Finding your niche
We spend life following the “norm.” When we become old enough, we go to school. When we come of age, we get a job and start bringing home a paycheck. Once we finish primary school, we go to college. Then buy a house, pay bills, retire, and finally, we reach the end of our days. That’s okay, but it’s boring. There’s no excitement in doing everything everyone else does. In order to make this life ours, we find something or someone that brings us immense joy. Something that we are willing to invest all of our time and energy into. For me, for the high school
chapter of my life, that something was cheerleading. From the outside, this sport comes across as peppy, maybe even a little entitled. But from the inside, cheerleading is mindblowing. The amount of sweat, tears, bruises, and injuries put into pulling off the things we do was overwhelming in the beginning. There was conditioning, strength training, memorization drills, and cardio punishments for missing a practice and for forgetting equipment like proper cheer shoes, poms, ponytail holder, etc. We trained hard for months and when competition came around, we trained even harder. Months of late nights, bruises and injury for two minutes and 30 seconds of judges. Competitions were exhilarating: the crowd cheer us on, other cheer teams cheer us on. Hitting every stunt, motion, and cheer was incredible. And taking home first place was extraordinary, as firsts always are. But this sport is so much more than rankings and bright lights and a blue mat. Cheerleading is about taking big risks and long chances. Challenge out on the edge takes you places you never thought you could go. So we have to trust each other—your team literally has your back, your shoulder, your heart. When you are vaulted into the air, you have to trust the arms that will catch you when gravity wins. Trusting my team with my
life was the best thing I’ve ever done. It created bonds stronger than life itself. Those bonds we built became more than friendships. They became family. A family that was not born by blood, but forged in years of hard work, injury tears, winning and losing. In losing it was strongest. You, my cheer team, became my family away from home. You made my school career, easier, yet more interesting and more challenging. In middle school, I joined the all-star young champions cheer team and was part of that for two seasons (one full year). Money was tight, so I took the next year off. The following year I had tryouts for high school cheer. I made varsity and on my fourth year, I became captain. The honor of my captaincy was a gift that will always stay with me. There is something profound about being selected to lead; it is an indescribable confidence bestowed. Four years ago you were strangers. I never have imagined we would bond as the team we became. You helped shape me into someone I am proud of. If it hadn’t been for our team… our “family,” my life would have been so different, my high school experience would have been shallow. Thank you for the gift of your trust. We’re CHS.
A polite young man
There was a young man. Eighteen years of age, no more, no less. Okay maybe a bit more. There was a young man. Eighteen years, 15 weeks, and 6 days old. He was a polite young man. He enjoyed tying his shoelaces, peoplewatching, and eating mac & cheese. He was a good man. Always followed the rules. He smiled at senior citizens, opened doors for strangers, and gave his waiters sizable tips. He was careful not to talk too loud, for he was worried he’d seem intimidating. He felt bad for passerbys on the street who walked a bit slow, and for kids who seemed just not quite right. He felt for all people, and all things living or not. When he was seven, he had a pair of socks. He loved those socks. They were warm, gray, and fit his foot perfectly. One day, he was packing up his things to leave his grandparent’s home. It was his favorite place, and he adored his grandparents. He had to pack quick, so he stuffed his backpack, tied his shoelaces, and folded his favorite pair of-- oh wait. He couldn’t find one of his socks. “How could I lose one of the greatest things I have ever owned?” he thought. He frantically searched the house. Each bedroom, book-
shelf, and bathtub, stumbling every other step because the foot with which he still had a sock for was slippery on the hardwood floors. He layed down beside the bed, peering into the darkness. There was no sock there. It was nowhere to be found. “Where could he be? I hope he’s safe. I hope he’s warm. I bet he misses his brother: Right sock.” Thought the young man, at this point was still a young boy. His foot was cold. His mother was calling for him to get in the car, but he was paralyzed. He had had never felt such deep distress for an inanimate object. “What have I done? I’ve betrayed my son. I will find you one day. I promise.” He promised. But he never found his missing sock.
Ba ba black sheep, have you any time to learn about our Lord, Jesus Christ? Appearance is everything. I know new age society tells us that what’s inside is what matters, but humans are judgemental on a biological level. Pretty people get the front row, ugly people get shoved to the back. People that dress outside societal “norms” are emotionally bludgeoned, then blamed for bleeding all over the new shag carpet. We are all hypocrites, with an inherent bias towards different. My mother’s family hasn’t left Acme since the Stone Age. Relatively closedminded Catholics don’t like leaving the nest. Different equals scary and bad. I’m the first person in my family to change my physical appearance, so now I am scary and bad. My
hair is white, I have the dreaded gauges, and I love getting tattoos. I catch hell for it. Adolescence is hard, especially when your mind is tuned into a different station. Other little girls like pink and sparkles. I liked reading about the Plague and walking in the woods. I’ve never been a religious person, but the question, “how are you going to get into Heaven listening to that devil music?” changed my outlook on things. My family will never accept the way I look or how I live my life. So I might as well shoot for hell. I am not an evil person. Some people, especially some older people, associate alternative appearances with devil worship, (of course there are exceptions) and I try to
break that stereotype whenever it spits in my face. Being harassed by little old ladies in ugly sweaters is a cake walk. You can’t blame people for being raised in a different era. But I can get angry when I’m predestined by school officials and my peers to be a drop-out loser before they even speak to me. I’m the one that’s supposed to be judgmental and mean, remember? Have a little respect for the people around you; you don’t know who they are.