Guestbook

THE MAKING OF A BEAUTY QUEEN Adventures in Absurdity ByShannon Marketic COPYRIGHT 2011, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED REGISTRATION # 669070 So Huck lit off for theterritories. Big deal. Well, I may only be a beauty queen, but let me tell you, the pageant business was my ticket to adventure; the modern girl’s equivalent to rafting on the Mississippi. One day I’m cleaning toilets, trying to stay in college; the next, I’m racing through airports in 4 inch heels on my way to make yet another Miss USA appearance to uplift the spirits of kidney transplant patients. Could Twain have imagined anything more unlikely? No, but Twain never wore a tiara. Neither did he sit and deliberate over whether a country is still a powerful, free world after it’s right to bear arms have been abolished, while pretending that he hasn’t been talking politics and fashion for the last 12 hours with dark roots showing. Perhaps he contemplated the pros and cons of socialized health care at pompous dinner parties, but I wonder how many current people have stopped to ponder the truly critical issues affecting the pop culture of our society: whether woman in fake eye lashes, chest pads, and hair extensions (always working on their Ph.D.’s) should become America’s symbol for royalty. It’s not an easy question to answer, trust me, I’ve been faced with it many times. It’s right up there with napalm use as a possible exfoliate and other thought provoking, opinion vexing topics. Any professional infiltrator would be remiss to leave out that prevailing in this aristocratic sorority are some of the most noble champions of honorable causes this country has; virtuous women of integrity with a passion to make a difference and affect future generations. But like needles in haystacks, you have to search past the helmet hair and rainbow eye shadow to find them. I know, for I was one of them. When people ask me whatever possessed a small town ranch girl to enter a beauty pageant, a wave (no pun intended) of nostalgia rushes over me. There was my background: daughter of pious, loving, patriotic parents, who encouraged me to make my life count for something in any way that I could. Play with everyone regardless of color, share your lunch, give back, help others, serve God, love your neighbor, pledge allegiance, eat your vegetables. I wasn’t just good; I had ambitions. Right after getting myself elected to the critical office of secretary in Mrs. Jones’ sixth-grade homeroom, I figured the next logical step to improving the world was to become President of the United States. I wasn’t passionate about the rain forest and hardly knew about the whales, but young and full of idealistic fervor, I wanted to put an end to child abuse, feed the homeless and give everyone a good job. My parents, bless them, never mentioned that my dream to become President was farfetched; in fact, they enthusiastically encouraged my campaign headquartered on the corner of Pipe and Dream. Astonished, I woke up one morning to realize that I was already 18, and still no one had asked me to carry the banner for their party. Clearly it was because I was hidden away on my parent’s ranch in southwest nowhere, with no audience but my six Barbies, and no constituents other than the stray lizard and mangy old jackrabbit. And then, I grew up. I realized that to exercise power, you must have it in the first place. The only power I hadn’t considered was the power of beauty, since I lacked it then and still do now. But as my tale will prove out, as Abe Lincoln said, “You can’t fool all of the people all of the time, but you can fool some of the people some of the time.” God is the person who controls all power and my question was, what is it exactly, how do I get it, and if I did get it, which kind should I get in order to help better the world? I think that’s when my mother dropped me on my head, or I had a bicycle accident without a helmet that knocked some sense in to me. I finally realized that the world in which I lived was broken, and there wasn’t a lot that I, much less Humpty Dumpty’s men could do to fix it. Besides, I was a GenXer- I didn’t have to care. I’d grown up a somewhat awkward, reclusive only child who spent most of my time reading books and performing plays for our farm animals. From there, it was only a hop skip and a jump on to the stage where I spent my teenager years, writing and performing one-girl shows on issues like substance abuse, divorce, suicide, etc., all across the country. It was not only doing what I loved, it also happened to land me a full theatrical scholarship to a university in Malibu, California. I felt that God had allowed me to hit the jackpot, because not only was I awarded with a one-time prestigious theatrical scholarship, I also was awarded an academic, leadership, business school, and law school scholarship from the only school I’d ever dreamed of going to. Fresh off the ranch, I got culture shock that gave me low-grade whip lash, still I was fascinated with all aspects of my new life. Paved roads, artichoke salads, Buddhist chants, traffic lights, cappuccinos, English saddles, beer in a glass....I was learning the part, even if I didn’t know how to dress for it. I showed up in my dorm room toting a duffel bag containing my entire wardrobe: 3 jeans cut to appropriate seasonal lengths; and 4 sweatshirts complimentary scissored to fall, winter and spring proportions. But what I soon found out was that what was “a la mode” on the prairie was “out of mode” on what now felt like the set of Bevely Hills 90210, “ TheCollege Years”. My scholarship covering only tuition led me to my first disastrous live-in job with a stodgy couple on the beach. After a few tortuous weeks of the woman waking me up at 4 am to wax the plant leaves and dust behind the pictures, my friends secretly nicknamed the dictator wife “trampoline face” for her remarkable lack of charm and the impressive amount of acreage her surgeon seemed to be able to yank and pin. My official job was to care for their temperamental Shitzu, named Ralph, whose ailments were only superseded by his accompanying gamy odor. But then Ralph was no mere dog, According to the Goodmans (not their real names) I was enlightened to know that they were convinced that Ralph was indeed their “Uncle Ralph” reincarnated, which explained why I was ordered to fix him daily meals of soufflés and quiche. As my job position expanded exponentially and my fondness for Ralph diminished, I started looking for alternative living arrangements. The Goodmans were miffed. They threatened me with bad karma: I had bonded with Ralph and here I was, abandoning him just as had his three previous wives (Aunt Jane, Aunt Carla, Aunt Betty Sue). Bad karma or not, I fled. My choices were frighteningly limited. Student housing had only a single other live-in job to offer. No one, I was warned, had managed to make it through a full month with a family I’ll call the Jukes. The Jukes needed a nanny for their newly “blended” family. The challenge came when the children weren’t blending as neatly as the couple had hoped for and I was brought in to ease the transition. The misses decided the barn was good enough for the likes of me; after all, wasn’t it tiled and didn’t it have a bed? Alas, like most barns, it also lacked plumbing. But I was game, and willing to try another way of life. Besides, I was glad for the privacy and figured that if I bought myself a super-deluxe, self-sterilizing port-a-potty, I could prepare myself to play the part of a wilderness woman. Having initially been told I could the shower in the west wing bathroom when the family was out, it came as a surprise to hear Mrs. Jukes inform me, on the second week of the job, that she would prefer I not be in the house at all except to get the kids ready for school. My predecessors empathetically tipped me off to a nearby garden hose if I ever encountered a 911 shower crisis. I was grateful for the roof over my head, but soon the novelty of roughing it in the barn wore thin, and the inconveniences of learning how to be a responsible owner/operator of a port-a-potty drove me to covet my friends’ porcelain luxuries. Finally, I took on an extra job at a gym with three glorious showers and seven stationary toilets all for my use when I closed at night, yet I still yearned for a bathroom to call my own. Between putting in my theater hours, caring for the children and cleaning toilets, I grew exhausted. Even my friends began to see that I was crumbling. We were painting a set one Saturday when my friend Jody hatched an idea that would keep me from having to give up my scholarship and go back to the ranch. “Maybe you could do that ‘Miss LA’ pageant,” she suggested. “You’re smart and well, not ugly,” she observed, giggling at the sight of me smeared with paint on jeans, face and ponytail. “Well, you’re smart anyway. You got yourself this scholarship that everyone else was trying to get. You’re writing a book, you work two jobs to keep your grades up, surely you could do a pageant. The newspaper said that runners-up get cash awards. If you were a runner-up, maybe you could quit one of your jobs!” “I’m hardly one of those pageant types. I can’t even walk in high heels,” I reminded her. “Oh yes, I can just see Shannon in a pageant: Miss Anti-Establishment! I’d throw some cash down see that,” my friend Brian said. “You’re talking about a girl so disgusted with the sorority system she pledged a fraternity. They don’t let girls like that in pageants, do they?” “He’s right, Jodes, I might as well trek to Mecca and bond with the locals there,” I said. “I’d probably have more luck.” “Don’t be ridiculous! You can act! You just pretend like you’re one of them,” Jody reasoned. “Besides, I don’t hear you coming up with any better ideas. You can’t go on like this or you’ll be forced to go home. C’mon, I’ll help you. It can’t be that hard. There it is. The conversation that changed my life forever. The competition was only a few days away, so my total preparation was to watch the “Miss USA” pageant on television with Jody as we feasted on pepperoni pizza and Dorritos. We giggled through most of it as I occasionally got up in my pajamas, teetering in my heels like a newborn colt and sauntered down the hall practicing exhibit A: “The Walk”. If only I knew that that was the very least the title involved, I probably would have quit on the spot. Jody rewarded my efforts by crowning me with a Burger King hat and a 9.5 score, regretting that she had to dock me “poise points” for steadying myself against the wall. I had the opportunity to do a lot of traveling abroad when I was younger. Being the only child of very financially blessed parents, they felt it was more important for me to experience the world than read about it in some book. So I wasn’t entirely a babe in the woods about foreign cultures. But competing in the Miss LA pageant was truly an educational experience of another culture. I learned much from my superiors; the models, actresses and professional pageant women, and I will, alas, share them with you now. 1. Swimsuit competition: you don’t just get up on stage and trot around in a biscuit-hugging Lycra wrap, oh no, no, no. There is an art to it and it can be perfected with good posture, body makeup, tape, glue, a personal trainer, “enhancement pads,” “I love my body” workshops (or a cosmetic surgeon, whichever you prefer) and of course, what no girl in a two-piece can do without, 3-inch stiletto heels. 2. Facial art. I learned that makeup is not just something you put on before you go to the DMV to take your picture once a year, nor is it something to be feared in the same way I fear scientologists and urinary tract infections. Especially base. A few pageant aficionados (who wore theirs so thick I wondered if I could carve my initials in it with a stick) extolled the wonders of base. There are the obvious benefits, like covering a blotchy complexion or camouflaging a simple that has been assaulted into a third degree flesh wound. But you can also apply it to your décolletage so that you’re the only girl at the party whose face looks like it came out of the same crayon box as her chest, or it can be helpful in mastering that “I-just-got-off-my-cruise-to-Jamaica-check-out-my-fabulous-tan” look. 3. Regarding Hair: For the serious pageant competitor, hair products are weapons of warfare, and you either play with the Big Dog salon names, or take your “Final Net,” get back on the porch, sit down and shut up. There will be no wimps in the big leagues, baby, so arm yourself with the best. Pageant hair preparation is no place for the faint of heart. I learned this when I was caught brushing through my straight hair before competing in the evening gown competition and heard a gasp. “Oh! You’re not going to wear your hair like that are you?” a well-meaning girl asked in mock terror. I was suddenly very aware that I had violated some clandestine law of pageantry: The “No Flat Hair” law. “Well, I’m afraid this is all it will do. It’s very straight,” I mumbled, feeling even more inferior to these beauty demi-gods. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” they shrieked, amused at my obvious ignorance. “We can help you pouf it up a bit,” they announced. Armed with machine gun blow dryers and industrial size curling irons, they set to work. As they were whizzing about my head shouting strategies and commands like glamorous GI Jane’s, I sat in pleasant disbelief as my hair got bigger and bigger, to the point where my blond locks were Marilyn Monroe through and through even if the rest of me wasn’t Marilyn Monroe anything. So with “dramatic makeup,” helmet hair and a borrowed wedding gown that I hoped would pass for evening wear, I took the stage. Somehow, I made it to the end of the competition without humiliating myself. Thrilled that it was over, I barely heard my name being called when they announced that I had won “Miss Congeniality.” Apparently, I had amused the girls in the days prior to the pageant, but not nearly as much as in the minutes following, when I was announced as the winner of the Miss Los Angeles Pageant. After they crowned me, I hopped around the stage, rather inelegantly, hugging the contestants who were sweet enough to give me this temporary glamour. I realized that my victory came more from the luck of the lottery than merit, thus making it even sweeter. Winning this local pageant gave me an automatic entry into the “big-deal” Miss California Pageant, where I found myself just a few weeks later. Terrified that I might lose my scholarship and my jobs, I finally got permission for a two-week leave of absence. So armed with a $40 loan and a small Jordache (on sale at Costco) suitcase, I arrived in San Francisco to represent my city, along with 116 other beautiful and accomplished women from around the state (mostly having Louis Vuitton luggage drug behind them by obliging boyfriends). Having always been a girl to attack challenges head on and never one to be easily intimidated, I was shocked by my intense feeling of wanting to “stop, drop, and run” as soon as I arrived. Immediately I knew that I was ill prepared. Having an apoplectic seizure while trying to put a wardrobe together from the contents of my duffel bag, borrowing things from friends and torturing the poor wedding gown with beads and sequins was bad enough, but discovering that girls were even wearing formal gowns to rehearsals was just too much. I though that rehearsals meant what it did in my limited theater world: jeans, sweats, you know..... rehearsals. “Excuse me, do the judges watch and judge during rehearsals?” I asked one curvy contestant in a cocktail dress who was re-twisting her French twist. “Oh heavens no!” she exclaimed through bobby pins in her teeth. Then, eyeing me from below thickly lined lashes she remarked, “You’re the girl from Malibu, right? The Newbie? Well, you can ask me anything. I pretty much have it down.” “Well, I was just wondering because everyone is so dressed up with so much make up and hair, I thought the judges must be watching. But then, why doesn’t everyone just chill out and let their faces breathe?” “It’s part of the game. Never show your real face, and always, always look like the winner.” Apparently, my roommate subscribed to the same philosophy. She brought along a set of visualization tapes to help keep her focused on winning the crown. At night, with my eyes closed, attempting to pray, I would inevitably be distracted by the same vision: a beautiful brunette in an over-priced pink nightgown, high heeled fluffy slippers, crowned with her Sony Walkman, waving and visualizing herself accepting the title and taking her walk. “Ohhhh Lord, get a load of this chick! “I’ve never even seen fluffy slippers. This girl puts facial masks onher feet and I’m still figuring out how to get it on my face! She is a work of art. She is beauty personified and I am an overgrown tomboy who should be teaching tree-house construction at a summer camp. If this is what this is all about, then I am out of here! I can’t get through this without you. Look, you blessed me and put me here. If you want me to do this than you have to give me the strength to do it, because if there is one thing I do know, where I am weak, then you are strong, and without you, I might as well be back at the ranch herding cattle. Oh, and by the way, if you could make me beautiful, skinny and elegant, I would really appreciate that too.” Realizing that Ru Paul had a better chance of making the top 10 than I did, I turned to a manuscript I had been working on about children while I was traveling and performing monondramas. Kids would emotionally and rawly share with me, the issues that they were struggling with and how their parents could be there to help them through it. That “journal of wisdom” from kids turned in to a book called “Raising Parents.” Nothing made me feel better than to see these kid’s lives being healed and their relationships with their families restored. It helped keep me centered on the things that were truly important to me and the things that had lasting value, as well as distracted me from obsessing on things such as chocolate and my weight, which I suddenly felt was rising higher than the average contestant’s. It also occurred to me that I had stepped into a mother lode of image pros, and that as a writer, I might as well take advantage of the cache of knowledge they possessed. Another book idea was hatching! Amazingly, just about every girl was the ninth degree of agreeable, more than willing to disclose all her arcane secrets about beauty and health. Among other things I learned that there existed a magical power of a certain herbal tea, guaranteed to help people control weight. Intrigued, I thought, what the heck, I’ll try it. But I wasn’t much for following directions. I mistakenly quadrupled the dose and all but gagged on trying to finish a huge mug. This crap must really work because how these girls could stomach this was beyond me. But finish it I did and rushed on to rehearsals. Magic it was. An hour later I was so ill I could not leave the restroom and was begging for someone to shoot me and put me out of my misery. Sympathetic contestants came with offerings of Pepto-Bismo and Mylanta and laid them reverently before me on the tile floor. The resident nurse finally made the executive decision to take me to the emergency room, where I underwent a humiliating exam by a gorgeous doctor who apparently was just taking a brief hiatus from the set of “General Hospital.” He concluded that I had experienced an extremely adverse reaction to the dieter’s tea and had subsequently experienced a temporary, yet extremely painful bout with a medical condition I was not familiar with “I’m sure you just experienced some temporary, uncomfortable hemorrhoids from the tea, dear,” the nurse offered as she handed me back my “Miss LOS ANGELES” banner. I now had the attention of the entire waiting room and the galaxy beyond. The puzzled look on everyone’s face was enough to make me consider acting out a dramatic piece whereupon I play a distraught, unattractive, broke, beauty queen who would rather be shoveling dung in Egypt than discussing my “condition” among mere strangers! I mean, come on, a beauty queen with hemorrhoids? On what planet does that exist? Freud never mentioned it-Cindy Crawford didn’t reveal it in her “tell all” book-even Joan Rivers and Cathy Lee don’t inform you of their “southern” inconveniences. I can’t be the one and only “temporary victim!” But whatever the light and momentary condition was, I was now wishing it would take my life because this was all just too much. For the first time in my life I experienced what up until that point I had only read about. I was falling apart. I was tired of all the hard work of the last year. Earning and keeping my scholarship, caring for the children, worrying about my parents who had lost their home, their ranch and every other single thing they owned. I was the only child. I was the one the made them happy when they felt like quitting and it was when they were packing up our home that they got the emotion call from me. Not one to give up, but rather one to laugh in the face of gargantuan odds against me, I shocked my parents when I called from a pay phone in a slobbery, snotty mess. With no health insurance or cash, and not one prone to tears, I even surprised myself with the fountain I displayed. “Daddy, Mom, I’m sorry, I got sick, they took me to the hospital and I didn’t have insurance but they took me anyway and now I don’t have any money to pay for it,” I blubbered. “You have to get me out of here. I’m serious. It’s like debutante camp from hell here. I can’t stay here!” Knowing that my dad didn’t think highly of pageants, I expected his full support in my plan to become MIA. But I didn’t get it. “So, a couple of shallow, catty girls and a tummy ache are going to send you packing? Okay, put my real daughter on the phone now, please.” “It’s not just that, I don’t belong here. These girls are pros, they know that it’s all about. They’ve been training for this their whole lives. They’re experts. I shouldn’t be here. I should be back at school making sure I don’t lose my scholarship or my jobs.” “You should stop being so judgmental and be thankful for being able to be a part of such an interesting experience,” my father consoled. “There are 116 other girls besides you. I have a very difficult time believing you are the only normal person. What I do know is that my daughter is not a quitter. Stick it out,” he ended. “You have it in you!” I regrouped, and barring that brief break down, I somehow I managed to make it through the preliminary competitions to the final televised affair without any other mishap. It wasn’t as painful as I had anticipated. I hadn’t minded the personal interviews because I was able to talk about my dreams, my education, the work I’d done with kids as well as the books I had written. The judges were friendly and kind, but the preliminary evening and swimsuit competitions were a bit terrifying. I was tempted to carry a sign during my evening gown competition that read, “this is not a wedding dress, really” and another during my swimsuit competition reading, “hey, I have a really good personality.” This being the worst time in my family’s life, my parents were too broke to come to San Francisco, but they drove across the California line, just to watch the pageant on TV. I begged them not to waste their money, but they insisted. And to our mutual surprise, it ended up being worth their while: at the end of the two-hour telecast, a little ranch girl in a borrowed wedding dress became Miss California. Much of it was fuzzy, like fairy tale. My parent’s seeing that I had won, made speed getting to me. There was a coronation ball afterwards where I was presented with a car as well as about $60,000 in cash and prizes. My head swam with visions of my very own bathroom dancing in my head. The morning after, I woke up and ran into the next room, dodging candy wrappers and pizza boxes, to see if the crown and banner were really there or if it had all been a dream. They were there. I gently set the crown on my head and studied it. “Look at me with this big zit, bed head, boxers and T-shirt. Who would ever think that this crown belongs to me? I can’t believe I pulled this off! This is quite is a coup indeed!” I thought as I ran into my parent’s room, crown and all, screaming, “I’m out of the barn! I’m out of the barn!” My first duty was to meet with the Colonel of the pageant army: Catherine, the Miss California State Director. I had heard all about her militant, despotic grooming techniques, but had also heard that being a successful image consultant and political advisor for many years, she knew how to make beauty queens. She was elegant, autocratic and capricious, with an aplomb that commanded respect and that kept everyone around her slightly off balance. I loathed her immediately. She met me in my hotel room that morning. Upon entering, she quickly surveyed the pizza boxes and candy wrappers. Coolly, she shook my hand and asked a few questions, along the same lines that Nassau might have used to question a captive alien (read: where the hell did you come from? Will you be staying awhile or will the mother ship be back for you soon?). I got the impression that she was not thrilled with the prospect of being stuck with me for a year. She clarified by telling me that she was not quite sure how I could have risen to the top with such little experience, but that just meant we had quite a lot of work ahead of us before the next big step: The Miss USA Pageant. Not yet ready to cotton to pageant protocol, I said, “Oh no, no thank you, no. I’m just going to cash in now while I’m ahead. See, I wasn’t even going to do this. It started off as kind of a joke, see, and then I got lucky and now I have a car and enough money to get my own place and....” She interrupted the gush. “You might remember that you signed a contract before competing in this pageant. You are not only legally obligated to compete in the Miss USA Pageant, it is the only way you will ever keep all off your winnings.” “Well................that sucks!” “Darling, titleists do not say sucks, nor do they eat candy bars for breakfast,” she said smoothly. “Now, we must start work immediately if you’re going to be a contender at Miss USA.” “A contender?” I asked, suddenly channeling Rocky. “Clearly I’ll have my hands full with you. You’ll move into my place starting next month and we’ll get your makeover done and go from there. Now they’re waiting for you downstairs for a press meeting and some fittings. Show me your clothes so we can pick out something suitable.” I worked up some steam. “I’m perfectly capable of picking out my own clothes, thank you,” I retorted. “I will not be moving in with you so that you can re-make me. It may astonish you to know that I’m very happy exactly as I am, and I’m not interested in being molded into the same cookie cutter that the 30 Miss California’s before me have been crammed in to. I have a life and responsibilities at home. I have children that I care for and grades to keep up and time that I have to put in in order to keep my scholarship and I’m sorry, but I’m not willing to sacrifice all that for the possibility of being a ‘contender.’ If that is not acceptable to you, then I guess you’ll have to find someone else to do this job.” She wasn’t impressed. “Be downstairs in ten minutes,” she ordered, making a majestic exit. I glanced at my parents. “Well, isn’t she charming? I can tell this is going to be a great relationship. She hates me.” “Give her a chance,” my mother, ever the optimist, encouraged. “She doesn’t know you yet. She was probably hoping for someone with more experience. You guys will get along great.” But our battle had just begun. The hair-stylist she sent me to chopped off my long hair to ear length and layered into a school girl bob, per Catherine’s instructions to “get rid of the beach girl look and give her something more sophisticated.” I was ready to fight. O.K., I thought, if I have to change to play the role of Beauty Queen, I’ll do it my way. I went to a different stylist and had him dye my blonde hair a dark chestnut brown. Catherine tried to mask her horror when she saw me. “Oh, very lovely. Going for the Mortica Adams look, are we?” she said, miffed. I wasn’t going to back down. “I quite like it myself. I didn’t want to compete with my boring old blonde hair.” Her weapon was reason. “But you are a natural blond!” she pointed out. “You can’t buy those highlights in a bottle! You’ll never get it back to that natural color again!” she fumed. “Ooooooh well...” “You could have just pulled it straight back if you hated it that much!” “No, I couldn’t. Blondes look like peeled onions with their hair pulled straight back,” I said, adding one more jab. “Don’t you watch the Academy Awards?” Whatever Catherine thought of me, she too was a fighter. She booked appearance after appearance for me. I helped raise money for cancer, AIDS and leukemia. I spoke out on child abuse. I visited the ill. I judged local chili cook-offs. During this time, something strange happened. I saw how people reacted to a “title holder.” People actually gave money to the charity causes I appeared at. Sick children and old people in nursing homes smiled and gave long talks and hugs during my visits. Talk show hosts let me prattle on about the declining state of America’s youth. In short, I was “doing good,” just as I had fancied as a naive kid on a ranch. I began to think of my work differently. This was rather meaningful, I realized. Gratification was something that I had never experienced in this form. I wasn’t even having to turn myself inside out and act a lie. Maybe, I thought, if I’m not required to metamorphose, I will complete my year as Miss California. I was already assured that my undergrad and law school scholarship would wait, so what did I have to lose? I didn’t even mind that a chaperone accompanied me to every single appearance. After an outing speaking to kids about the effects of growing up the daughter of a reformed alcoholic, I confided in her. “Hey, I just overheard one of the local directors say that Catherine really has her hands full with me and that I’m “terminally average” - whatever that’s supposed to mean.” My chaperone was horrified to hear this slur. She grabbed me. “Oh Shannon, people can be so cruel, sweetheart. I think you’re a warm and wonderful girl. Don’t you listen to them!” I was bewildered by her concern. “I don’t care,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with being average. What’s wrong with that?” “Well.....maybe not for a writer, or a student.....but for a beauty queen.....for a Miss California...” And then, as subtly as a Mack truck, it hit me. I was average. I had never given my looks much thought before. I never had any reason to. My parents never insinuated that my looks would ever have anything to do with my success, in fact they told me the only thing that would make me successful was hard work, a great sense of humor, an educated mind and a fervent faith in God. Of course I realize they said that now because I was average! I wasn’t allowed to date growing up and after I did grow up, I was so immersed in collegiate responsibilities that I’d forgotten to notice and apparently nobody told me that.....I was average. For the next few hours, I silently turned this shocking revelation over in my brain like the prognosis of a terminal illness. Average. I pondered all the many ways that I must be average until I finally asked my chaperone in desperation, “Do you think, if I’m nice to her, that Catherine can “unaverage” me? She was only too ready. I made it clear to her I did not intend to change the core of my character or my personality, but a little polish might be in order. Once I surrendered, I was amazed at how much refinement I actually needed. She had my erudition completely planned. For instance, I thought I knew how to sit, stand, walk and talk. I’d been doing it for years. But all that practice was beside the point. I walked like the commoner I was, not the royalty I had become. Catherine fortunately had a trained eye and loads of patience. She assessed my physical attributes and decided on a “look” for me and then began to build a wardrobe around it. We negotiated a deal: she would listen to my concerns and I would listen to her advice. She discovered that my taste was not so bad. After all, it did get me this far. Seamstresses, make-up artists, facialists, manicurists, and hair stylists all poked and prodded under Catherine’s deliberate direction and watchful eye. But for all the beauty specialists out to redo me, I clearly wasn’t paying much attention, as Catherine noticed with growing dismay. There was also advice and coaching on every possible nuance of behavior from the way I spoke (speech training), the way I expressed my voting decisions (political discussions) and the way I argued (debate training). Psychological pondering delving into questions meant to make me “discover” myself: Who is Shannon Marketic? Where did she come from and what does she want? I read three or four newspapers a day, and started forming opinions on everything that I didn’t already feel strongly about, which wasn’t much. I stopped using slang and snacking on Nestle’s Crunch bars. I started listening to “Meet the Press.” I kept a journal of my goals and the shortest route between them and me. I got obsessive about eating only things that grew from the ground. Having taught aerobics, I had a strong body, and strong was okay, but skinny was better: I ran 10 miles a day, gave up weight lifting and dropped 15 pounds in two months. One day I brought up my obsession with “averageness” to Catherine. “You know, I’m really lucky that I’m smart because other than that, I’m cursed with averageness.” “What’s that?” she asked. “You know, I’m nothing special to look at, not like all the other girls who are really beautiful. I’ve been thinking and I think that I could really benefit from some cosmetic surgery. Maybe buy some boobs or a nose job or something.” She laughed hysterically. “Well, babe,” she said, “it’s a little too late for that. The pageant is just a few days away and it is internationally televised with six million viewers. You don’t have time, and even if you got something done afterwards, everyone would know about it because they would know what you really look like. So why don’t we just work on accepting and improving what you already have? I’m growing rather fond of your new look once we threw those cut offs and ugly boots away. You were a lovely bright, articulate woman when I met you, but now you are becoming a beautiful woman. I think were making some real progress here!” And we were. We were becoming friends. Before I knew it, I was attending a farewell party thrown for me the night before I was to fly across the country for a month to represent California at the Super Bowl of all pageants: MISS USA. In my hotel room the morning of my departure, I sat and stared at all of my lovely things packed neatly in their plastic bags. I even had beautiful undergarments and an expensive mink coat. My nails were so glossy I could check my matching lipstick in their reflection and I had tormented myself into such great shape I was certain you could bounce a dime off my thigh. In short, I had become high maintenance. My mother, catching me gazing at the “new me” in the mirror, seized the opportunity to give me some words of wisdom. “Sweetheart, I can’t help but notice how preoccupied you’ve become with your quest for glamour and beauty. Nothing you can manipulate on the exterior will ever make you more or less beautiful on the inside, and the more time you spend trying to ‘look better,’ the less time you spend doing the things that made you truly beautiful in the first place: caring for people, laughing with friends, praying and meditating, studying, playing. Those are the qualities that got you where you are in life. Beauty is the woman you are, not the woman you look like. Just don’t forget that.” Hearing my mother’s words, I felt a sudden disdain for what I had become, chasing after frivolities and vanities. She was right. I didn’t have anything to prove to anyone, and this had never been a dream of mine. I decided then and there not to go. My mother, horrified that I had taken her advice so literally, scrambled to get my stuff into the car and to the airport. “No, Mom, you’re right,” I said. “I really don’t want any part of this. Look at me. I look like a mechanical Barbie doll. Unzip the back of my head. I think they put a battery pack in there.” My mother didn’t share my cynicism. “Shannon, all your life you’ve wanted to be in a position where you could make a difference in the world. This is your chance. You made a commitment and you have to stick to your word. A lot of people worked very hard to get you to this place and you will not disappoint them. Now get your big hair in the car!” Catherine was holding the plane in an anxious panic, terrified I would not show up. When I came sprinting down the corridor, her relief was palpable. As she hugged me good-bye, she grabbed my shoulders, looked me confidently in the eye and said, “You will come back as Miss USA!” I kissed her on the cheek, “Don’t hold your breath!” “I’ve been holding it since I met you,” she yelled down the gateway. When the delegates began arriving at the airport in Wichita, Kansas, it was a rapturously received event. Reporters from all over the country swarmed around the girls like bees on honey. I couldn’t help overhearing a few of the interviews, but this time instead of feeling intimidated, I just felt downright silly. From what I could her, I was in the company of one lawyer, two doctors, three school teachers, a psychologist, a social worker, a reporter, and various other meritorious professionals. I frantically tried to figure out how I would make my job as a toilet cleaner at a health club sound impressive to the press. Custodial engineer, perhaps? I was out of my league once again. The women here were just that. Women. Dauntless, polished, and on a mission. I was the youngest, barely 21, and soon found my role as the group mascot. Knowing that I had gotten extremely lucky in the past and that my luck was about to run out, I decided to keep things light. The women who were serious competitors welcomed my cheeky humor. They all rejoiced that one of the two most competitive states had officially checked out of the competition. Miss Texas was still hanging on strong. The days were full of rehearsals. Contestants arrived early in the morning in full makeup and serious hair, designer suits and Evian bottles. Those who weren’t wearing Italian designers wore aerobic gear so that every spare moment could be devoted to tummy crunches or push-ups. Evenings involved mingling with the public at high-profile events and giving the press opportunities to capture the glamour. I amused myself by observing the elaborate mind games. One girl called her psychic from her cell phone and reported the daily prediction of who would win. Another girl wrote down names of outstanding candidates in her journal, in clear view of any curious eyes, and how she felt she could easily defeat them. I managed to luck out with one of the coolest girls in the world as my roommate, Miss Mississippi. Feeling neither of us had a chance, we came up with our own contest: who could gain back the ridiculous amount of weight we had lost for this event the quickest. We simply couldn’t be bothered with rehearsals. After all, we’d never make the final telecast. Again and again we came up with excuses: we were sick, had cramps, you name it. We’d stay in our room and order room service and watch movies. It was the world’s longest-running glorified slumber party for two overgrown playmates. It might have continued even longer but word of my rebellion got back to Catherine. “So, I hear you’re quite the class clown, entertaining the masses with your antics. I also heard you’re going to rehearsals in sweats and a baseball cap, sans makeup. If you even bother showing up at all!” “Is that the word on the street?” I asked between bacon cheeseburger bites. “I haven’t been feeling so well lately. I have a terrible case of ‘what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here-ness” and it’s just been dreadful! Thank God my roommate was struck with the same virus so we’ve been able to take care of each other.” “Oh yeah? And what exactly are you suffering from again?” “Ummm, I think it’s called inertia..” Catherine was not amused. “Shannon, we worked way too hard for you to just bow out now! I know that the other contestants have impressive resumes and are beautiful. I know they are pros and have trained for this for years. But you have something different. And I didn’t give it to you, God did. It’s strength with humility, it’s charm with power and charisma with graciousness. Now please Shannon, you can’t give up!” I tried to reassure her. “Who says I’m giving up? I’ll still compete when the time comes, but someone needs to announce that no one is going to be competing before the judges for another three days. So who the heck are we impressing now? Each other? No thanks. No makeup until my first competition. And come on, Catherine. I value your encouragement, but you can be real now. I hear what people are saying about me. Sure they like me and think I’m amusing, but they’re also saying that I’m the weakest candidate California has ever sent. I’m an embarrassment to my state. Miss California is supposed to be a bombshell. I’m just a bomb.” “Says who?” “Says everybody.” “F---- everybody. Get out there and do your stuff.” For once, I was the one who was shocked. “Catherine, titleists don’t say…” She didn’t back down. “I’m not the titleist - you are. And don’t you forget it!” The preliminary competition came and went. Before I knew it, the month of competition events was drawing to an end and the Big Day arrived. You could feel the intensity in the air as the hair spray thickened like gaseous clouds. The scuttlebutt was that, having won “Miss Photogenic” in the preliminary show, I couldn’t have a prayer at winning the Miss USA title. Apparently no contestant had ever won both. Even the newspapers took a dim view of my chances. I woke up on the Big Day to read the front page: “MISS CALIFORNIA UNLIKELY TO MAKE TOP TEN AFTER BEING BESTOWED THE HONOR OF MISS PHOTOGENIC,” the headline read. The writer called me the “Kiss of Death Queen.” My roommate and I laughed. “Oh darn! And I had such a great chance of winning! How will I ever explain it to anyone who cares!” I joked. “Well, just be glad you won something. At least you got $10,000 for that!” Backstage before show time was madness. I noticed a blonde from the East Coast frantically rooting around in her undergarments. She had misplaced her fanny pads between two pairs of nylons that had gotten all twisted up. Another contestant from the South squeezed into my mirror and began re-arranging her breasts. “I just got that new anti-gravity procedure done.” I nodded in reverent awe. “It worked,” I assured her. Before long we were lined up on our marks, all 51 of us like exotic birds perched on a wire, waiting to fly north. This would be the last time that I would have to endure this, for after the “Final 10” were announced, the rest of us could retire backstage and get comfortable. I was whispering to my roommate about my plans to celebrate as Dick Clark was announcing the names of the semi-finalists, when all of a sudden she screamed in my ear. “Ow, Tammy!” “Shannon, that’s you! That’s you! Go! Oh wait, your boob pad is showing. Stuff in your boob pad! Go, GO!” So groping at my chest, I floated down the isle to join the “elite 10,” shock and disbelief on my face. We were then quickly ushered backstage to begin the next phase of our competition: swimsuit and evening gown. Unwisely choosing to be at the snack bar at the only time it wasn’t crowded, had missed a critical rehearsal, on where to walk and stop during the swimsuit and evening gown telecast. I poked my head around the curtain, hoping to catch a glimpse of the pros before me. I heard my name called and like an un-edited “I love Lucy” skit, followed the leader as best I could. When it came time for the personal interviews with Dick Clark, I listened backstage as contestants talked confidently of their achievements. When it was my turn, he asked me about the book that I had written and I mumbled something about it being “for parents” and I realized that I would have to come up with something a bit cagier to save myself. I resisted the urge to imply that I was making tremendous strides in my search for the cure for cancer, and instead, when asked what I was looking for in a husband, answered that I was looking for a man that had mastered the art of monogamy and, living in California, that was quite and endeavor. The crowd laughed uproariously and my scores went through the roof. The two-hour telecast flew by with more tough questions, and before I could even realize what was happening, only three of us remained. When they called out the second runners-up’s name and it wasn’t mine, I thought I was dreaming. When they announced Miss California as the winner, I was dumbfounded. I looked down at the sash that said Miss California to make sure I was indeed she. “Me? Do they mean me?” I whispered to Miss Alabama. “Of course they mean you! Congratulations, you deserve it!” I was still dazed. “Deserve it? Me? Are they serious?” When last year’s reigning Miss USA deposited a huge bouquet in my arms, I had to ask her, “But are you sure?” She placed a crown as a big as a billboard on my head. I wanted to yell at the judges, “What about Miss North Carolina or Miss New York? Me? ME? Come on! You’ve got to be kidding!” I looked down at the judges who were now giving me a standing ovation, along with the rest of the 3,000 people in the audience. I was stunned, and for once, delighted. I thanked God for His divine providence and wandered around the stage in a dream-like fog. This was surreal, unexpected, undeserved. I spotted my parents in the crowd and mouthed a huge “I love you.” More emotions than could be felt at once converged on the taped X where I was commanded to stop and wave. Dick Clark led me by the hand to “the throne,” where my roommate rushed me like a quarterback. We embraced and she cried tears of joy and shock while all of the girls filed in with hugs and congratulations, most of them surprised, but all of them glad that a real girl had won. The sea parted when I saw the faces of the two people who had wiped my tears, spent hours on their knees praying for me, lent me their strength and pulled me up when I could no longer stand- my parents. Just over my father’s shoulder, I saw a happy Catherine waiting in the wings, looking proud and relieved. She laughed as very un-queen like I jumped over the throne (what the heck is that supposed to be anyway) and ran to her. “Here. These are for you,” I said, thrusting my bouquet at her. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me.” “These are not for me my dear. You earned this in your own style and your own way. You’re a different girl, I’ll give you that, but from the moment I met you in jeans, T-shirt and ponytail, I knew I had Miss USA. It just took me awhile to get you to believe it. Congratulations. You’re my girl!” Suddenly, there was a cluster of microphones being thrust in my face and reporters shouting questions at me from every direction. “Miss Marketic, what do you think you did or said, or what quality did you possess that drove you over the top and made you the victor tonight?” “I don’t know...I guess I’m having a good hair day.” At that moment, a tall, authoritative looking woman edged in and scattered the reporters. “Come with me, Shannon. We’ll brief you.” Deliriously, I followed her back to a room where hair and makeup people were waiting to fix the mess tears that I forgo to shed were supposed to have ruined. And while they did, I was....informed. “You will have no official comment before your news conference tomorrow. You’ll make no statements outside of how excited you are to be Miss USA until you meet with the media trainer on Tuesday. You’ll refrain from saying flippant things like, ‘I’m having a good hair day.’ This is one of the most coveted titles in the world and “The Company” will not stand for talk like that. Now, we’re going to the coronation ball that was prepared for you. Be gracious to the guests and appreciative to the sponsors. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. sharp. Wear something appropriate and have your hair up.” More orders followed. “You’ll be leaving straight from here to your new apartment. Your parents can pack your belongings at home and ship them to you. Congratulations and welcome to the family.” She turned and marched out the door. That night sparked the beginning of what would prove to be the most trying, draining, yet rewarding year of my life. There were plenty of adjustments to be made. As though I needed it, I got yet another makeup and hair application session, as well as a personal stylist with a huge budget who schlepped me up and down Rodeo Drive to find a “better look.” I could get used to this, I thought. Also, I no longer had to date boys who asked if I would mind paying for my half of the Big Mac and fries we shared. However, traveling an average of 20 days a month, and being separated from my family and friends wasn’t fun. I was lonely. I was also disoriented. Many times I could not adjust to the time change and I would be up all night, expected to be prompt, cheery and ready for a day’s full of action and speaking at 7 a.m. Then there was “The Company” that felt they had a loose cannon on their hands, since I was prone to giving opinions on much more than my favorite new “fall nail colors.” Worried that I would offend the sponsors, “The Company” hired a media specialist, a big waste of time. He attempted to coach me on all of the politically correct ways to answer any and all questions. Finally, I threw up my arms and said, “why don’t I just say, ‘God (or Mohammed or Buddha, or Ralph) bless America! And then I could close with, God save the children and the whales!” It became very difficult fighting for my identity as I watched it slip behind the image of Miss USA. I ate, drank, slept and breathed the title. It wrapped itself around my throat sometimes like a silk scarf and sometimes like an angry Cobra. Independent and ornery as I was, I had trouble adjusting to the constant companionship of a chaperone, not just living with one full time but traveling with them. Regardless, most of them were my only confidantes and friends. The company tried earnestly to convince me that I was now American royalty and it was time that I started acting accordingly. Apparently that meant no more baseball caps, blowing my tired old chewing gum out the window or throwing popcorn at the screen when the Dallas Cowboys screwed up a play. I did realize to a certain extent that they were right and I did not want to disappoint God, who was gracious enough to give me this opportunity, nor the charities that were counting on my support. I was still enough of an idealist to want to use my platform to benefit those who could use my connections for those in need, but I must admit that this whole travel iron and lint brush obsession was really cramping my style. Not to mention my scholarship had been for acting and writing not smiling and waving, and now here I was feeling mortified showing up at award shows with this ridiculous billboard crown on my head that I felt like shouted “EAT AT JOE’S”. I’m sure it was just my own insecurity as the other actresses made conversation with me and shared that it had been many of their dreams to be Miss USA, and here I was wanting to hurry past this stage to move to where they were, or at least be writing the parts they were playing. Odd how life works, huh? Before long, I found myself in Bangkok, Thailand, competing for the title of Miss Universe. It was like a very glamorous version of “Ground Hog Day.” What started out as a long shot was turning out to be a never-ending journey. I had fun at Miss Los Angeles. I learned a lot at Miss California. Miss USA was the most exciting experience of my life, but this pageant stuff was getting out of hand! The thought of putting nail polish on my panty hose and dashing through airports in 4-inch heels at 5 in the morning every day for one more year made me consider entering the witness protection program. There were times when I looked at the crown and wanted to throw it into a crowded arena to see if it would actually boomerang back at me. It seemed there was nothing I could do to rid myself of it. I couldn’t take any of the TV or movie offers I was given because I was under contract with the company and no one else. I couldn’t even get an agent to field the offers. The company began to control everything from what I wore, who I dated, how I answered interview questions and any other threat they could think of to control or even threaten fire me. “Don’t sign your autographs, “God Bless,” people get highly offended by that. Also, don’t put Philipians 4:13 anywhere (I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me) the people may love it, but the sponsors are afraid it might offend someone.” Please. I eventually really irritated them by becoming engaged to a boy that they did not approve of, but could do nothing about. Although it did not work out, it was fun watching them squirm, being photographed in public with a gentlemen and all. In the fairy tail land of Miss USA’s we do not have boyfriend’s, nor do date, not that we would have the time anyway. There were so many times when I felt so guilty for not taking advantage of this honor, I just wanted to go and spend days at nursing homes or hospitals, sharing with people who would really appreciate it, and there is no excuse other than exhaustion for why I didn’t do it, but I did ask for these kinds of things to be booked into my schedule. But there was no money in that, you see, for the company received $7,000 an appearance, (while we received some contract cash and a lifetime supply of blow dryers, nail polish, and hair spray). Which is why they tried to book as many appearances for the girls as possible and is the same reason why three Miss USA’s before me sued for violation of labor laws. I didn’t take long to learn that although this event seemed like a venue for philanthropic opportunities, the company spent most of their time filling our heads full of sacrificial politesse while simultaneously selling the hell out of us. I did, however, learn more about my world and myself during this year than I think I would have in three lifetimes combined. I had to face a lot of insecurities. I had to cooperate with people, who some were considered certifiable. I had to put up with myself who was often certifiable. I had to be charming to all, even when my cramps were bowling me over. I had to accept that I will never have super model looks, but because of my other talents, I will always have a place in Hollywood. Most importantly, I came to grips with the fact that even though I am a GenXer, I did care and I’m not ashamed to admit it and do whatever I can, no matter how great or small, to make this world one in which my generation’s children can bypass some of the crap that we were not so fortunate to step over. I learned that kids truly and desperately need role models, and they need them in their homes, schools, synagogues, everywhere. We all love winners and we all need to see someone beat the odds ever now and then. It’s hard to think of this year without getting a knot in my stomach and a lump in my throat. Most people think I just endured my time as a “queen,” but they don’t know how much it affected me being able to hold the hands of dying people as we contemplated the hereafter. I was eternally grateful for the way that this year changed my life forever, and that is not a superficial, canned, “Miss USA” remark, but a comment from the bottom of Shannon Marketic’s heart. For all it’s challenges, it made me a very gracious and appreciative woman, able to waltz in to any room sure of myself and all that I am. It’s difficult to express how forever appreciative I’ll be for that time in my life and how it benefited me. The contacts I made, the growth I experienced, the opportunities I had.......But I missed my parents. I missed my jeans with the paint on them. I missed my friends. I missed cleaning toilets. I missed being treated normally. I missed being an individual instead of some strange beauty icon. I missed the kids I nannied. I missed lazy Sundays with coffee and great music. I missed nobody minding when I didn’t wear makeup. I missed Ralph. I missed being able to say “ya’ll,” and “this sucks!” Heck, I even started to miss my port-a-potty. Well, okay, it didn’t get quite that bad, but there was certainly no need for Prozac when it came time for me pass my crown along to my successor. Although there were no tears shed on the night that I won, there were several lost the night that I gave that final walk and closed that chapter of my life for good. Memories of the armed forces members who so graciously received me overseas with open arms, the children I bonded with who didn’t care if I was having an emergency bad hair day, the charities who believed in my heart enough to put their causes in my hands, the sick who shared their hearts with me, the vets who gave parts of their lives and limbs for my freedom, the AIDS victims who lovingly and tenderly showed me reality, my parents who stood by me, behind me and at times, in front of me to catch my fall.....but most of all to the God who loved me and guided me through it all. These are life’s real crowning glories and these are the things from which true beauty is made. And you know what? It has absolutely nothing to do with being Miss Anything.Content copyright . Marketic Enterprises. All rights reserved.