In California: Catching the Spirit

By Pico Iyer

What on earth is taking place? Over here, ten teenage kids in green tops and white miniskirts are jerking their heads into the air, then locking elbows, back to back, to form a herd of lurching pushmi-pullyus. Over there, a gang of pink-lipsticked, sunglassed young blonds, in matching scarlet outfits, have gathered in a circle around a giant radio and are joining together in a chorus of banshee wails. And all about, twirling, swirling, waving their hands in the air Al Jolson-style or vaulting on top of one another's shoulders are girls with turquoise streaks in their tresses, girls with gold stars stuck on their cheeks, girls with tiger tails pinned to their backs.

And what's with all these well-regimented drills? A battalion of cadets goose-steps along a tennis court. Not far away, another uniformed squad executes a series of elaborate routines with shields. A dozen little girls, clad in shocking-pink leotards, parade forward and wriggle in formation to the tune of Ghostbusters, each with a small black rifle in her hand. And then, all of a sudden, there comes a thumping of feet and a building of intensity and the thunderous eruption of a mass-rally chant: "U.S.A. Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Do not despair! U.S.A. stands for United Spirit Association, and the title has nothing at all to do with liquor or religion. No indeed. The group is so called because it upholds, above all else, unity and spirit, the two mantras that it will spell out this summer to 30,000 initiates, ages 5 to 18, in 82 cheerleading camps from Montana to Hawaii. And here in the largest encampment of all, just north of Santa Barbara, Calif., within dreaming distance of an enchanted forest and a blue lagoon, 1,030 girls--and seven equal-opportunity boys--have assembled in teams for a $137 four-day summer seminar, jam-packed from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. with such activities as Cheeramids and Styles in Strutting and Meetings with Dorm Mom. This is not, however, just a cheerleaders' camp. There are separate schedules for song leaders and band-letter girls, for drill teams, tall flags and twirleens.

"We have a philosophy," says Michael Olmstead, the president of U.S.A. "Fifteen years from now, the girls are not going to have to do toe touches or split jumps. But they will face the same kind of problems in life that they do as cheerleaders." So U.S.A. teaches not just stunts and splits but communications skills, group dynamics, ways of being human. Above all, Spirit. The agenda includes a Spirit Workshop and a Spirit Film. It features Spirit Ideas and, in lieu of awards, Spirit Sticks. For other needs, there is also a Spirit Fashion and Accessory store.

As it is, the high spirits and blithe spirits are relentless. Hardly have the campers arrived than their dorm is smothered in rainbowed posters bubbling over with red hearts, pictures of Garfield and slogans championing both competition and community. MAARCHE MAJORETTES WANT YOU TO HAVE AN AWESOME TIME! DEBS ARE MOOR FUN. LUV THE DESERT. And even before the maiden cheer session, six-, seven-, ten-packs of enthusiasts have clustered together in bunches, and begun punching the air, boogying, dervishing and screeching out the cries of their particular tribe.

"You're all one big, happy family," Camp Director Bobbi Zeno tells her flock in a keynote address. The girls emit a Babel of cheers. With that, U.S.A.'s handpicked cheerleader leaders--six Chippendaley boys and ten short-skirted girls--flapjack into view. The assembly lets out a Menudo-worthy squeal. "Hey," shouts one instructor. "If ever you feel the urge to shout or scream, remember: You're in cheer-leader camp. Go for it!" The congregation roars.

Within an hour, the feverishly well-organized program is fully under way. With variety-special slickness, the teachers spin through the 1985 camp dance and camp song (available for $3 at the Spirit Shop). They stage morality playlets on the blessings of unity, screen movies on how to watch football games. They even offer tips on how to "bring out the spirit in people who never had it."

And the students are a publicist's--or an evangelist's--dream. What do they like about the camp? Unity, they cry, and spirit. "We're psyched, we're hyper, we're excited," says Heather Toomey. Everyone's so supportive, the girls chime, and everything's so positive, and it's all so inspirational. Coming to this camp from a rival establishment, says Kellie Rich, 15, is like going "from darkness to light." The inner cheerleader cannot help flowering. "We're pretty spirited," says Andrea Bergman. "We've just got trouble with our moves."

Perhaps the toddlers, who begin their careers at home as two-year-old Raggedy Anns before graduating to become Pom-Poms, Baby Dolls, Barbie Dolls and the rest, are somewhat less eager than their mothers to extol "the need for professionalism, the need for perfection." But for the most part, the votaries tumble over themselves in their affirmation of the golden rules they have mastered. "When you say you can do something, you can do it," says Robin Snow, 15. "When you say you can't, you can't." Everywhere, giggles abound. "When you get girls together," says Shawn, 15, "they become best friends. Even after a minute."

That community spirit is doubtless enhanced by U.S.A.'s democratic system of grading each crew in one of only three categories: Superior, Outstanding and Excellent. Nevertheless, the competition remains furious. Before breakfast and after nightfall, in spare classrooms, around parking lots, on tiny patches of grass, the squads work tirelessly on their slinking and slithering and over-the-shoulder glances. "Smile!" bark the captains, and smiles light up every single young face.

As the Twirl Competition begins, Andrea Snow struts her way, in sequins and top hat, through some vigorous choreography set to Puttin ' on the Ritz, while an emcee, in her best beauty-pageant voice, announces, "Andrea is five years old, and she's looking forward--[pause]--to entering kindergarten." A little later, Carol, leader of the Mira Costa drill team, starts gnawing at the half-inch nails on each of her eight ringed fingers. "I'm so nervous my stomach hurts," she confides. "But if you become nervous," she tells her charges between hugs, "I'll shoot you."

After all the striving is behind them, the students come together for a last supper, luau-style, around the pool. The instructors present a prime-time package of jokes, comedy routines and songs. There is a hand-holding rendition of We Are the World, and another. And then, as darkness falls over the mountains, 1,000 girls troop inside a small room and start chanting and swaying in unison as U.S.A. Singer-Songwriter Peter Dergee delivers a set just for them. And when, toward the end, Dergee lowers his voice for a love song, there are enough hugs to shame a group-therapy session, and eyes begin to glisten.

Finally, on Day Four, after the last addresses are exchanged and the chants of "Power!" subside, after the smell of suntan oil has faded and the final SMILE AND BE HAPPY! posters have been torn from the walls, hundreds of Kristis and Brandis and Dawns and Lolitas, winners all, tuck their teddy bears under their arms and file, a little sadly, into the buses that will take them back to parents and kid sisters and competition for boys and competition with boys and grades that will often be less than Superior. "Many of them write to me years later," says Olmstead, "to say that their days at camp were the best four days of their lives ." --By Pico Iyer