Teresa Page is the founder of the Colorado Starlites Drill Team. Were you to meet her, she would introduce herself as Mrs. Page. “And proudly so. My husband and I have been married 25 years.”
If you happened to be married, she would call you missis, as well.
You can call me Tina, I tell her.
Yes, ma’am, she says, and then calls me Mrs. Tina because this is how her parents raised her. “Good manners are better than a pretty face,” her mother always said.
Her mother was Imogene Jackson. No story of the Starlites is complete without mention of Mrs. Jackson because without her there would be no award-winning team, no straight-backed young women marching, drum line rat-tat-tatting, whistle calling out beep, beep, beep while the crowds cheer “Yeah! Starlites!”
Mrs. Jackson died in January. It is unfortunate that her death was overtaken by controversy — namely, the funeral home buried her as someone else, leaving her mourning family to discover a stranger in their mother’s casket. This made the news, naturally. What did not were Mrs. Jackson’s contributions, of which there are many, the greatest being her children, Teresa and Terri Lynn. The Jacksons thought of parents as investors. “Some parents know what that means. Some don’t,” Mrs. Page says. “But the idea is that you create assets in your children, not liabilities.”
Respect. Integrity. Responsibility. Discipline. A girl or boy who wants to become a Starlite learns the standards are high. Character first. Performance second.
“Who are you?” Mrs. Page asks her team. “When you don’t have the pompoms, the sticks, the boots. Who are you?”
Mrs. Page is 46 years old. She started the team when she was 16 for the Salvation Army Red Shield Center where the team still practices today. Her recruiting effort went this way: She walked down her Park Hill block, found a little girl said to her, “Can you do this?” She demonstrated a few foot stomps, some hand-clapping, part military drill, part cheerleading, a swift, staccato song on pavement. One girl became many and soon enough, these little ones were beating their elders in competitions. Even then, the young Teresa was taking leadership cues from her mother: You don’t compete against other people. You compete against yourself.
She drilled during the school year. She drilled in the summer. She drilled when she was pregnant with her daughter, Tereka. Tereka drills herself. The Tereka drill, ending with an open palm whipped before the face, is particularly popular.
Starlite performances are marked by precision. You’ll find dazzling stomp-and-clap routines, a chorus of snare, tenor and bass drums, and when these get going, people in the crowd tilt back on their heels and call out “uh-oh.” As in, uh-oh, they’re pulling out the heavy artillery now.
What is not on display is pelvic thrusting or booty wagging. The Starlite colors are purple, black and white. Royalty. Unity. Purity. There’s a lesson here, too, about self-respect, about teaching girls to refuse to be identified solely as sexual objects. The boys get it, too.
“They might have their pants sagging and earrings on, but when they come down that hall, around that corner, to practice, they’re taking those earrings off, pulling those pants up,” Mrs. Page says. She chuckles. “They call it ‘derobing.’ “
The door to their practice room is trimmed in team purple. The purple line, they call it. Above it, are the words, “Enter in 100 percent true choice.” You have an attitude walking in, better turn around and come back when it’s gone.
“Drill team! Attention!” Ms. Lynn Jackson calls out.
Three girls straighten up in the front row. Christyn Boone, 13, a Starlite since she was 4; Dayzhanaie Threats, 15, a nine-year team member; and Ecstasy Linzy, 15, a Starlite for the last two years. Behind them are Tereka and Mrs. Page.
“Ready. Move!” Ms. Lynn shouts again. Five pairs of hands clapping. Here, there, how about behind the back, under the knee. “Ooh,” Ms. Lynn says. “I like that.” And then everyone is laughing.
About 75 young people are now Starlites. Some of its youngest members make up its third generation, including Mrs. Page’s 4-year-old granddaughter, Alivia. But many in the first and second generation are still here. This is and has always been a family. The office wall is covered by photos of Starlites past and present. The names of the first- generation team are inscribed on a closet wall. When Mrs. Jackson — the team’s matriarch, its sage, the woman who never missed a performance — died, her service was packed with the young people she mentored.
At the church, the first-generation Starlites, now grown women, honored her the best way they knew how. They lined up in front and stood at attention and, sharp and smart, they drilled.
Tina Griego writes Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Reach her at 303-954-2699 or tgriego@denverpost.com.
To see them perform
The Starlites will perform in a talent show from 2 to 5 p.m. Saturday at the Salvation Army Red Shield Community Center, 2915 High St., Denver.
