“You’re a Cheerleader”

Bring It On (2000)

“You’re a cheerleader,” the boy said as he glanced me up and down. I asked him if he recognized me from the football games, and he responded with, “No, you just look like a cheerleader.” Instinctively, I thanked him, but then paused. Everything I wore suddenly seemed too much: my jewelry too flashy, my skirt too pink, my sneakers too flowery. In this boy's eyes, I wasn't a cheerleader; I was solely a stereotype of one. Movies often perpetuate the cheerleader as the overly feminine character who is the stereotypical mean girl or dumb blonde. (And of course, Taylor Swift’s hit song lyrics, “She wears high heels, I wear sneakers, she’s cheer captain, and I’m on the bleachers” serve as the cherry-on-top.) Although the boy’s assumption wasn’t wrong, because I was a cheerleader, knowing he identified me as one based on my outfit alone surprised my nice girl, smart-brunette self.

Ever since I was little, I would replace my wardrobe from the year prior and proclaim an entirely new fashion style for the upcoming year. First grade was Hannah Montana, 2012 was a flashback to the 1970s, and other years comprised dressing super pink, in comfy clothes only, or jeans and a t-shirt. As usual, I would grow tired of the style after a few months, but because I hadn’t outgrown the clothes, my mom wouldn’t let me go on another shopping spree. So, I would have to cope with the pieces already on my hangers. By the end of each school year, I would scramble through my closet, trying to put together an outfit that matched the new person I had grown into. As an indecisive girl trying to individualize herself amongst a society of homogeneous styles and aesthetics, I struggled to find a style I was comfortable with. And because I never found the style that resonated with me long term, I repeated this cycle annually until the pivotal moment when the boy told me I looked like a cheerleader.

After his comment, I realized limiting myself to one style was fooling everyone, including myself, into thinking I was this one-dimensional, easy-to-read stereotype; labels are for clothes, not for the people who wear them. Like others, I’m a multidimensional human with a variety of preferences and interests, not just those that complement one another and fit into specific molds. Sure, some people conform to certain color palettes and patterns because that’s what they prefer; however, I only wore a certain aesthetic, not because that was all I liked—but because I craved cohesion and clever contrast and seamlessness.

And it turns out I had been ingraining this idea of perfection into every aspect of my life, adding immense pressure upon myself. Clinging to a standard I set for myself would give me a sense of stability as I struggled through times of change. But as I would inevitably fail to meet my unrealistic expectations, I would reset the cycle of choosing a new standard for myself, similar to how I would start over my wardrobe.

When I recognized this, I discarded my old perspective and others’ opinions. Throughout the rest of my sophomore and junior year, I focused on striving for progress instead of perfection. I accepted that life isn’t static and that it is constantly going to change, but this doesn’t mean I can’t evolve with it. So as each day is different, so is my style. Now, I no longer restrict myself in anything, and I tailor my style to reflect who I feel like at the moment, whether or not this is sometimes a preppy cheerleader.