“AND contestant #7!” she yelled, “is Katia DUNN!”
I had been told that when I walked out to the middle of the stage, Katie Harman
would be asking me an easy question, so the audience could “get to know me.”
I had no idea what the question would be, which only made worse the sincere
fear that I might vomit on America’s most beautiful woman. Public speaking has
never been one of my strengths. In fact, I’m pretty bad at it.
“Now Katia,” Katie said to me in a jovial voice. “We want to know What do
you like best about Portland?”
“Ahh um, ahem.”
Oh god. There was a padlock on my brain. I couldn’t get inside. I was stuck
and panicking, and there were at least 300 people watching me. Probably 500.
Maybe more. Goddamn this is a hard question. What do I like most about Portland?
The bridges? The parks? My job yeah, I should plug the Mercury if I can,
plug the Mercury, oh wait, god, no–I’m such an idiot.
That would be SO inappropriate. Okay, start over, take a breath, it’s okay,
if I could just think of one thing my dog? No stupid, like there aren’t dogs
in other cities. My boyfriend? I like him a lot. No–it’s not like he’s a part
of Portland, like a statue or a building or something. Okay wait, wait, yeah,
here we go I’ve got it.
“Umm” Katie smiled and held the mic up to catch my mumbling, showing a thin
look of relief at the sign I was finally ready to speak. “I really love the
rain?”
Then I remembered to smile.
BECOMING MISS PORTLAND
The Miss Portland competition is the official precursor to the Miss America
competition. It’s a three-tiered system: Miss Portland, Miss Oregon, Miss America.
Judges score contestants based on four categories: Artistic Expression (40 percent),
Presentation and Community Achievement (talent) (30 percent), Lifestyle and
Fitness (swimsuit) (15 percent), and Presence and Poise (evening wear) (15 percent).
Contestants begin rehearsing and preparing for the contest about three to four
months ahead of time.
Sometime in late February, after discovering the contest, I determined that
I met all the requirements: I’ve never been married, never been pregnant, I
have always been a woman, and I’m between the ages of 18 and 24. I’ve lived
in Portland for more than six months. “This is not a beauty pageant,” the advertisement
promised. “It is a scholarship program.”
Still, when I arrived at the first rehearsal, I was petrified. Even if it
wasn’t technically a beauty pageant, wasn’t it still based somewhat on
looks? Were there going to be a lot of 100-pound Barbies there? What would they
think of me? I mean my eyebrows weren’t even plucked. I sat in the car outside
the practice space–which was all the way out in Tigard–and fantasized about
going home. It was Sunday, I could be in bed Instead, I forced myself to go
in.
Practice, that first day, consisted of learning the swimsuit and ballgown
patterns for walking on stage. Kerry, one of the coaches, was leading the lessons.
“It’s not about how skinny you are or how good-looking you are,” she told
us over and over. “This contest is a who’s who of confidence. Now. Shoulders
back, head up.” And as Kerry walked in a small circle in front of us demonstrating
her “shoulders back, head up” theory, she really did look more confident.
“Smile, smile, smile,” she reminded us as we practiced.
There were nine of us total, and everyone else seemed pretty normal. I, on
the other hand, probably came across as cagey and weird. At that point, I still
wasn’t quite sure if I wanted to enter the contest at all and was therefore
not sure what to tell them. Plus, I still had the paranoid feeling they were
going to realize I was not a lifetime pageant-goer, and kick me out.
“So, you go to Reed?” one girl asked. “Um yes. Yes I do,” I told her–which
was a lie, since I had graduated from Reed almost two years before. But I suddenly
couldn’t remember what the requirements were. Was I supposed to still be in
college?
“And what’s your talent going to be?” Darcy, the coach, asked me towards the
end of practice. I had already told her in an email that it might be dance,
but the truth was, I’ve never really done any kind of formal dancing. “Singing,”
I said, attempting to sound confident. Jesus. Where did that come from?
SOME STUFF ABOUT ME
I declared myself a feminist at the young age of 15, and made a regular practice
of walking up to people in places such as videostores and banks, and saying things
like, “Your Big Johnson T-shirt really offends me. I think it’s sexist.” This
was clearly not very well received by the T-shirt wearers, but I saw it as furthering
the women’s movement and, in retrospect, this defensiveness was sort of helpful
while growing up as a tomboy in a small, conservative town.
Though I am no longer quite so antagonistic, I’m hardly the picture of a lady.
I rarely wear makeup, shave my legs, or put more than five seconds of planning
into what I’m wearing on a given day. I hate shopping. Consequently, despite
their level of acceptance, I still felt completely out of place in a room full
of girls who had concentrated on honing grace and poise for a good part of their
life.
And so, as practice went on, I realized that coming up with a political “platform”–the
cause for which Miss Portland chooses to advocate–as well as a talent, would
be the easy part. I’ve always been politically informed, and as for talent?
Well, I knew I’d think of something. But it was the strutting around on stage
that worried me. I left that first day almost crying, having tried to master
the “pivot” step; that thing every Miss America innately knows how to do when
they’re walking across stage in a swimsuit. Plus, I was terrified of the opening
number we had to learn, which involved a synchronized series of said pivots,
turns, arm shakes, and hip movements.
In the end, however, I was determined to assimilate as best as possible. I
wanted to learn about Miss America from an insider’s perspective, not as a critic.
So, with some confidence, I declared my platform to be “Ending racism through
education.” I know a lot about the topic, and it seemed pretty bipartisan. (Besides,
who aside from a few people in Idaho would argue against ending racism?)
And even though I can’t sing, it still seemed like the easiest thing to do.
I looked for something simple and emotional to perform, as most of the previous
vocal winners leaned toward singing slow, popular ballads. In a quick brainstorming
session, I remembered a rousing rendition of Cyndi Lauper’s “True Colors” I’d
sung during an inebriated karaoke night. All my friends (also drunk) talked
about it for days.
Perfect. I was ready.
MY FELLOW CONTESTANTS
The first time I met Audrey–a fellow contestant–she was wearing a long, handmade
skirt and a red, puffy down vest covered with buttons that said things like “Free
Tibet.” She was sitting on the floor, while the other girls around her were waving
around cans of hairspray. She was reading a book called Cunt.
“Oh yeah, it’s really great,” she told me, and asked if I wanted to read it.
“It’s about women reclaiming the word ‘cunt.'”
Audrey and her friend Marie, both Lewis and Clark students, had joined the
pageant as a kind of experiment in sociology, as far as I could tell. Marie’s
platform was “Anti-capitalist Action: Creating class consciousness and worker
solidarity to revolutionize our world,” and Audrey’s was “Womenstruation: Menstrual
Health Awareness.” Audrey came to the program after doing a paper on the pageant
for her gender studies class.
“I just started researching it,” she told me, “and the pageant presents itself
as this forum for bright, smart, intelligent women to earn money for school.
I was like, ‘I could do that.'”
Other notable contestants included Dawn, a sweet, beautiful, tall PCC student,
whose campaign was “Youth smoking prevention.” There was Shontina, who kind
of looked like Kirsten Dunst–tall, thin, blonde, and very bubbly. She was a
cheerleader for Portland State and was unsurprisingly loud and perky. Tyrene
was quieter, though she had an amazing, enormous voice. She was an opera singer.
Later, during the night of the pageant, Tyrene, Audrey, Marie and I often found
ourselves sitting in the corner, waiting while everyone else ran around with
strapless bras and eyeliner.
While I had anticipated a feeling of competition amongst my fellow contestants,
I honestly never sensed one. There was more of a camaraderie than anything else.
People wanted to know about me; where I went to school, what I did for a living.
Despite the vast differences between us, to my knowledge there were no secrets
and no backstabbing. Even Audrey and Marie seemed to be accepted without question;
they solemnly discussed awareness of women’s menstruation alongside discussions
of anti-smoking campaigns and more funding for music education.
THE SWIMSUIT DILEMMA
“The conclusion I came to,” Audrey explained to me, “is that the pageant itself
kind of exploits female sexuality, while doing some really good things for the
people involved. But I still don’t know if the negatives outweigh the positives.”
No matter how I looked at it, one of these negatives was the swimsuit competition.
The Miss America program gives more scholarships to women than any other organization
in the world, yet judging a woman’s worthiness of education by how she looks
in a swimsuit is ludicrous.
“I think it’s time for this program to be relevant to this generation,” Darcy
told me. Darcy, who’s 25 and in the business of high-tech PR, was a pageant
contestant herself before she was a coach, and felt her participation was significant
in contributing to her success and confidence during and after college. Plus,
with the scholarship money she earned, she was able to graduate debt-free.
Nevertheless, Darcy does have issues with the program. “Why do we have to
wear swimsuits?” she asks rhetorically. “The truth is, I don’t have a perfect
answer for that. I mean, I have issues with it myself. But I do think this program
can offer so much to young women as far as confidence building, goal setting,
and being involved in the community. That’s what drives me to keep doing it.”
Darcy’s not the first person to encourage change through the endorsement of
the program, rather than objecting to it. Over the years, some of the most significant
progress within the Miss America program has come from the competitors, rather
than bra-burning protesters. For example, Bess Myerson, the 1945 Miss America,
was the first Jewish contestant to win–a big difference from the white, upper-class
girls who usually won, and a significant political statement in light of the
anti-Semitism in the world at the time. After a short, four-week reign, Myerson
turned in her crown because of the pageant directors’ refusal to let her participate
in normal Miss America activities.
THE BIG NIGHT
Okay, so by the time it actually happened, I wanted to win. Bad. I’d put two months
of preparation into the contest, and I wasn’t about to walk around in a swimsuit
and high heels and sing karaoke in front of 500 people for nothing. Plus, I was
a nervous wreck. Whereas I’m normally comfortable with my body, anticipation of
the swimsuit contest had assisted me in a return to an adolescent obsession with
losing weight. (3500 calories equals one pound, a one-hour run burns 600 calories,
a burrito is 500 calories. In order to lose weight, one must stay under 1500 calories
a day). I was running five miles a day.
The day before, I was going over my last-minute preparations when my editor
confronted me.
“What are you going to do with your hair?” he asked, while scrutinizing the
top of my head.
“Ummm I don’t know,” I said. “Comb it?”
This was clearly unacceptable.
“That rat’s nest?!” he squealed in a manner that belied his stated sexuality.
It was one thing for a tomboy to work in the office. I guess it was another
for her to represent the office in a beauty contest. After much objecting on
my part, he convinced me to actually have my hair “done” by a professional.
However, by the time the beautician had finished, my home-cut “long-in-front/short-in-back”
dynamic had turned into a late ’60s Florence Henderson flip of excessive height
and flippiness. “Touch it up with some hairspray,” she instructed me as I left.
“It’ll hold until next week.”
The pageant started at 7:00. By 5:00, I was falling apart. I think of myself
as brave–some of the accomplishments I’m most proud of are hopping a freight
train, hitchhiking alone in other countries, getting arrested, and getting naked
in front of a large crowd of people. But I had never before felt the sense of
dread that I had before the pageant. I couldn’t stop pacing. I was wringing
my hands so maniacally I couldn’t concentrate on simple tasks like removing
jewelry or putting on Chapstick. Everything was lost, I couldn’t find my pantyhose–they
were too small anyway–and I had forgotten to find a necklace. At 7:10, we were
all ushered onstage and instructed to put our heads down and wait for the opening
number set to a Janet Jackson song.
Shortly after, everything fell apart.
I SEE YOUR TRUE COLORS SHINING THROUGH
Almost immediately, our timing was off. We hadn’t accounted for the bigger
stage, and things were taking longer than in practice. We missed our cue. Some
people started dancing, while others were rushing to catch up.
This first mess up, however, somehow made me less nervous. Ten minutes later,
as I took my first few steps onto the stage, I didn’t really care that I was
dressed in a highly unlikely combination of swimsuit and high heels. The lights
were blinding and hot, and blurred my view of the audience. I concentrated:
slow, slow, slow, turn, exit. Someone was talking: “Katia Dunn is a writer for
the Portland Mercury, and in her spare time, sings ” People clapped.
Did I hear my dad?
There. It was over before it had even started, and I just stood there stunned
for a minute, incredulous that I wasn’t dead. For one moment, I was made of
steel. I strolled backstage, ready to get into my business suit for the “getting
to know you” part of the contest, and stared peacefully at everyone frantically
running around trying to remove the buttglue meant to insure that our swimsuits
wouldn’t ride up and give us a wedgie.
Still. There was the singing.
All along, I had been most afraid of the singing. Like I said, karaoke is
the extent of my vocal experience, and I can hack my way through songs, but
I certainly don’t have any real talent. For two months, I had been screaming
“True Colors” at the top of my lungs in the car, while other people in neighboring
vehicles had smirked at red lights alongside me.
Therefore, in lieu of actual talent, I had been told I was going to have to
“sell the song” and “own the stage.” And as I walked out, held the mic, and
turned around, I felt better than I had at any point in the last 24 hours. It
was just singing, I realized, and it was just people out there.
“You, with the sad eyes”
(My voice sounded okay, I mean, at least it was coming out and everything.)
“Don’t be discouraged, though I realize/It’s hard to take courage”
(I was building, building. I only had two minutes, so I knew I had to rise
quickly to the crescendo.)
“In a world, full of people/you can lose sight of it all”
(Oh shit. I had been practicing that line for so long, but it came out just
a second too late, and was totally off pitch. Hmm. Oh well. Keep going.)
“The darkness/inside you/makes you feel so small”
(At this point, I’m actually enjoying it, and decide to throw in some dramatic
stumbling around. Sing like you’re about to die.)
“I see your true co-ol-orrs shining through/I see your true co-ol-orrs,
and that’s why I lo-ove you/So DON’T BE AFRAID! to let them show/ your true
colors your true colors ”
(I’m so wonderfully tortured I can hardly get the words out!)
” are beautiful ”
(And now the dramatic pause.)
” Like a ra-a-a-a-a-a-innboww.”
There was clapping. Nice. Was I good? Man, I must have been awesome. Later,
coworkers would describe me as a “drunken Liza Minelli on ‘ludes.” Whatever.
It was my moment.
THE CROWNING MOMENT
Audrey and Marie (the hippies) were by far the most entertaining candidates.
“Now Audrey,” Miss City of Roses 2001 asked during the interview section.
“We’re all dying to know. What do you do for fun?”
“Well,” said Audrey cheerily, “I enjoy going to protests that speak out against
the war, and hanging out with my communist roommates!”
In another section, the MC asked Marie about her platform (menstruation)–but
alluded to it as “women’s health issues.”
“I think that women’s menstruation is something we do not have enough
awareness about,” Marie said without blinking. “Women should talk to their partners
about their periods, and not feel any shame in doing so.”
“Thank you, Audrey!” yelled the MC.
While, competitively speaking, I wanted to win, I didn’t really want
to win. If I did, I’d have to spend a year hosting Miss Portland events, not
to mention the fact I would have to compete again in the Miss Oregon contest
in June. By the time the winners were announced, I was bored out of my mind
from waiting, and simultaneously terrified and delighted at the thought of winning.
“And now, the next Miss City of Roses is ”
I waited, trying to smile.
“Shontina Gianotti!”
Oh. Shontina.
She was the Kirsten Dunst look-alike, and rushed forth and ducked down, as
we had been instructed to if we won, bowing so the crown could be pinned on
her head. I wasn’t surprised. Shontina’s talent had not only been a sign language
interpretation of an Alan Jackson song, but she dedicated it to the victims
of September 11, AND her platform was helping kids learn to read. She looked
like a movie star and had been in countless pageants. She knew her shit and
probably had a very good answer to the question “What do you like most about
Portland?”
But there was one more winner to be announced, as two people go on
to the Miss Oregon contest.
“And Miss Portland, 2002, is Tyrene Bada!”
Again, I wasn’t surprised. Tyrene had a tremendous voice, and seemed really
committed to her platform: Music Education in Elementary Schools. There was
chaos, crying, hugging, and a few devastated looks. All of us–the losers–were
ushered backward behind the judges, as praise and hugs rained down upon the
winners. Audrey and I looked at each other and hugged. It seemed like the thing
to do.
I rushed backstage to change and leave as quickly as possible–I needed to
go home and start getting drunk. As I did, I heard Audrey’s voice and some yelling
going on behind me. Audrey was being escorted out quickly by one of the coaches,
and yelling to Marie to bring her stuff.
“What’s going on?” I asked Marie, both of us topless in the dressing room.
“Oh,” Marie laughed nonchalantly. “Audrey just got kicked out. She mooned
the audience as we were walking offstage.”