Read Online Being Miss America: Behind the Rhinestone Curtain (Discovering America) by Kate Shindle - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Shindle
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not already have all figured out by the time you win the crown.It’s like being pushed out of the nest with a red-hot pitchfork; you’d better learn to fly pretty damn fast or you’re dead
.
Wherever you go, you are never just yourself. You are
Miss America.
And part of the reason people love having Miss America come to town is because, well, they get to say they hung out with Miss America. If they remember your actual name after a few months, count yourself lucky. If they spell and pronounce it correctly, you should give them a big fat kiss, because there’s no telling when that’ll happen again. And if they ever meet another Miss America, at some point in their lives, they will probably tell her, “You’re my second Miss America,” and then wait with bated breath to be politely asked who the first one was, because they’re very, very proud of it. Which, again, is charming—the first fifteen times it happens
.
Well-meaning people, dazzled more by your position than by you as an individual (because most of this stuff gets thought up way before they ever actually meet you) often guess wrong about what you might find fun or amusing. I get into the habit of politely declining the optional “extras”—dinner at someone’s house, a ride in their boat, a special tour—once I realize that no matter what anyone says about giving me a chance to relax, bringing along the Miss America persona is mandatory. It’s way more fun to hang out, work out, and spend a couple hours watching TV than to go to a lovely-sounding brunch on my one day off a month (if I’m lucky) and discover upon arrival that it’s a host, hostess, and thirty of their closest friends. And the jokes—THE JOKES. My favorite joke occurs about two-thirds of the way through my year, when I’m already pretty fried. I like being self-sufficient; I’ve always been about 75 percent tomboy, and it’s weird to me that people suddenly believe that, for some reason, I can’t or shouldn’t do menial things for myself. So I end up basically racing whoever it is—driver, skycap, helpful volunteer—to the baggage carousel, so as to pullmy seventy-plus-pound suitcases off for myself. Stupid, but it seems like a good idea at the time. A small act of defiance against the porcelain princess image, because I’ve never fit that image and am not planning to start
.
So one day, one of the guys from the group greeting us at the airport grabs one of my suitcases and acts like it’s extra heavy. And then kind of laughs and goes, “Is this the one with all the makeup?” And he doesn’t mean a damn bit of harm by it. He’s probably nervous, because he isn’t here to meet me, he’s here to meet Miss America. So he makes a dumb joke, and I immediately get all uppity, like “actually, that’s the one with all my files on AIDS research.” And then he feels terrible. And then I feel terrible, because seriously, no need to be a complete bitch to this harmless guy
.
Except that I don’t think the stereotypes
are
harmless, because I live with them every day. Every time I show up somewhere and someone makes a crack about how surprised they are that I’m not wearing a gown. Yeah, dude. To a grade-school assembly? Seriously? Or the time I’m invited, and then uninvited, to speak at Stanford, because somebody gets the bug that Miss America won’t be able to relate to the students there. And by “bug,” I mean “suggestion from a women’s studies class.” Which I’ve also taken, by the way
, at Northwestern.
I think I can hang, guys
.
I’ve learned that the stereotypes, even this many years later, are an automatic companion to being a Miss America. And really, most people don’t intend to be rude. I mean, sure, there are some jackasses who intentionally want to make you feel powerless, and some who legitimately believe that they can make jokes over your head without you figuring it out, because they don’t expect you to be very bright (hello, stereotype
.
Wherever you go, you are never just yourself. You are
Miss America.
And part of the reason people love having Miss America come to town is because, well, they get to say they hung out with Miss America. If they remember your actual name after a few months, count yourself lucky. If they spell and pronounce it correctly, you should give them a big fat kiss, because there’s no telling when that’ll happen again. And if they ever meet another Miss America, at some point in their lives, they will probably tell her, “You’re my second Miss America,” and then wait with bated breath to be politely asked who the first one was, because they’re very, very proud of it. Which, again, is charming—the first fifteen times it happens
.
Well-meaning people, dazzled more by your position than by you as an individual (because most of this stuff gets thought up way before they ever actually meet you) often guess wrong about what you might find fun or amusing. I get into the habit of politely declining the optional “extras”—dinner at someone’s house, a ride in their boat, a special tour—once I realize that no matter what anyone says about giving me a chance to relax, bringing along the Miss America persona is mandatory. It’s way more fun to hang out, work out, and spend a couple hours watching TV than to go to a lovely-sounding brunch on my one day off a month (if I’m lucky) and discover upon arrival that it’s a host, hostess, and thirty of their closest friends. And the jokes—THE JOKES. My favorite joke occurs about two-thirds of the way through my year, when I’m already pretty fried. I like being self-sufficient; I’ve always been about 75 percent tomboy, and it’s weird to me that people suddenly believe that, for some reason, I can’t or shouldn’t do menial things for myself. So I end up basically racing whoever it is—driver, skycap, helpful volunteer—to the baggage carousel, so as to pullmy seventy-plus-pound suitcases off for myself. Stupid, but it seems like a good idea at the time. A small act of defiance against the porcelain princess image, because I’ve never fit that image and am not planning to start
.
So one day, one of the guys from the group greeting us at the airport grabs one of my suitcases and acts like it’s extra heavy. And then kind of laughs and goes, “Is this the one with all the makeup?” And he doesn’t mean a damn bit of harm by it. He’s probably nervous, because he isn’t here to meet me, he’s here to meet Miss America. So he makes a dumb joke, and I immediately get all uppity, like “actually, that’s the one with all my files on AIDS research.” And then he feels terrible. And then I feel terrible, because seriously, no need to be a complete bitch to this harmless guy
.
Except that I don’t think the stereotypes
are
harmless, because I live with them every day. Every time I show up somewhere and someone makes a crack about how surprised they are that I’m not wearing a gown. Yeah, dude. To a grade-school assembly? Seriously? Or the time I’m invited, and then uninvited, to speak at Stanford, because somebody gets the bug that Miss America won’t be able to relate to the students there. And by “bug,” I mean “suggestion from a women’s studies class.” Which I’ve also taken, by the way
, at Northwestern.
I think I can hang, guys
.
I’ve learned that the stereotypes, even this many years later, are an automatic companion to being a Miss America. And really, most people don’t intend to be rude. I mean, sure, there are some jackasses who intentionally want to make you feel powerless, and some who legitimately believe that they can make jokes over your head without you figuring it out, because they don’t expect you to be very bright (hello, stereotype
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