Dear Diary: Homecoming Balloon

By Staff Writer Jessica Cao

Strings of balloons sway above the Amphitheater every year during Homecoming week, each one carefully tied and arranged by Deco members across classes. Amidst the frenzy of Homecoming preparation, one white Kickoff Assembly balloon captures the nerves, the rush, and the burst of finding confidence and belonging before a crowd.

Sep. 11 @ 9 a.m. 

Freshly cured and tumbled in talcum powder, I’m still radiating warmth as I’m packed into a plastic bag with hundreds of my rubber kin. We are all identical white pockets of thin, stretchy latex — one and the same in this dark and stuffy bag. Nestled among those who look exactly like me, I was both lost in the crowd yet safe in its sameness. We made small talk to pass time. Bag, who’s a bit of a know-it-all, says that the lettering across his belly declares us as 12-inch decoration balloons. He was insistent that a decoration balloon could mean anything: a pop of color at a party or an ornament filled with helium bringing us skyward with the slip of a child’s hand. Whenever Bag tumbled, my neighbors would vanish and reappear until I was no longer sure who was who. Regardless, there was always a lingering sense of hope and anticipation that someday we would be more than floppy latex. 

Sep. 21 @ 7:12 p.m.

Air that tasted of chaos filled my metaphorical lungs after weeks sealed inside Bag. My soft body hit cool wooden floorboards as teenagers swarmed around me, juggling snacks and half finished conversations. A girl scooped me up, and pressed me to a whirring machine. In an instant, my insides swelled until I thought I would explode. With quick, practiced fingers, she tied my ends into a knot, locking the terrifying pressure within me. Another hand lifted me and let me tumble down, weightless but still carrying this new, unnerving sensation of occupying more space. Just as I began to adjust to the feeling, I was snatched again and haphazardly tethered to a blue balloon. He drifted toward me, whispering that everything felt too loud, too fast. I didn’t know what to say and just pressed closer, hoping that it was enough to convey my own uncertainty. In a room roaring with noise and commotion, we were companions literally trying not to pop under pressure.

Sep. 21 @ 10:55 p.m. 

They twisted the pair of us with more balloons until I couldn’t tell where I ended and the others began. We were bundled and pinned in place with a long cord and bunches of other white and blue balloons soon followed after us. The humans called us Homecoming Kickoff Balloon chains. From overheard chatter, I pieced together what this “Homecoming” meant — a whole week of celebration, bursting with class spirit, loud chants, and choreographed performances and skits. The word “performance” made my skin tighten. Performances are for people who dance and sing under spotlights, not balloons like us tied together and dangled for display. Crowds cheering, pointing, and all them expecting…something. And tomorrow, that something would be us. I wished I could shrink back into the bag and avoid being a spectacle entirely.

Sep. 22 @ 7:30 a.m. 

Hands carried me and the others on my chain through quiet suburban streets until we reached a high school called MSJ. My chain, dubbed the freshman chain by many of the humans, was stretched across the left side of an outdoor amphitheater. Then, the cord pulled taught and I was suspended midair. My rubber body quivered, and my movements were limited to catching a draft of the early morning breeze. Below me, the grass blurred, and as I glanced sideways at the black, red, and yellow chains to our right, I saw that their balloons trembled too, some squeaking tiny complaints and some silent in shock. Hundreds of eyes were soon upon us and more than ever, I wanted to fold myself back into the bag. Instead, I dangled at a dizzying height, swaying under the weight of every gaze, already performing whether I was ready for it or not. 

Sep. 22 @ 12:34 p.m. 

By noon, the sun glared above us. We had been hanging all morning, adjusting to the height and watching shadows crawl across the grass at snail speed. The Kickoff Assembly — that’s what we’re here for. I hadn’t known what that meant when we were first strung up, but now the answer was gathering below: the whole school sprawled across the lawn, classes in messy rows, and chatter rising like a tide. Music crackled through huge speakers and the assembly came to life with cheers and school spirit. Heads tilted skyward, arms lifted to point, “L2 did amazing with the deco!” one girl cried. Decorations, that was us! A rush of pride surged through my body, so sudden and sharp that it nearly drowned out the fear I’d been carrying since dawn. It was as if I wasn’t just a balloon — I was part of the noise, color, and celebration, carried by the energy of the crowd. In the thrill of the moment, being looked at no longer felt like exposure. It felt like belonging.

Sep. 22 @ 12:56 p.m. 

Shame burned through me as my knot loosened. A tremor, then a slip — my ends unraveled from the cord until, before I understood, I was free falling. My panic rose as the lawn rushed closer with every sway. Just before the ground claimed me, a hand shot up. A boy caught me mid-fall, laughter bursting out of him as though I’d been part of the joke all along. In an instant I was airborne again, passed to a friend, spun, and batted back and forth, no longer an ornament chained in place. I had watched the games, spirit, and crowd from a distance, but now I was in it — part of it — with the laughter and heat alive against my skin. A blade of grass caressed my side as I left the boy’s fingers. My latex scattered and my body dissolved into nothing as a pop split the air. But oh, I didn’t feel regret — I felt triumph. Fear had nearly kept me in place, safe in sameness, yet I overcame it. In my short life, I managed to spark joy and be remembered. In the end, it was better to live brightly than to never live at all.