Beauty and the Beasts

In the community where I teach, beauty pageants are ridiculously popular. It's peculiar, considering it was never a part of my reality growing up, but these kids gossip and endlessly discuss who the fair's princess will be and whether or not said girl is "pretty enough" to hold the title. There's no wonder as to why it's so important to them, seeing as they start them early: the town sponsors competitions for all ages, ranging from infant to high school. As diverse as the community is, all of the participants are Caucasian or could at least pass as one. On occasions when I've heard a non-white student complain about this racial disparity, I've come close to encouraging said student to participate in the competition, but then I think better of it, deciding I'd rather have this antiquated tradition continue being racist than subject one of my students who wouldn't otherwise to stoop to that level.

The competitors in these pageants are hardly my favorite students. They are the girls who can smile sweetly to our face as they plot to wreak havoc on you a moment later, then just as easily lie about their involvement later. They are the girls who can't be convinced to look at book for half the time they spend looking at a mirror. They are the girls whose parents give them whatever they want regardless of their grades because they are the family's pride and joy for being so attractive. They are the girls who will never leave town, instead starting a family with their high school sweethearts (who they stole from their best friend) hoping to one day raise a fair princess of their own, or failing that, instead earn the prestigious title of home-wrecker.

Perhaps I over-generalize. After all, every cheerleading troop has its comma momma, but I have yet to meet the student who is looking to take down the pageant from the inside. Furthermore, I can't be too critical. At my students' age, I watched beauty pageants on television. Hell, I scored them. When I was real young, I based my judgments on their outfits, but as I got older, their scores seemed to correlate more closely with their breasts. My favorite competition was Miss Universe. In addition to having an annual crush on the Trinidad and Tobago contestant (they sure grow 'em pretty there), naively, I bought into the hype of political progress being made each time they announced an Islamic country was now permitting its women to compete. Finally, women were free to be objectified, though I suppose part of freedom is allowing people to make decisions to demean themselves, too. Instead, the aspect that concerned me was that if they called the pageant "Miss Universe," then I hoped they were at least sending messages out to space, inviting other life forms to participate in order to give the pageant some sort of legitimacy. In 8th grade science, when I learned how they used codes comprised of zeroes and ones to try and make communication, I decided that this method must be how they accomplish this feat. For whatever reason, I honestly did spend a lot of time pondering this issue. I eventually gave up on the Miss Universe bullshit when I realized that Miss USA never failed to make the top ten and often, certainly disproportionally, won the whole shebang.

Why does all of this matter? Well, you see, my grandmother is a former beauty queen.

The revelation of this fact yesterday changed my perspective. I've always perceived her as a socially conservative woman who once rinsed my mouth out with soap -- I no longer recall the verbal offense, but I know I wasn't swearing at that point, so it was probably "shut up" or something ridiculous. If only I had known I was being scolded by a pageant girl: participating in a beauty contest seems far dirtier than my crime.

Before you start imagining Miss America or something, I should specify that she was the queen of an agricultural fair. The very first queen of the agricultural fair, no less. That fair will now be celebrating 70 years of schoolgirl queens, commemorating the event by inviting all of the previous queens to gather for a photo opportunity. They suggested my grandmother wear a cocktail dress. I would bet every prized pie at that fair that my grandmother does not even own a cocktail dress.

The organizers very much want my grandmother to attend, as it would be a special treat to have the inaugural crown holder. Alas, she is not interested in going. She's no hussy, I'll have you know. I'm not sure of her motivations, but she cited "failing health" as her reason in a letter sending her regards. My dad suggested she should be indignant in the missive and explain how she refuses to participate as it is degrading to women. "I like that," my grandmother responded, but ultimately sent "best wishes" to the contestants instead.

Though my initial reaction was to judge my grandmother (and I don't mean on a scale from 1-10), I realize it's not fair to apply my gender-progressive perspective seventy years later. As the first queen in the first competition of its kind in the area, she couldn't have known what she was getting into, as evidenced by the fact that her reward was participating in a parade that consisted of wading through a field of tall grass, following immediately behind a procession of cows. I only wish there was a similar prize for the beauty pageants of my students today: I would be there front and center, wildly applauding my conceited darlings as they struggled to avoid stepping in manure in their high heels.