The room went still. He blinked. I watched him try to fit that square peg into the round hole of his insult. In his mind, cheerleader meant pompoms, spirit fingers, the girl who lifts others up so they can score. It did not mean logical fallacies, eye contact during a rebuttal, or a closing statement that made the judge nod. He had called me frivolous. I had agreed with him—and then redefined the entire dictionary.
I didn’t mention my three-inch binder of sources. Instead, I said: “But I’m a cheerleader.” but i 39-m. cheerleader
So go ahead. Underestimate the girl with the pompoms. The room went still
The first time I heard it land as an accusation, I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was supposed to shut me up. I was in a high school debate semi-final, arguing for the redistribution of arts funding. My opponent, a boy in a too-tight blazer, leaned into his cross-examination and said, “You don’t even care about the budget. You just like the sound of your own voice.” Then he added, quieter, for the judge: “Look at her. She probably spends more time on her hair than on her briefs. But I’m supposed to take her seriously?” In his mind, cheerleader meant pompoms, spirit fingers,
I mean: you see a skirt. I see armor.