Picture this: an eighteen-year-old freshman with no sports background and an excelling track list of attended parties where she danced with two left feet. The last thing you would imagine would be said eighteen-year-old auditioning for the abanderadas. Well.. she did. And that teenager was me.
So, for a little bit of context, I have never been the most physically coordinated girl in the city. As a matter of fact, none of my abilities excel in the athletic department. I’m good with my hands, being an artist and all, but that’s about as physically capable as I get. The rest is a mess. When I graduated high school, I was entirely lost. For the past six years, I had been the nerdy-goodie-two-shoes with zero interest in sports. It had felt somewhat forced upon me due to the stereotypes I had subscribed myself to. When I was a kid I used to enjoy PE. I loved sports and wasn’t afraid to ruin a good uniform in the name of winning a game. I hadn’t, however, been blessed with strong lungs or an ability to stick with the practice. My parents hadn’t encouraged me to pursue sports either. That, and the fact that neither of them liked physical activities and there was also my severe asthma; let’s just say that they weren’t thrilled with the idea of their daughter in sports.
Flash forward to college and here I am, in a thrilling yet frightening new environment where no one knew me, and where I barely knew myself. Picturing my life as a blank canvas made me go crazy with an absurd amount of ideas of who I could become. For some strange reason, I believed I could erase my track history of failure when it came to any sport-related activity just by the sheer power of will. For anyone wondering, no… you just cannot delete that from your existence. Especially if your daily habits consist of a bag of Cheetos and zero exercise.
So, in my new epiphany-fueled urgency to become someone new, I began looking up all kinds of sports, associations, and teams that college had to offer. Then one particular flier caught my attention: the abanderadas tryout. I immediately fell in love with the idea. Thinking of all the times I saw the team compete and parade during Las Justas filled me with giddiness. More so, when I imagined I would be part of the pretty girls’ group, with cool matching outfits, and the thousands of trips I would get to go on in competitions. I immediately began to prepare myself mentally. Was I in good shape? I could run without getting breathless so, check. Was I charismatic? I liked to think I had my own charm going on for me, so check again! Did I have good eye coordination? Well…I could practice that and learn on the road so I gave myself a half-check and moved on with the day.
Héctor A. Suárez De Jesús / IUPI al Día
When I told my friends and family my idea of auditioning for the abanderadas I was prepared for their confused yet supportive stance. Their mouths said “I believe in you” but their eyes said, “Jesus Child, please stop”. I, for some ungodly reason, was possessed by Disney-like fueled optimism and believed entirely in myself that I could master a routine in less than two weeks.
My sister gave me the idea of practicing with a broomstick, so I did. I took my mom’s favorite broom and began to practice in the living room. I should have foreseen the “practice” as a sign of what was ahead of me but again, the idea of being in a pretty uniform and meeting cool people fueled my nonsense. So I “practiced” and “danced” until I was sweaty 20 minutes into the routine. I repeated that nonsense for the next two weeks. Until audition day arrived.
Let me be clear that I cannot remember how I got there in the first place. I didn’t have a car and I can’t remember if it was a Friday or a Saturday. What I remember is this. It was an empty day on campus and for one second before entering El Centro, I gained clarity and realized what a big mistake I was making.
I remember feeling so nervous I could cry and puke at the same time. Yet, my pride was big and I walked up to the meeting point. Being there, surrounded by girls that were clearly athletes and dancers before this, and standing in front of honed, abanderadas made me feel so small and pathetic I wanted to call it quits and leave. But, my pride took over again and I smiled and stood with the others. One thing that gave me comfort was seeing the tension in the other girl’s faces. So, I took a deep breath and started listening to what I assumed was the captain, as she informed us about how the tryout was going to run.
First, we would follow another girl towards the outside patio where she would show us a simple routine, then we would practice with her for about ten minutes. Then we would present said routine to the judges in groups of three and then we would leave.
It seemed easy enough if you knew what you were doing.
The minute the practice began I wanted to quit, once more, for the tenth time that morning. For starters, the poll was heavier than a broomstick and the girl was relentless with the routine. She wasn’t cruel, but she wanted perfection, and whenever one of us hit herself or stumbled on her feet you could tell her frustration rose. By the end of the practice, the difference between her and a tomato was nonexistent. I truly believe that girls’ blood pressure spiked to dangerous levels.
Practice finished and she was nowhere to be found in the panel of judges. At their table sat three girls with stares that could turn anyone to stone. At that point, the group was divided into those who they knew would fail and those who had a chance. You can guess where I found myself.
The main group was divided into groups of threes and that gave the tryouts the start we were all dreading. Some girls did fabulously, others did poorly, and with each passing tryout, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. But, even if I had mentally quitted, my body and spirit were glued to the idea of still doing it. I figured it would be worse to approach the girl that guided the groups on stage with the announcement that I was done before even trying. Besides, I could just stick to moving softly and leaving with my head held high. But, as I stood there contemplating my exit routes, my time came and my group was called on stage. To make matters worse, I was placed right in the center. The captain, who by now looked like she needed three business days to recover from the atrocities she had just witnessed, smiled at us weakly and told us to begin our routine with the sound of music. We made eye contact for one second, and I mustered all the apologetic energy my eyes could show for what she was about to witness.
The music kicked in and it bounced all the way from my head to my toes. For some ungodly reason, I was possessed by the angel of stupidity and my plan of moving slowly and steadily went out the window. I began to move rashly and I am pretty sure I looked like a bird that had been struck by lightning, but I carried on. I single-handedly missed every queue that our practice leader showed us and I began spinning for some unknown reason. Then, for my grand finale, I threw the pole up in the air. I was smiling, making eye contact again with the flabbergasted captain when BAM the metal pole struck me right across the head.
Some gasped. Others winced. I remember specifically hearing an “Ay no” from across the room.
I just stood there holding my head in searing pain while maintaining a grimace plastered across my face. I pretty much looked like this:
So I kept heavy breathing until the captain dismissed us. All three of the judges stared at me as I left and I remember the queue-line girl touching my arm to ask if I was okay. I faked a laugh and said I was fine, and then left my pole in a corner and never looked back.
I thought that the minute I stepped outside I was going to dissolve into a pool of tears. But this I remember clearly. I started laughing, laughing so hard that my tears dried up and my face burnt from laughter and embarrassment. Yet, I felt so ecstatic about my failure that I began to tell everyone immediately. My mom was scared I had a concussion and it took a good amount of convincing that I was fine, but then she joined in my laughter too.
I remember sitting on the train still laughing as I recounted the whole ordeal. How everyone looked. How the time stopped as the pole hit my head and for one second I met the Lord himself. Time went by but the world didn’t crumble and the apocalypse didn’t come just because I failed. And weirdly, I was proud of myself.
Later that day they announced the winner of the tryouts. I remember a particularly pretty girl that was selected because she had been amazing during her tryout. She had been all smiles and gracefulness. Not once did I feel jealousy for her but instead I remember just liking the photo, leaving clapping emojis under the post, and turning to my favorite show. My mom made me comfort food that day, a good o’l bowl of pasta, but I just chuckled because I didn’t feel sad at all. I wondered if the sadness would hit once, but it didn’t. For the next few months I lived as if I didn’t just embarrass myself in front of the abanderadas team.
But something did change in me that day. I became less anxious about speaking during classes and I carried on trying new things. One thing for sure though, I pretty much stayed away from metallic poles after that.