Oh shoot! I hadn’t thought this part through.
There I was, dancing away, in downtown Lanett. The Lanett High School Golden Panther Marching Band was nearing the end of a rousing number during a community pep rally, the crowd was cheering, and we, the LHS Majorette line, were about to finish our dance with a fun move designed for the football field. We were each going to kick our right leg then swing it to the left as we bent down to the ground, rolled onto our stomachs, and completed the move with a perky head pop and our left toes pointed to the sky.
It was a cute move, but we were not on a grass football field. We were on the open road. Granted the road was closed off, but the asphalt was kind of hot in Alabama even in October. The road that carried people to and from jobs and school each day was unmentionably dirty and gross, and we were about to lie on it.
The first girl on the end of the majorette line, DeAnna, realized what was about to happen as she kicked her leg, then she sank to the road in the slowest possible motion, hoping, as I was, that we’d find some way out of this without having to belly flop onto the blacktop. The next girl in line dropped to the ground without hesitation, so I followed suit. And that’s how I ended up lying face down on the street in downtown Lanett.
This was one of the highlights of my high school years. Not lying on the street between the post office and the First Christian Church but being a high school majorette. I loved to dance and twirl my baton. I loved putting on my sequin uniform and knee-high boots.
I loved curling my hair with hot rollers then shellacking it with Aqua Net Super Extra Hold hair spray. I loved the make-up and the sparkle. I loved dancing and catching my baton at the exact moment as my fellow majorettes. The lights. The noise of the crowd. The drums beating out the tempo for our opening number.
It was the chance to be someone else and, during the 8 minutes our halftime show lasted, it was magical.
I know many people who were high school majorettes. We laugh about the boots, the hairspray, and whether we still have our batons. Most of us do. I’ve lived in fourteen homes and except for a two-year stint in Austria, those batons have been my most faithful companion. They’re tucked safely away in a black and white carrying case, my name spelled out in orange tape on the cover.
I was good at being a majorette. I could probably count the number of times I’ve said that in my life, “I was good.” But I was. I lived for Friday nights in the fall.
I wish things we do as adults garnered the same type of celebration as catching a really high baton toss. When I set up appointments for my boss, he doesn’t applaud and cheer. When I manage to plan and cook a week’s worth of dinners, my family members don’t jump to their feet and high five each other. It’s just not the same.
So, maybe it’s not going feel the same as marching off the field after an amazing halftime performance, comparing how many times I “dropped” with my fellow majorettes. But how can I carry over some part of that to my adult life? How can I first acknowledge and then celebrate the things I work hard for and do well? How can I celebrate those things I see in others?
I have a tear off notepad on my desk at work with the words “Awesome Citation” across the top. Under the heading it says, “You’ve been pretty awesome lately, completely outdoing yourself and outshining everyone else. It hasn’t gone unnoticed. Nice work.” Under that you can choose from a list of things to recognize someone for – blatant likeability, excessive good hair days, popularity with children, style for days. Then, at the bottom, there are a couple of lines for you to fill in.
It's cute. You can get one here and I suggest you do. I’ve enjoyed filling these out and giving them to co-workers at my school. It means something when someone else takes a minute to affirm who you are and how you’re doing. I’ve spotted Awesome Citations in a couple of people’s classrooms, tacked to a bulletin board or taped to a desk.
But everything we do isn’t going to be applauded. No one is going to be excited about me cleaning the bathroom. I’m not going to get a high five for reminding my boss that he has a meeting.
Maybe there won’t ever be the public celebration and communal victory in everyday life that we experience at sporting events. And maybe that’s okay. I don’t know if I could live through that much excitement day in and day out. But it would be nice to capture some of that Friday night magic, some of that joy and passion and celebration of a job well done.
My friends and I were discussing this very subject in a text thread this week. One of us found an old video of The Golden Panther Marching Band. It’s a video that resurfaces on Facebook occasionally. Our formations on the football field were crisp and precise. The music was peppy, loud, and beautiful. In this old video you can’t tell much about the majorettes, but we were there, doing our thing, laying on the grass at the end of the second number. It never fails to choke me up and make me wish I could be there again.
Even though we all miss band and bus trips and practice, we all long for that same affirmation. I may not show up at my friend’s house on vacuuming day to cheer her on, but I can recognize and make sure to tell her what an amazing, strong mother she is. I can write another friend a letter telling her how proud I am of how she’s embraced her new role as “Mimi.” And I can tell myself that I’m doing a good job loving my husband and my mom and my job even when it feels overwhelming and like I’m not doing much.
I guess I’ll have to come to terms with the fact that my adult accomplishments just aren’t going to be celebrated in the same way they were in high school. But that doesn’t mean I sometimes don’t still long to pull those boots out of the storage chest at my mom’s house or that I don’t twirl my batons just for the sheer pleasure of it. I just need to get better at affirming other people. And I really need to get better at affirming myself.
And maybe that will be enough.
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