Being Miss America: Behind the Rhinestone Curtain (Discovering America) (10 page)

Much of the small-town allure in the midst of Jersey Shore chaos derives from the fact that Brigantine is not on the way to any other part of the shore; you don’t go there unless it’s your final destination. It’s less than ten square miles, completely bordered by ocean on one side and bay on the other. Beyond the bay sits a wildlife preserve. Unless you have a
boat, the only way to get to or from Brigantine is by way of a single bridge, which leads to a tunnel running directly between Harrah’s and the newly reopened Golden Nugget. And once you get through the tunnel, you’re five minutes from the heart of Atlantic City
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That this place exists in close proximity to the madness of slot machines, pawnshops, jitneys, T-shirt stores, an outlet mall, and the ever-changing landscape of the Atlantic City Boardwalk is, in itself, remarkable. But although one might expect the island crowd to reject the tackier examples of casino excess, they’re more likely to indulge in a little gossip about a new project or restaurant and not get too worked up about the rest. And during the many years that my family has spent living, and then vacationing, and then living again full-time in Brigantine, there is one other thing that has remained steadfast: the people of Brigantine have always been absolutely gaga for Miss America
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My parents are in their early thirties when they pack up our home in Toledo, Ohio, and we set off in our silver Chevy station wagon for our new home. It is white, with black shutters, and will eventually have both a picket fence and a golden retriever puppy. Behind the house is the Brigantine public golf course; in front of it, the dirt road where I learn to ride a bike without training wheels. My first crush, a boy named Karl Miller, lives a few houses down the street. Aside from the tennis balls we bat back and forth in my driveway, my dominant memory of him is that he has the worst case of chicken pox that anyone can remember. He gets better, but I don’t think I’ve ever recovered from my mom’s vivid descriptions of chicken pox down his throat and inside his eyelids
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My parents have grown up a few miles from each other, in Mount Ephraim and Haddon Heights, New Jersey. Both are from decidedly blue-collar backgrounds: Mom’s father worked at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, Dad’s was a bus driver. Neither has had much handed to them on a platter, which is probably a big factor in the ferocious drive they
share. Mom’s the prom queen; Dad’s a high school track and basketball star. Dad has graduated from Penn, and then Wharton Business School. My mom’s college is Baltimore’s Notre Dame of Maryland University, a Catholic women-only school where you can’t wear pants unless you’re leaving campus and have a long coat on. She gets three different bachelor’s degrees—voice, piano, and music education—in four years, and is hospitalized for exhaustion. While she finishes school, my dad works for Owens Corning. They get married within weeks after she graduates and spend a few years working and saving in St. Louis, and Granville, Ohio, and finally, Toledo. And then I come along, followed two years later by a curly-haired, devastatingly charming little brother
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When it comes to raising kids, my parents are nothing if not old school. Mom obviously has as much of a work ethic as anyone, so she doesn’t appreciate any of those feminist notions that staying home with her young children is some type of surrender, or that it turns her into a lazy freeloader who watches soap operas all day. She teaches piano lessons while my dad works at his new stockbroker job with Dean Witter Reynolds. Over the years, that piano lesson money is fiercely reserved to make special purchases. Like a new rug. Or a cool outfit from the mall for me or my brother. I’m not going to say we do without very much growing up, but I vividly remember not wanting to be spotted buying clothes at Kmart; my parents see thrift and financial responsibility as a badge of honor. On one memorable occasion, the piano lesson money actually buys a shiny new Volkswagen van. In general, I am both physically and stylistically more like my dad. My mom and I have our differences, but I have to give it up to her: when she puts her mind to something, she will literally pursue it until she’s done it—like saving up for a van, ten or twenty bucks at a time
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So when I start kindergarten at age four, with my brother still taking regular naps and generally smiling a lot, Mom
has to find another outlet for her considerable energy. And that’s how I start on the road toward Miss America
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I have a few vivid memories of my early childhood. Skinning my knee in the driveway in Toledo, and getting an orange and a lemon painted onto the cut with iodine. Taking a test to get into kindergarten a year early, after my parents discover that I’ve apparently already taught myself to read by the time I’m three or four. I remember the test seeming, well, elementary; of course I know if the ball is next to the table, on the table, or under the table. Afterward, the principal wants me to sit down and read to him, but he doesn’t have any children’s books—so my mom suggests he give me the newspaper and let me read him the headlines. I remember falling off the jungle gym at school and then sitting in the nurse’s office. The jagged scar is still on my knee to this day, but my biggest concern is whether I will get in trouble because the blood has stained my white knee socks; I do not, in fact, get in trouble for this. I remember thinking that it’s a good idea to tell my first-grade teacher that I’ve finished my math assignment, when I’ve actually crumpled it up out of frustration and thrown it away; I do, in fact, get in trouble for this, when Mrs. Flanagan calls my parents to report my big fat lie. This is not a great day, but it scares me straight—I officially become the least-convincing liar on earth, and then I just give it up altogether
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The other vivid memories I have are all about Miss America
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Few people outside the zone between Philadelphia and the Atlantic Ocean, as far north as Long Beach Island and south to Cape May, really understand the yearly arrival of the Miss America Pageant in Atlantic City. The rest of the country sees it as a popular television show. Where I come from, it’s the Super Bowl and the Academy Awards rolled into one—but instead of watching it from afar, everyone you know is involved in making it happen. Up until 2005, the entire community mobilizes to put on the big show—volunteer
ing, driving contestants around, going to the parade. If you know a cop, he or she is probably on some kind of Miss America detail for about two weeks every September
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Living, as we do, a stone’s throw from Atlantic City, it’s highly likely we will all be involved in the pageant at some point. When you combine the geography with my parents’ love for traditional values, the performing arts, pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, and educational opportunities, it’s a no-brainer
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My mom has always made friends quickly, and in this case, the relevant friends are just about the classiest couple in Brigantine. Marilyn and John Feehan are a little older than my parents. They live in a modest blue house, even though it’s not a secret that they have money. Their five kids call them “Ma’am” and “Sir,” and so does everyone else. I can’t remember whether it started as a joke, or just because Sir is a taskmaster, but it sticks. I still have to force myself to actually refer to them by their real first names. Through the Feehans, my parents meet the Plums and the Brays and countless other couples who help out with the pageant. They meet the McGintys, the Steedles, the Schillings. Before long, my mom will be singing at the wedding of Saundra Usry, the daughter of Atlantic City’s mayor
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Ma’am is the head of the Hostess Committee, which is still thriving all these years after being assembled by Lenora Slaughter. The hostesses chaperone the contestants to and from Convention Hall, and to their various appearances around the city. At this point, each hotel houses four contestants, as well as each girl’s state traveling companion from home. The STCs are in charge of everything the contestants do at the hotel—using the gym, getting up on time, not being late for pickup. If you’re a contestant, you and your STC have adjoining rooms, and your door to the hallway is double-locked at all times. You do not answer the door. Your name is not on the reservation; everything goes through the STC (when I eventually compete, my STC, Addie, always of
fers to iron my T-shirts before I go to work out). And once the STCs get the girls downstairs in the morning, the hostesses take over. There are two hostesses assigned to every hotel, meaning that they share the responsibility for the four contestants. One of them picks us up while the other is dropping off food at the buffet table in the parking-lot-and-press-room half of Convention Hall. The hostesses run the dressing room, they call us to the stage, they supervise the rehearsal rooms we can sign up for, they deliver the bad news if we’re too tired or hungry to give up our lunch hour for press interviews. They oversee “Sleepy Hollow,” the little room full of cots upstairs, where we’re allowed to nap for the balance of our meal breaks when we really start to drag. They keep track of every piece of clothing that goes onstage, from the outfit for your opening number to your production costumes to your evening gown, making sure that everyone wears the wardrobe that’s been approved in advance by the pageant
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The Hostess Committee throws fund-raisers, its members stay in touch all year, they take occasional bus trips to see shows on Broadway. It is the perfect way for an organized, type A achiever to dedicate herself to something interesting while still having time to walk her kids to the bus stop and get dinner on the table every night
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Duh. Mom joins the Hostess Committee
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Ma’am, as the committee head, has extra responsibilities and duties. When the new Miss America is crowned, she immediately becomes a fixture by her side for the rest of the night. She guides her to the first press conference, rides with her in the golf cart to the other side of Convention Hall and walks her into the final contestant visitation, makes sure the hostesses and the STC move the new winner’s things from her normal human hotel room up to the high-roller suite where she spends her first night as Miss America. She makes sure Miss America has a moment after she leaves the stage to touch up her hair and makeup before being launched into the circus that follows (the year Vanessa Williams is
crowned, my mom stands guard outside that little room so that nobody bothers her until she’s ready). If you look at almost any of the photos of the new Miss America in transit—from the eighties until the year when the pageant leaves Atlantic City—you will see the same slight, dark-haired woman at her side. It’s one thing being crowned Miss America, but having one of our oldest family friends at arm’s length to navigate what follows has value that cannot be overstated
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When he can, my dad helps out too. The Miss America universe tends to think in fairly simple terms. My father could easily be voted “least likely to be a tough guy”; one big reason he’s been successful in his career is because he looks exactly like who he is: the guy you trust with your money. On the other hand, he’s about six feet four, and plenty of my friends have mentioned to me that he can be intimidating. I know where that comes from. He’s reserved and intelligent and takes a while to warm up. It’s probably the same reason people have spent years telling me that I’m intimidating; I’m sitting on the outskirts, feeling tall and awkward, trying to figure a way into the conversation. Wishing I had my mom’s knack, my brother’s knack, for being the life of the party. It’s just a language I don’t really speak. And apparently that scares people, so my dad gets assigned to the pageant’s security team. He’s one of the guys who stands outside Miss America’s first press conference and makes sure the credentialed media make it in and the riffraff don’t—and by “riffraff,” I mean the fifty, hundred, two hundred people who might have come from her home state and are falling all over themselves with disbelief and excitement. They get to see her, of course—just not right at that moment
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Dad, and eventually my brother and I, help set up Convention Hall every year before the contestants arrive. Half of the building is a massive theater the size of an airplane hangar, and the other half is basically a blank concrete room. All my life, one of the big jobs has been getting it ready for action, right down to marking off every single parking space with
masking tape. When I’m about fourteen, I get a big promotion: I’m in charge of meeting the contestants’ cars at the end of the Boardwalk Parade. I have to get them to move from the back of the convertibles, where they’ve sat and waved while moving at a snail’s pace, down onto the actual car seat to be driven back to the hall. Sounds easy—until you have to do it fifty times, with women who have literally just had people screaming at them with joyful abandon for an hour and a half. I have to ask one poor bewildered girl about six times; she just can’t process my request. Finally, I look her right in the eye and snap, “Sit!” like she’s a dog, and she gets it. And smiles beautifully at me as she rides away
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If you spend any significant time around the pageant, the way my family and so many other families have, it gets into your blood. The excitement that starts to bubble around the second week of every August is infectious. Even after we move about an hour away, to the Philadelphia suburbs, we go back almost every year. To volunteer. To go to the finals. To get hoagies at the White House and eat them while we watch the parade, like everyone does. To soak it all up
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Eventually, my mom starts helping out at the Miss New Jersey Pageant, which is held in our neighboring town of Cherry Hill. She judges one year; another year, she’s the judges’ chair. She goes to judge in Arkansas. And my dad, who’s slogged it out taping off parking spaces and being a bouncer for all that time, is finally recognized as the smart, financially responsible person he is. He’s invited to join the board of directors—which, to pageant people, is like finding the Holy Grail and the Ark of the Covenant buried behind your house. He serves in that position for three or four years, helping to guard the pageant’s finances and build up reserve funds. And then I totally shock everyone by winning a local pageant in Illinois, and he steps aside to avoid the appearance of impropriety. Little do any of us know what’s going to happen in the next few months
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