Miss America: Burning Books, not Bras

Miss America: Burning Books, not Bras

There are eight girls sitting at a mirror studying their reflection, carefully applying their makeup and primping their hair. The counter is strewn with every type of beauty tool you can imagine, all of which look like medieval torture devices. There are crimping irons, tweezers, fake eyelashes, stranglehold corsets, upper lip bleach, and eyelash curlers. The room is the size of a large walk-in closet and there are five hairdryers going at once. The heat and noise makes me feel like I am standing behind a jet engine and there is enough hairspray being used to burn a hole in the ozone. The chemical-floral scent makes my eyes water. We are in the dusty basement of town hall, in a small town in New Hampshire, competing in the Miss Capital Area beauty pageant. I sat down and joined the eight girls staring at their reflection. Mirror, Mirror on the wall…

I am seated shoulder-to-shoulder between two girls: Kara and Lauren.

Kara introduces her self immediately with a welcoming smile. Like me, Kara is a ‘newbie,’ in pageant speak.  She has Elvira black hair and is wearing copious amounts of black eyeliner for 9 AM. She has lethal spike heels and a willowy black lace dress that makes her look like the Nightmare Before Christmas. The seven other girls in the pageant avoid her like the plague, but Kara doesn’t care. She sits in front of the mirror with headphones on and mixes white face paint with her foundation. I admire her confidence.

Seated on my other side is Lauren, a veteran of the pageant circuit. I gave her a quick 'hi,' as I sat down, but she probably could not hear me over the blazing hairdryers. She carefully applied her burgundy lip-gloss with the precision of Michelangelo.  Her resume was in plain sight and I couldn't help but notice the long list of pageants she has competed in. Lauren is the polar opposite of Kara in terms of appearance and demeanor. Her hair is freshly ironed and she is sporting one of those trendy “asymmetrical dos” that look like a reverse mullet; party look in the front, business in the back. She is wearing a skintight royal blue dress and chunky rhinestone earrings. The only time Lauren speaks up is to announce to the room that she has won the interview award in every pageant she has entered.

There is an interview award? Suddenly, I felt much less prepared than I thought I was. Lauren was the epitome of poise and I felt like a clumsy oaf next to her. Lauren made it clear that I was a rookie. I had no idea what was in store for me.

At some point you may be asking yourself why I am even doing this. Honestly, I was never a fan of beauty pageants. I resented the fact that talent and academic standing are weighed against a bikini contest. To me, beauty pageants represented the enduring influence of 1950’s sexism and I wanted no part in that. However, I’ll admit my knowledge was based off stereotypes rather than experience. There was also a practical reason for me to enter: scholarship money. Working full time at Best Buy to pay for school was taking a toll on my grades and winning a local pageant could almost pay for a semester of school. It sounded like a very efficient business decision. This is the 21st century; beauty pageants can’t be that bad.

As a newbie, I did not have the advantage of tapping into the pageant queen network to learn the dos and don'ts. As such, I was forced to rely on the official website for information. The website said to “treat the interview like a job interview.” So that’s what I did; I wore a black turtleneck sweater, a knee-length khaki skirt, flat heel dress boots, minimal makeup, no jewelry, and hair pulled back in a pony tail. My strategy was to dress modestly to be taken seriously as someone who relies on her abilities rather than external appearances. “Classy” was the look I was going for but “frumpy” is how they interpreted it. Not by just the judges, either. Sam, the reigning Miss Capital Area, looked me up and down and said incredulously “is that your interview outfit?” This was more statement than question. All of the other girls were wearing chunky heels and leggy, low-cut, monochrome dresses reminiscent of Monica Lewinsky.

The interview was conducted in a small banquet room in a local hotel.  Ten judges sat at a long conference table facing me at a podium with a microphone that wouldn't stay up. Surprisingly, the questions were either straight from my resume or open-ended ones that had little to do with current events. “If you could be a shoe, what type of shoe would you be and why?” The stares of ten tiara-wearing women jotting notes down every time you said “um” or broke eye contact was unnerving. “If we could look at your Facebook, what is the first thing we would see?” “Um, well, I just updated my status saying how I’d accidentally smashed myself in the face with my microphone during band practice...” There were blank stares all around. “What’s something people do that annoys you?” “Sometimes I don’t like it when people steal a fry without asking. Especially when they take the best one and you were saving it for last.” No laughs, no smiles, virtually no reaction. I was not sure what kind of answer they were looking for, but it certainly was not what I was saying.

I came back to the dressing room before most of the other girls had finished their interviews. Katy and Alex were sitting in the back and talking in a hushed tone. Katy had curlers in her hair and was wearing a zip-up sweatshirt over a sea foam green ball gown. “Hey Julie. How’d it go?” “Ugh, terrible.” “Don’t be hard on yourself. I’ve been doing these things forever and I still mess up.” Katy pulls out a chair and offers me a seat. “How many pageants have you done?” I asked. “This will be my tenth this season.” “I’ve done a few before,” Alex added. “I always get so nervous with political questions because its pretty much opinion. So, like, you really can’t be right or wrong. Its, like, how you answer it. But its like, if they don’t feel the same way, I mean technically they cant be like ‘oh I don’t like their opinions’ but like, they totally do that,” Alex says. She is wearing her hair in a painfully tight cheerleader ponytail with a pink bow knotted at the top. She looks upset so I change the subject, “So what’s the toughest local competition besides Miss New Hampshire?” “Miss Greater Derry,” Katy Says. “All the heavy hitters go for it. By then they already know who is going to win.” I think she is referring to the judges, but I am not sure. “What do you mean?” “If you have been first runner up a bunch of times, you probably are going to win at the end of the season. With the exception of Lauren Campbell. Because she never wins,” Katy chuckles. Alex’s eyes light up at the mention of Lauren, “I was just going to say, hasn’t she been first runner up like every single time?” “For six years,” Katy answers. I remember the long list of pageants on Lauren’s resume, “for six years?” “That’s why she gets the interview award,” Alex says, “cause she’s been doing it for so long.” Then they tell me that Lauren is 23, which means this is her last year she is eligible to compete for Miss New Hampshire. Katy lowers her voice and leans in, “it’s just that sometimes Lauren comes off as… abrasive.” Alex raises her eyebrows and shrugs her shoulders like she agrees with Katy but does not want to say it out loud. “They always like to put someone else in front of Lauren, even when Lauren wins every single component.” “But why would they do that to her?” “Cause in their minds, a ‘Miss’ isn’t her.” Katy looks over her shoulder to make sure nobody is near. “She’s very high energy. She’s very… what’s the word I’m looking for… She’s very well kept. But they usually like their ‘Misses’ to be like, warm and bubbly and she’s… not.” “Yeah, she seems maybe, like, a little sarcastic or something,” I say, trying to understand what exactly Katy means. “Right, like, there’s something about her that turns them off-” Katy stops mid sentence when the rest of the girls walk into the dressing room.

 “I swear, if I don’t pass out by the end of the day I’ll die,” Kelsey says slumping down in her chair. She kicks off her pumps and throws her gold earrings on the make-up counter. “Kelsey, eat a little more,” Katy says, offering her a granola bar. “I guess I’ll have another bite.” “Your face looks flawless right now,” Katy says trying to cheer her up. Kelsey laughs, “really? Cause I don’t feel it. I haven’t been breaking out lately. I honestly think its cause my body doesn’t have the energy to form a pimple.”

The subject of food comes up and I realize I am starving. I could really go for a cheeseburger. We have some time before the talent portion of the competition. Never one to ignore the call of hunger, I blurt out “Is there a store nearby where I could get some food?” Kelsey reaches for a dress on the hanger behind me and says, “No, you can’t leave.”  “Why?” “Cause you might meet up with someone to talk to the judges.” Are you kidding me? Who is going to employ that kind of espionage at the Miss Capitol Area pageant in New Hampshire? I would have brought food if I knew I was going to be held prisoner. Kelsey continues; “at Miss New Hampshire they take your cellphones away during rehearsal. You have to be bussed from the hotel to the auditorium.” “Really? What nefarious deeds put that rule in place?” “There were times where like, parents would text their daughters during the competition being like ‘you sucked’ and then their game would be off.” “Oh Jesus, that’s horrible.” “Yeah I know, and that happened one year so that’s why they don’t let us have cell phones and that’s why you can’t leave,” Kelsey says with a snappy tone. “They are feeding us soon,” Katy says. I do a victory pump. “I think they’re getting pizza.” Double victory pump. Just then, Lauren walks into the dressing room. “Hey girl, how'd your interview go?” Katy says. “Really good. That’s so funny they’re getting pizza.” “Why?” “On my resume, under fun-facts I put that I like to eat my pizza with applesauce on top. I don’t know why I do it.” “Yeah that’s strange,” Katy says.

The talent portion of the competition is already well underway and I can hear the faint murmur of applause and music coming from the stage. I am last in the lineup and Kara is before me, so we are alone in the dressing room. “What do you do besides beauty pageants?” I asked Kara. “I’m in art school and I work at a metal stamping factory part time,” Kara says as she smears black eye shadow over her eyes like its army camouflage paint. “What’s your talent?” “I’m singing a song from Cabaret. Have you ever seen it?” “No, haven’t seen that one.” “You should see it. What’s your talent?” “I’m singing, too. Opera, ugh,” I mime a gun to the head. “Awesome, good luck. I know you’ll do great.” “Aw, thanks, you too. But you better hurry up and get dressed or you’re going to be late,” “I am dressed,” Kara says looking at me blankly. She is wearing black thigh highs, heels, a pinstripe corset, black chandelier earrings that touch her shoulders, hair in two messy low buns, and her “shorts” are literally see-through. “Wait. That’s what your wearing on stage?” “Yeah, I’m just going to dance around and have fun with it,” Kara says making her way to the stage. “Wait, I want to watch,” I say trailing along. I think about warning her of the impending train wreck, but its too late.

Kara walks onto the stage with confidence.  I peer out into the audience from behind the curtain and notice the auditorium is filled with women in tiaras. They are the only people who go to pageants, besides contestant’s families. This is a wholesome crowd, very PG-13. Kara begins her song and the spotlight makes it clear that she is not wearing trousers. The audience slowly catches on and begins a flurry of whispers and pointing. Kara seems immune to their reaction; she keeps singing without hesitation. When she rounds off the final note to her song, she raises her arm triumphantly. The audience claps obligingly. Kara takes a bow.

The contest continues.

I stand between Lauren and Kara on the stage for the crowning. Lauren has her head bowed and her eyes closed and I can see her hands shaking. Katy is standing with perfect beauty pageant posture and a smile plastered to her face. We are all lined up for the judges to take one last look. Sam, the reigning Miss Capital area, begins her farewell speech in front of a slide show of pictures. As if on cue, all of the girls start sobbing. Not just crying, sobbing. Why are they sobbing? Should I be sobbing, too? I guess I’ll just stand here with my arms clasped. At the end of the speech, Sam takes off her crown. “And the next Miss Capital Area 2013 is…” The girls hold their breath. The room is silent. “Lauren Campbell,” the MC says as a spotlight shoots to Lauren. Sam comes up to her to pin the crown on her head but Lauren looks like she might collapse. The other girls are in shock; Katy in particular has lost all composure.  Lauren’s mom, a stout woman with carrot orange hair, rushes to the stage and hugs Lauren. I give Lauren a hug, “Good job, I am really happy for you.” “I’ve waited so long for this,” Lauren says. “How long have you been doing these?” “Forever,” Lauren says. “Since before she can remember,” Lauren’s Mom adds in, “she was born into it.” Together they made the quintessential mother-daughter duo. Lauren’s mascara ran down her face as photographers snapped pictures of Lauren’s Mom pinning the crown on her daughter.

Backstage I try to gather all of my dresses as quickly as possible to make it to Popeye’s before it closes. My Mom was in the audience and waiting for me. “Are you going to do any more pageants?” A girl approaches me from behind. I turn around and it is Sam. “Oh, no. I don’t think I’m really cut out for this sort of thing,” I say. “Don’t give up. This was only your first try and I can help you out. The next pageant wins $3,000.” Just then I thought about school and having to work overtime at Best Buy during the holidays during finals. I thought about the “C” I got on my last paper because I got sick from working too many hours during midterms. With $3,000 I could finally quit my job. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

I met my Mom in the audience and she had a strange expression on her face. “Hey Mom.” “Good Job, Julie. Did you talk to Brenda?” “No, why?” This was a strange question. Brenda Keith is the president of the Miss New Hampshire Scholarship program, I had known her from when I was younger, singing local charity events, but hadn’t seen her in about ten years. “Brenda just came up to me and asked if you’re anorexic.” “What?” “She said, ‘Julie did really great for her first pageant. Listen, I’m really concerned about something, and I don’t know how to say this, but does Julie have an eating disorder?’” I couldn’t believe she would ask something like this. I am thin, but insinuating that I have an eating disorder based solely off my appearance, made me feel very self-conscious. For a pageant that is supposed to promote healthy body images, this is a very careless comment to make. “So what did you say?” I asked my Mom. “I told her the truth; I said you wouldn’t believe how much she eats, and everybody in our family is thin.”

I was determined to win my next pageant. I decided I would swallow my pride and do everything that Sam told me to do. Surprisingly, Sam came to my house at 6 AM before the pageant to give me some pointers and lend me some clothes. I answered the door in my pajamas and Sam was in full hair and makeup. “Lets get started,” she said with a skip in her step. For the on-stage question, she told me to think of the shortest answer possible and focus on smiling at the judges. She also told me my talent had to be changed. “Some of the judges aren’t musicians so they don’t get opera. You should do a pop ballad, like ‘Open Arms.’ Do you have a background track to that?” “Yeah, I guess I’ll bring it just in case.” I felt a little resentful that she wanted me to cheapen my talent to a pop ballad. I was open to picking a different song, but the lowered expectations made the “talent” seem more like a pony show rather than a display of ability or culture. Then she told me the trick to the interview: If they ask you opinion-oriented questions, stay away from showing a preference. The goal was to articulate both sides of the argument to show your awareness of the issue, but not to state where you stand so as to not offend one of the judges. While I found this to be pretty offensive, I just accepted it as part of what must be done to win.  The interview questions were surprisingly shallow and were normally about my hobbies and interests, so I wasn’t too worried. She continued, “now for the lifestyle and fitness competition,” which is code for the bikini contest, “you are going to need a different bathing suit and some heels. I brought you some, so don’t worry about that.” “Heels?” Trying my best to be polite and winding up blunt, I asked “who wears heels with a bikini besides a stripper?” “That’s not true, it elongates your form.” “But isn’t the purpose of the bikini contest to make sure you have a healthy BMI?” I had read this on a few Miss America websites because I was trying to understand why the pageant would perpetuate something so sexist. “Yes, and you don’t have to wear the heels but the judges will expect you to wear heels.” I begrudgingly accepted what Sam said and packed up my dresses to head to the pageant. Sam said she would come backstage to help me throughout the show.  

The pageant was held in a middle school. Sam led the way as I dragged my dresses and a suitcase full of shoes down the halls. The walls were decorated with student of the month posters and art projects and it smelled like acrylic paint. The dressing room was an eighth grade pre-algebra room. All of the other contestants were already there and they were all the same girls from the pageant before. I picked a desk to lay my dresses on and saw Kara sitting in the back.

Kara had undergone a fashion reinvention since the last pageant.  She was wearing a pink cardigan sweater with pearls and had her hair twisted into a bun. Her signature black makeup had given way to more subtle hues. “Kara?” “Oh hey, Julie.” “You’re beautiful!“ “I   thought I would switch it up,” Kara said laughing. Her dresses were laid out in front of her and all of the other girls were fawning over them in disbelief. She held up a vintage bridal gown, “this is my talent dress.” “It is so pretty. Are you singing the same song?” “No, I am singing ‘I can’t Live’ by Kelley Clarkson.” “Wow, that’s different from your first one,” I said.

One of the biggest sources of angst is finding out what theme a particular pageant will use. We waited tensely for the big announcement. “Come on girls,” the pageant director said, calling us into a huddle. She explained the theme of the pageant would be “stewardesses.” I had to keep myself from laughing when she said this. Aren’t they called flight attendants now? I mumbled, “what’s next, office secretaries?” I got a chuckle from the crowd and the director looked around. “Who said that?” Silence. She continued to explain the opening number, where we would don white gloves and cylinder hats and tote luggage around the stage to the tune of Frank Sinatra’s “Come Fly with Me.” Then she told us to go get ready for the interview.

Back in the pre-algebra room Sam handed me a dress and heels for the interview, “here, wear this.” She was being so nice offering me her clothes and since she won so many crowns, I just did what she said. My outfit was a skintight black dress with four inch black pumps, lots of leg, little to the imagination. She twisted my hair in hot curlers and pinned big rhinestone hoops into my ears. Then she pulled out a painter’s palette of makeup and swiped a sparkly plum eye shadow on my eyelids. Finally, Sam pulled out a mirror and in a “voila” moment, showed me my reflection. I looked like a Las Vegas honky-tonk. “Are you sure this is okay for the interview?” She assured me it was but noticed I felt uncomfortable. “I mean, you should wear what’s comfortable. Would you wear this to a job interview?” Maybe to an interview to be a bartender or to work behind the makeup counter at Macy’s. I would never wear it to school or a job interview where I hoped to be taken seriously. But I looked around the room and all the other girls were dressed like this--even Kara. So I accepted my new look and went to the interview. All the while I was petrified over slipping on the shiny school floor with my heels on.

The interview took place in the middle school library. “What’s your favorite thing to bake?” One of my favorite charities was to bake for the Salvation Army kitchen over the holidays. The rest of the questions followed in a similar manner. The goal of the entire interview was exactly what Sam said; demonstrate your awareness of the world around you without actually revealing how you feel about it, through half-baked altruism and massive generalizations like “war is bad” peppered with giggles and lash batting. By that standard, my interview went very well.

We all waited behind the cafeteria stage to begin the opening number. All of the other girls were dressed like Pan-Am stewardesses from the 60’s, but since my dad is a pilot, I actually dressed in a flight attendant uniform. There is a big, big difference between a1960’s stewardess and a 21st century flight attendant. Their clothes were tight skirts and colorful heels with matching neck scarves. I wore trousers and the two-inch pumps court justices wear, with a one size fits all polyester shirt tucked in. “Come Fly with Me” began to play from an old speaker and we marched out with our luggage trailing behind. There were five judges and the cafeteria was filled with half-empty fold out chairs. Again, the audience was all tiara girls.

I hoped my modern-day uniform wasn’t a turnoff.

As soon as the opening ceremony was over, we rushed came back to the dressing room and got ready for talent. My new mentor Sam said “Julie have you given any thought to ‘Open Arms?’” “Yeah, thought about it, but I am just going to stick with the song I did before.” “I think you should do ‘Open Arms,’” she said. I had already made up my mind resolutely that I was not going to change the song; women are already so underrepresented in creative domains and the last thing we need is another pop-tart bimbo singing Disney movie love ballads. Sam was not thrilled when I told her this, so I got dressed as fast as I could and ran backstage to avoid her and watch the other girl’s perform.

Kara was onstage. Her white vintage wedding dress was almost the same color of her skin, and due to the glare of the spotlight, she almost looked like she was glowing. Her straight black hair fell flat down to her elbows and it had a blue sheen from to the lights. She lilted around to the music and smiled the entire time. It was hard to believe this was the same girl who pranced around on stage in see-through pants before a crew of demure beauty queens. Kara really wanted to win, and in a way, I felt like she deserved it more than any of us. How could I complain about working at Best Buy when she works at a metal stamping factory? She had packed up the old Kara, who was unworthy of scholarships, and transformed into Snow White.

I finished my talent and came back to the eighth grade pre-algebra room to find it was full of girls in bikinis, heels, and full makeup. I spied a red, rhinestone bikini laid out on my desk. “What is that?” I asked, observing this bathing suit had zero utility for any water activity. In fact, I was afraid that anyone who would actually wear this suit would look like a human fishing lure and probably attract a deep sea predator from all the flashiness. “I really think you should try out this suit. It’s a little more what the pageants looking for.” Nope, this is where I draw the line. I will do everything else she tells me, but no scholarship is worth the humiliation of strutting around in a stripper bikini in a middle school auditorium like a poodle before a panel of judges. “I feel much more comfortable in my bathing suit. I think it is tasteful,” I said. And it is actually meant to be worn in water. Sam shrugged her shoulders and I rushed to get ready.

“Last call for the stage,” someone screamed into the room. The pageant had not planned enough prep time for bikini contest so we were all late. After one last check for wardrobe malfunctions, we all ran down the halls of the middle school in our bikinis and heels to reach the stage. I don’t wear heels, so after slipping on the linoleum a few times, I took them off. I trailed behind the platoon of girls carrying my heels. The halls were decorated with inspirational wall hangers and posters that said things like “Be Yourself” and “Shoot for the Stars.” What would my middle school self think of me now? I pushed those thoughts out of my head and kept running.

At the stage entrance was group of little girls with paper crowns on their heads. They were five or six years old and looked like they were audience member’s children who had gotten bored and decided to play in the hall. They watched the girls run by in their bikinis and cheered “good luck.” When they said good luck to me I stopped dead in my tracks. They looked up to us; they made paper crowns and put on their pretty little dresses and pretended to be like the grown-up girls. Did I really want them to look up to me--standing in a middle school hallway in a bikini and heels and full makeup? Did I want them to grow up thinking this is what they have to do to win a scholarship? Paint their faces with makeup, fry their hair straight, and stuff themselves into a rhinestone a bikini and heels? What does any of this have to do with scholarship? Before I opened the door to the stage I said, “don’t do this when you grow up. Don’t be like me. Be a doctor someday.” Then I ran to the stage.

On cue, I walked out onto the stage and saw five judges staring at me intently. As I walked down the stage in my bikini and heels, all I could think about were the thousands of little girls all across America who grew up thinking this is what female success was. When I got to the end of the stage, instead of striking a ridiculous pose, I just smiled and kicked my calf up as I exited.  Once the bikini contest was finished the MC announced, “Now the captains and ATC will tally their scores and pick their new stewardess.”

I was so shaken from what had just transpired, I almost left the pageant, however, Sam politely reminded me that I signed a contract requiring me to participate in the entire pageant. Reluctantly, I returned to the stage and lined up with the other contestants. I felt I put a lot of time and effort into this pageant and had for the most part listened to Sam. To my surprise, I was first runner up. Five hundred dollars- maybe I could buy a couple of textbooks.

Leaving the stage, I saw my Mom and gave her a big hug. No sooner than my hug ended, a woman with mousy brown hair and a pink pastel cat sweater came up to us and congratulated me and said she would refer me to excellent walking coach who charges $400 per hour. She competed in pageants when she was younger and her daughter had been Miss New Hampshire. When I questioned the price, she grew angry and told me I had a lot of promise, but needed to learn the “tricks of the trade.” She continued, “you just can’t come in and think you are going to wow the judges.” Then she brought up the leg kick I did at the end of the bikini contest. “Doing the leg kick is like saying ‘f-u’ to the judges.” Based on her reaction, I thought I had committed some sort of Middle Eastern faux pas by showing the bottom of my foot. I apologized and said the message I wanted to send was cute, rather than sexy. She snapped back “well you have to act sexy if you want to win.” My Mom piped in, “frankly, Julies uncomfortable wearing high heels and a bikini on stage, so she wore a bathing suit she would wear to the beach and walked like she would at the beach.” Now the woman’s face was getting red. She said, “now, this is how you need to walk” and proceeded to strut across the room in an exaggerated gait. “No leg kick. You all need to be identical or they won’t know how to judge you.” She then went on to explain how you weren’t allowed to show any personality in the bikini contest, because that is a distraction from them “seeing you.” You need to wear identical monochrome bathing suits, identical shoes, and you need to walk identical. This seemed funny to me, considering the opposite philosophy of piling on as many distractions as possible is used in the interview, which is the most important time for the judges to be able to “see you.” We thanked her for her input, and quietly packed up and left.

 Entering pageants was a way for me to raise money for college.  However, the pageant process went against everything college was teaching me.  College taught me to respect who I am, the pageants wanted me to be someone that made the judges happy. College taught me to examine an issue and take a stand. Pageants wanted me to walk the fence line. College taught me to be independent, pageants wanted me to conform.  So I faced a huge dilemma for a twenty-one year old: do I compromise who I am to earn scholarship money to help me reach my goals, or do I stick to my convictions, and find other ways to pay for college. I ultimately decided you cannot have it both ways. You cannot grow into the person you want to be by fooling yourself along the journey.