Earlier this month I blogged about submitting a piece and having it rejected. Well after a few more rejections, I made the decision to post it myself. Last week this piece (about Cheer) went live on Medium, which is a super cool site that allows writers to post their own work. The response from friends was great. It’s a highly personal piece but one I’m proud of. I’m putting it here in case you missed it.

Enjoy!

p.s. If you haven’t watched Cheer yet, I need you fix that.

Dear boys of Cheer, 

Before joining the entire world in watching your Netflix show, I knew nothing about cheerleading. As I binged episode after episode, every single Navarro athlete left me in awe. Your athleticism, strength, and fierce work ethic are impressive, teetering on insane. Every flip and stunt, basket and pyramid, made my heart race. There were moments watching you when my body wouldn’t allow me to breathe. The things you can do defy the laws of physics. 

 It’s impressive, to say the least. However, that isn’t what impressed me most about you, dear boys of Cheer. What left me truly wonderstruck is how you seem to exist in the world. Perhaps it’s the magic of television but each of you appear to be completely, authentically, and entirely yourself. It was jarring, to be perfectly honest. A little context might explain why.

I was born in the late 80’s and grew up in a medium sized midwestern city. There was a Catholic church on every corner and a fish fry every Friday night. I was a terribly sensitive child who sobbed when his sisters got in trouble. I worshipped my mom and Barbies. One of my favorite pastimes was sneaking into my sister’s room and putting on her Princess Jasmine costume. I listened to a lot of Mariah Carey and Amy Grant cassettes (yes, cassettes). I was loud and bright and shiny. From age 3, I knew I liked other boys. 

The world I grew up in was not particularly forgiving for a boy like that. My neighborhood was rough. Most everyone flirted with the poverty line. We were steeped in cultural Catholicism. At a certain point, for the sake of survival, I began the arduous process of un-being, of un-becoming. Barbie was replaced with G.I. Joe. Princess Jasmine costumes became Power Rangers costumes. And Mariah? Well I never really did shake my love of Mariah. Slowly but surely, I became a thing I wasn’t. Every day I would perform my best impression of a “real” boy.

My un-becoming was like the wringing out of a wet towel. My loudness, brightness, and shininess – the “feminine” parts – were wrung out. When I wasn’t doing the wringing, someone else was. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that I was called a faggot every day from 3^rdgrade until 8^th. I was constantly reminded that my voice sounded gay and my clothes looked gay and my walk was gay. 

As I frantically scrambled to undo parts of myself, I inadvertently replaced them with other things. My flamboyant joy was swapped out for a food addiction. As I practiced my lisp away, self-sabotage took its place. My love of dress-up became a deep hatred of my body. One thing after another was removed and something more sinister filled the void. Those sinister things formed a complex web of self-hatred and became my foundation, the bedrock of my identity. Only now in my 30’s have I begun the process of naming and unraveling. 

Then I turned on Cheer. It was remarkable to see all of you, boys who looked and sounded so much like my younger self. Before my eyes were beautiful young men living life as themselves, no cover-up. You operate in the world as a fully formed version of yourself. You take up space in the world, quite literally. You jump and shimmy and flip and sashay. You’re loud and bright and shiny. That space is rightfully yours and you take it. It’s something I never thought I was allowed to have. 

 I know, as well as anybody could, that your authenticity came at a price. The producers of the show told bits of that story and my heart broke several times because I know the feel of those wounds. Nevertheless, watching you gave me, a 30-something guy on the other side of the country, renewed hope and, yes, flamboyant joy. It’s doubtful you will ever realize what seeing you does for my 12-year-old self or that queer kid in a small town or that trans person fighting for a place or that closeted adult. You being fully you, a true, not-wrung-out version of you, gives us all permission to be a little more us. Thank you. It’s a gift you never realized you were giving but one the world very much needs.

Sincerely,

Patrick

p.s. Had I discovered cheer as a kid, I’m sure I would have tried my hardest to be a tumbler though I’m definitely built like a stunter (but I have the heart of a flyer).