First Person
The Belle Curve
Once a year my feminist friends and I revel in the rhinestones and razzmatazz of that endearing throwback, the Miss America Pageant.
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Next—and our favorite part by far—is the talent competition, which accounts for the single biggest chunk (40 percent) of a contestant’s official score. Alas, most opt for singing, which means they scrunch up their faces dramatically (distinctly unflattering) and engage in excessive double-handed mike clutching; one 1996 finalist opened her mouth so wide that viewers could easily see her bright blue tongue, obviously the result of a pre-performance throat lozenge. The second most popular category is piano, which usually involves exaggerated overhanding at the keyboard. (Texas’ Phyllis George, Miss America 1971, refrained from this excess, but then “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” isn’t exactly prima donna material.) Other talents are far preferable. I still remember the tiara-cinching trampoline routine that made Judith Ford Miss America 1969. Shirley Cothran, the last Miss Texas to go national (she won the 1975 crown), played the flute; rumor had it the medley she tootled was the only piece she knew. Kaye Lani Rae Rafko, Miss America 1988, performed a hip-blurring hulalike dance. To older fans, her shimmying was surely reminiscent of the performance of Mary Ann Mobley, Miss America 1959, who—midway through a rendition of “There’ll Be Some Changes Made”—threw off her chiffon gown and satin slip to reveal a scanty top and shorts. Officials promptly outlawed stripteases. They banned flaming-baton routines too, after one landed in the judges’ booth and another singed the twirler’s eyebrows. Entrants have recited poetry, ice-skated, fenced, and delivered the Sermon on the Mount. Perhaps the most universally remembered talent was a demonstration of how to pack a suitcase. I don’t recall the contestant’s name or state, but I still roll up my sweaters so they won’t wrinkle.
After all that fun, the evening gown competition is a bit of a letdown. In the fifties full skirts were in, the sixties introduced the tailored look, the seventies involved a lot of empire-waisted chiffon, and the eighties emphasized heavily sequined or bugle-beaded bodices. Nineties women have a lot more latitude: You may see elaborate wedding-cake confections or slinky black floor-length sheaths. Hairdos are equally diverse—there’s everything from classic chignons to teased manes.
While still gussied up, the finalists move on to the last half hour of the competition: the onstage interview. Back in the good ol’ days, it was an off-the-cuff question, such as “Where would you most like to spend your honeymoon?” or “You’re proficient at tennis or golf. You know you can beat your date. Would you? Should you?” (To the latter, one interviewee replied, “Ah wouldn’t and Ah shouldn’t, because Ah did once and Ah never saw him again.” That was Mississippi belle Lynda Lee Mead, who deservedly won the 1960 crown.) Starting in 1988, though, contestants were required to adopt a personal platform championing a social or political cause—AIDS prevention, adult literacy, mentoring at-risk youths—on which they expound briefly. Their answers are still sincere, maybe even noble—but clearly rehearsed.
As the moment of truth approaches, use the final (whew) contortions of the pageant hoofers to review your notes. The time has come to bite the bullet and rate your top picks, from fourth runner-up to the queen of femininity herself. We say whoever correctly picks Miss America deserves a suitable prize—long-stemmed roses, say, or a year’s supply of Nair. MAW members pass around a highly coveted satin sash and heavy rhinestone tiara (which looks great on the Longhorn skull in my living room). In case of a tie, the winner is decided by comparing correct predictions of runners-up. If two people have identical lists—it’s happened more than once during MAW—you can always toss a coin.
MAW’s killer competitor is Dawn. In 1995, as Shawntel Smith, Miss Oklahoma, stepped up to the microphone during the opening procession, Dawn declared, “There’s your Miss America.” I scoffed: “She’s a redhead. They hardly ever win.” “Then it’s time,” Dawn retorted, “plus, she’ll get the sympathy vote for the bombing.” And she did. Cynthia is almost as adept; after back-to-back wins in the eighties, we presented her with a vintage campaign button that read “No Third Term.” She didn’t take the hint—but did retake the tiara. Stephanie is a relative newcomer to MAW, but at her very first pageant, she picked eight of the ten finalists out of the preliminary walk-through; we veterans debated how to un-invite her. And last year four of us woke up on the morning of the pageant to find Ilse, clad only in her nightshirt, reading the paper and sporting the tiara. “I’m gonna take it home this year,” she warned us after we quit giggling. For the first time since 1986, she did.
As even casual pageant-watchers know, titleholders from certain states are losers from the get-go. Inevitably, these are women who represent states with comparatively low populations. Texas is home to thousands of coeds, whereas states like Wyoming, Alaska, and Rhode Island have a harder time coming up with a smart, pretty, talented, poised contender. (Or, perhaps, an interested one—although the top prize, a $40,000 scholarship, ain’t hay.) Which brings us to an urgent question: Why hasn’t Miss Texas won the tiara in 24 years? Despite the state’s reputation for producing beautiful women, Miss Texas has racked up a mere three wins in 77 years. California and Ohio have each won Miss America six times, and Pennsylvania, Illinois, Mississippi, and Oklahoma four. Oklahoma!
Pageant-watchers over the age of, say, thirty will remember when Miss Texas—any Miss Texas—was a shoo-in for the Miss America top ten. For decades she was, typically, a tall, regal brunette, twinkling with sequins and delight. More recently, the state winners have mostly seemed to be unimpressive—even robotic—blondes. That’s because they’ve practically been laminated, thanks to the professional glitzmongers of the Miss Texas Organization, the infamous Fort Worth—based pageant mill. In MAW’s collective opinion, this hyperglossing may account for the state’s failure to produce a queen since Shirley Cothran (who was indisputably regal, if a bit reminiscent of Betty Crocker). Four years before, Phyllis George, now famous as a broadcast journalist and purveyor of chicken dishes, had taken the 1971 state and national titles; she was possibly the most appealing Miss America ever (it’s hard not to like a woman whose tiara falls off during her victory walk). Jo-Carroll Dennison’s movie-queen looks made her a wartime winner (1942). Not that other Miss Americas aren’t Texans. Debra Sue Maffett of Cut ’n’ Shoot, for example, who had failed three times to win Miss Texas, moved to California, took the state title there on her first try, and walked off with the 1983 Miss America crown.
The good news is that this year’s Miss Texas, an Arlington college student, is a doozy—confident, curvy, bright, and pretty enough to make a man plow through a stump. She’s yet another blonde, but she looks and sounds thoroughly modern, like a Miss America for the millennium (even her name—Tatum Hubbard—is both folksy and au courant). She doesn’t, praise God, belt Broadway tunes but performs jazz dance. If she can withstand the blandification of state pageant officials, she’s bound to make the top ten—hell, the top one. Go for it, Tatum. Gazillions of Texans will be rooting for you.
Friends and relatives have suggested to MAW members that, for our silver anniversary, we travel to Atlantic City’s Convention Hall ourselves, to see Miss America crowned in person. No way—and not just because tickets are hard to come by. One snicker, and the rest of the audience would pound us senseless with their mascara wands. We’re content to view the pageant as an annual opportunity for fun, philosophizing, and female bonding. Currently MAW lasts four days, which intensifies the pre-pageant suspense. Cynthia’s little boy asked her recently, “Mom, how come you have to be gone four days?” She replied, “Because you’re still young, honey. When you’re older, I’ll be gone a week.”
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