The wind danced with my hair as I waited outside of my school, ready for the list to be posted on the door.
I was surrounded by about 20 girls with the same anxious look on their faces. Some were grinning with confidence as their perfectly well-coiffed hair remained unmoved by the breeze. Others were a nervous wreck with their fingernails chewed down to the quick.
I looked out in the parking lot and saw my mother waiting for me in the car. Nobody else’s mothers were there at the door with them, so I told Momma to wait in the car.
I wasn’t even sure why I was there that afternoon. I didn’t really want to try out for the cheerleading squad, but Momma insisted. Momma was a cheerleader and a darn good one at that.
Yet, my reluctance to try out seemed like a distant memory that afternoon as I found myself extremely anxious to see if I had made the team or not. Part of me had even grown excited.
But as I looked over the other girls, I began to doubt myself. I was a bean-pole, fair-skinned, wavy-haired tomboy who felt more at home on the basketball court than on the sidelines.
These girls had tan lines, athletic tones and stick-straight perfect hair with beauty pageant faces.
My daydreaming was cut short when an older lady opened the door with a short list – a very short list. Taping it quickly on the metal door, she rushed back inside before the eruption of applause and tears came from the group of prepubescent girls.
Pushing through the crowd I looked for the Ks. Desperately to find my last name, I pulled my finger down the list and...
It wasn’t there.
Some girls were hugging each other, skipping off to future days of football lights and starry nights.
Some girls actually broke down in tears right there on the spot.
I did neither. I made my way back to my Momma’s car. She probably already knew the answer, but she asked anyway when I stretched out in the front seat.
“Well,” she asked. “Did you get it?”
“Oh sure,” I replied. “I’m the next captain.”
I looked up at Momma and let out a chuckle, paired with a half sideways grin.
“Well, there is always next year,” Momma said, cranking up the car. “And you always have basketball.”
“I don’t think I really want to do it anyway..the whole cheer thing,” I said. “It’s just not my thing. You were good at it but not me.”
The whole way home Momma began to share a list of other things I could give a shot at during the school year.
There is always tennis. Track might suit me. Softball is an option. Then there is the drama club. And who can forget the dance team.
“I have no idea what I’m good at, but I don’t think it’s any of those things,” I replied, looking out the window. “I wish God would just tell me instead of me making a fool of myself doing stuff that I ain’t supposed to do.”
Now that I am a mother of my own, I can understand the reason why Momma teared up just then. But at the time, I had no idea.
Night had fallen by the time we got to our small apartment. I finished my homework while Momma made me a pot of gumbo, which was my favorite.
After completing my math lesson, I grabbed my journal and began to scribble away on its blank pages. I wrote about my day and the slight disappointment I had with the whole cheerleading thing.
Then I wrote a poem, followed by a story about a tree and the little girl who liked to swing on its branches.
I moved my journal out of the way as my Momma put a hot bowl of gumbo in front of me.
And as we ate together, we laughed.
Momma then made her way back into her bedroom to iron her scrubs. She had the graveyard shift at the hospital that night.
“Can I interview you,” I asked, as the steam of the iron hit her face.
“Why would you want to interview me,” she asked, with a laugh.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “You see a lot of stuff at the hospital with your job and stuff. Maybe I could interview you and see what you like about it.”
Momma began to grin as I sat down, crossing my legs, with my notebook and pen for her first interview.
“I think maybe we’re going to find out what you’re good at soon enough,” she said.
Shrugging my shoulders, I doubted what my mother had said. I sure hoped she was right. I must be good at something, and maybe it will hit me like a ton of bricks.
“OK, first question...” I began, as my pen took off.
