than usual this morning I nearly plowed over a herd of scantily clad teenage girls replete with pom poms and flared skirts to show off their perfectly toned "18 year-old hardbodies" (to quote a very funny woman I met the other day). Now, normally I wouldn't mind the bike lane being invaded by a slew of pretty little white girls, but today I was on my way to be stuck with a needle once again (this time for blood extraction) and I was altogether grumpy because I had awoken at 4 and preceeded to fail at sleep (you may have noticed I was roaming cyberspace at an odd hour even for me) and due to the fasting requirement couldn't even partake of a glass of warm milk for its sleep inducing triptophan. Cute, the other day when my class was reading about insomnia and all 15 bright and cheery-eyed pupils shook their heads confusedly when asked if they suffered from it (I was alone). They smiled sympathetically, they seem to enjoy the stories I tell them about all my crazy happenstances, either that, or they just humor me as keeper of the A's. Perhaps a little of both.
I write today about the cheerleaders, but it was really yesterday that I was thinking about them. You see, I live on a university campus, and in the summer instead of the normal late adolescent/ early adult population, there is a significantly younger group of summer campers peopling the school as if it were theirs by virtue of paying for a week of mediocre food and athletic training. Don't get me wrong, I was one of those obnoxious campers many a summer, playing soccer for hours in the broiling sun, all summer long. It occurs to me now what a wonderful vacation that must have been for my parents, a house to themselves, and a sullen teenage daughter (and son) out of the house getting wholesome teenage interaction. You all know me by now, and you can guess that most of what went on in my teenage years was purely in my head (and not very wholesome) and the little of my instinct that I actually acted upon proved me to be a somewhat reckless and thouroughly daring individual (at least in terms of my lack of inhibitions with relation to human nudity, and experimentation, but we won't go there today). You see, as I returned from my class to my office midday, a full mile away from the fields that were scattered with multi-colored twirly girls, I could hear their voices rise in a dull roar over the campus, reminding me of all that I despised about the pretty girls back in the day. And then in the evening when we were at the pool, and I. was practicing her almost flawless dives off the 1-meter, the man who was coaching the adult competitive swimmers in the next pool over was drooling over the teen queens and their seemingly endless energy. "man, they're pumped all day!" And I thought to myself, "is that all men want, really? big-breasted, tight-tushed bimbos bouncing around and cheering them on, offering up all their power (go tiger power!) to the men? Who cheers for them? Who cheers for us, for god sake? Is this really what we should be teaching our little girls?" I am vaguely nauseous and it is only tangentially related to the fact that I haven't eaten for several hours and my metabolism (theoretically) is being jacked up (the dietician, who I saw again yesterday and fell in love all over again, said my food was gorgeous. I think that I'd like her to be my therapist; she does more for me than the woman I was seeing several months ago, and abandoned for lack of usefullness. This woman, on the other hand, leaves me feeling positive and motivated about everything, even when she points out that while I am laughing it is really more about masking the tears).
I don't want to be one of those appallingly prejudicial people who has something against any particular sector of the population, and indeed I have had students very dear to my heart that were cheerleaders - I never held it against them - but isn't there something, anything that we could be encouraging these girls to do instead of yelling whiny and vapid encouragement to unlistening ears? (Perhaps I am just bitter because of not being in the club??? Nah. Perhaps my deepest fear is that one day I. will come home and tell me that she needs to join the squad... of course I will let her, but I intend to stimulate her critical thinking aparatus sufficiently so that it won't be necessary for me to perform any parental intervention - ha! good luck, right?)
so meanwhile this week I have been injected, extracted, explored, cleaned (dentist today), bled, fed and monitored for all that is or could be wrong. Of course the real problems are all in my head, and we all know that, but that, my dears is precisely why I am writing - prescription drug, along with deep breathing (I forget sometimes) and remembering to eat (which I have been). My class is felicitously coming to a close, all papers are graded and ready to return to their rightful owners, and all that is left after discussing intertextuality, and how Peri Rossi's short story acted as a metaphor for exile is for my kiddos (some significantly older than me, including this really cool sociologist who I had lunch with - it's kosher because she is auditing and a grad student) to bring in food and review for their final exam on Friday. I almost feel guilty for taking so much money for such little amount of work, but I'll get over it.
And it strikes me that in the teaching profession, much like in the parenting one, that is all we really are - glorified cheerleaders, yelling at inevitability until we grow hoarse, shaking our money makers from the sidelines, urging others along on what is ultimately a solitary path to knowledge.
I write today about the cheerleaders, but it was really yesterday that I was thinking about them. You see, I live on a university campus, and in the summer instead of the normal late adolescent/ early adult population, there is a significantly younger group of summer campers peopling the school as if it were theirs by virtue of paying for a week of mediocre food and athletic training. Don't get me wrong, I was one of those obnoxious campers many a summer, playing soccer for hours in the broiling sun, all summer long. It occurs to me now what a wonderful vacation that must have been for my parents, a house to themselves, and a sullen teenage daughter (and son) out of the house getting wholesome teenage interaction. You all know me by now, and you can guess that most of what went on in my teenage years was purely in my head (and not very wholesome) and the little of my instinct that I actually acted upon proved me to be a somewhat reckless and thouroughly daring individual (at least in terms of my lack of inhibitions with relation to human nudity, and experimentation, but we won't go there today). You see, as I returned from my class to my office midday, a full mile away from the fields that were scattered with multi-colored twirly girls, I could hear their voices rise in a dull roar over the campus, reminding me of all that I despised about the pretty girls back in the day. And then in the evening when we were at the pool, and I. was practicing her almost flawless dives off the 1-meter, the man who was coaching the adult competitive swimmers in the next pool over was drooling over the teen queens and their seemingly endless energy. "man, they're pumped all day!" And I thought to myself, "is that all men want, really? big-breasted, tight-tushed bimbos bouncing around and cheering them on, offering up all their power (go tiger power!) to the men? Who cheers for them? Who cheers for us, for god sake? Is this really what we should be teaching our little girls?" I am vaguely nauseous and it is only tangentially related to the fact that I haven't eaten for several hours and my metabolism (theoretically) is being jacked up (the dietician, who I saw again yesterday and fell in love all over again, said my food was gorgeous. I think that I'd like her to be my therapist; she does more for me than the woman I was seeing several months ago, and abandoned for lack of usefullness. This woman, on the other hand, leaves me feeling positive and motivated about everything, even when she points out that while I am laughing it is really more about masking the tears).
I don't want to be one of those appallingly prejudicial people who has something against any particular sector of the population, and indeed I have had students very dear to my heart that were cheerleaders - I never held it against them - but isn't there something, anything that we could be encouraging these girls to do instead of yelling whiny and vapid encouragement to unlistening ears? (Perhaps I am just bitter because of not being in the club??? Nah. Perhaps my deepest fear is that one day I. will come home and tell me that she needs to join the squad... of course I will let her, but I intend to stimulate her critical thinking aparatus sufficiently so that it won't be necessary for me to perform any parental intervention - ha! good luck, right?)
so meanwhile this week I have been injected, extracted, explored, cleaned (dentist today), bled, fed and monitored for all that is or could be wrong. Of course the real problems are all in my head, and we all know that, but that, my dears is precisely why I am writing - prescription drug, along with deep breathing (I forget sometimes) and remembering to eat (which I have been). My class is felicitously coming to a close, all papers are graded and ready to return to their rightful owners, and all that is left after discussing intertextuality, and how Peri Rossi's short story acted as a metaphor for exile is for my kiddos (some significantly older than me, including this really cool sociologist who I had lunch with - it's kosher because she is auditing and a grad student) to bring in food and review for their final exam on Friday. I almost feel guilty for taking so much money for such little amount of work, but I'll get over it.
And it strikes me that in the teaching profession, much like in the parenting one, that is all we really are - glorified cheerleaders, yelling at inevitability until we grow hoarse, shaking our money makers from the sidelines, urging others along on what is ultimately a solitary path to knowledge.
posted by ilana at 10:58 p.m.
9 Comments:
I feel like I could have written this post myself. I understand the irritation with the perky teens, and the role of teacher as cheerleader. Well said!
It's funny how we all want to be physically tantalizing, yet the political implications can be noxious. Some feminists almost seem to go out of their way to make themselves physically unattactive, which is another way of subscribing to the doctrine that society only cares about beauty.
It seems instead that we should just focus on being healthy and happy, and the naturally sexy, vital, positive person in each of us emerges. And THAT is gender neutral.
I was thinking of you while I wrote it! // No wonder I am a feminist, I don't even have to aim for unattractiveness as I am preturnaturally gifted:) (ja ja).// No, I totally agree darling, just couldn't help the chance at a self-depricating joke.
Woman, I will not accept your self-deprecation! You are a radiant, curvy earth goddess-meets-Botticelli and I won't hear any differently!
who is devolving into a terrible speller:)
See, there you go, being a cheerleader!!! Damn that training! BTW, we need to have a real conversation about the article in the City Paper.
Pues a mí si me hubiera gustado ser porrista y cambiar tanto libro por dos horas de la amdiración terrenal de los que me vieran como objeto. Creo que las dos cosas pueden convivir en uno. Creo...
Sole, no niego lo atractivo de la admiración terrenal, sólo que pienso que debemos catalizar nuestras energías hacia algo más productivo que simplemente "ser bonitas" sin más, sin abrir la boca para decir algo de sustancia, ni crear ni actuar por nuestras propias cuentas... Y claro, encontrar el balance es lo que estamos siempre tratando de hacer, ¿no?
Pues sí, pero habiendo crecido como la "inteligente" (y nuna la bonita) no me molestaría pasar un par de días de terrenalidad sin entregar a cambio el cerebro. Una Barbie con conciencia social se llama esa figura! ;)
El estereotipo de belleza actual es tan fugaz y resbaloso que quizá estas niñitas, que te producen asco, sufran muchísimo más que otros cuando en el futuro la pierdan.
Yuré... tú también me has malinterpretado... las niñitas no me provocan asco (de hecho, me parecen, como se podría esperar, atractivas) es la institución que me asquea, es la presión que reciben estas niñas desde arriba, desde que nacen que les dice que es más valioso apoyar a alguién más que buscar su propio camino... Ya sé que generalizo y que muchas estarán por gusto... sin embargo no me deja de entristecer sobre todo justamente porque como decís, sufrirán más en el futuro cuando se encuentren frente al espejo roto, peinando y penándose por los años perdidos...
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