Lesa Cline-Ransome’s Writerhood: Rah Rah Rah
I hate cheerleaders. Or at least I thought I did. I am a feminist after all and feminists hate cheerleaders. They are the epitome of what we fight against. The female faces of objectification. They stand on the sidelines, all aglitter in tiny shorts and crop tops, ponytails bobbing, fake smiles pasted to their faces, cheering on men, while men play and strategize and score points. The cheerleaders are the entertainment while the men are the main attraction. But just recently, my attitude toward cheerleading has begun to soften. I am still a feminist. I would still like to see more women compete in sports. But I also realize that though I never wear a crop top and my hair is too short to wear in ponytail, I too am a cheerleader. It may not be on AstroTurf, but much of my day is spent cheering on others, hoping and praying they score a touchdown. Let’s begin with the most obvious—my husband.