Tears and Tiaras

I didn’t realize that taking my high school guidance counselor’s advice would lead to one of my biggest embarrassments.

In the fall of senior year, he suggested I broaden participation in extracurricular activities to strengthen my college application. My goal was to become a physician. Considerably outside of my comfort zone, I entered the 1974 Smyrna-Clayton Junior Miss pageant. There were five competition categories: Judges’ Interview, Poise and Appearance, Physical Fitness, Scholastic Achievement, and Talent. Each portion required a different outfit and a specific skill set.

Mom took me shopping and found a beautiful sky-blue gown with glittering sequins on the J.C. Penney sale rack. A discounted one-piece black jumper with a silver mesh top was perfect for the talent competition. I felt like a Disney princess.

Queen . . . for a day

Pageant Night was hosted in the familiar territory of my high school auditorium. It was a small stage in a cozy auditorium of two hundred seats. Ready for the competition, I managed all the kicks and jumps of a basic cheerleading routine. Physical Fitness: check. The judges smiled as I left the interview room. Judges’ Interview: check. Though I didn’t exactly glide across the stage in my glittery blue gown, I didn’t trip. Poise and Appearance: check. I had the highest GPA of all the contestants, so Scholastic Achievement seemed a safe bet. Check.

What was left was Talent. Though trembling and weak-kneed, I’d never played my tenor saxophone better. Blaring out Boots Randolph’s “Yakety Sax,” an odd choice for a sixteen-year-old but my dad’s favorite song, I won the Talent Award. And the Pageant.

I looked out at the audience through rainbow prismed tears. I was crowned 1974 Smyrna-Clayton Junior Miss — complete with rhinestone tiara and sash!

Winning meant I qualified for the 1974 Delaware Junior Miss State Competition.

The next few weeks sped by and before I knew it, my parents were driving me forty miles in our ’68 olive green Dodge to the next county. Delaware has three counties. Total. I didn’t realize that short distance would lead to a different world.

A room with a view

Banners and balloons festooned the entrance of a local hotel which served as the pageant’s headquarters. We were greeted like celebrities. Shiny swag bags and star-studded navy-and-gold lanyards identified us as very special people.

Professionally retouched portraits of the contestants, smiling from shiny brass frames, perched on metal easels in the hotel lobby.

There was mine. It was … unique. Mom had snapped the pic against our bare family room wall and asked my high school boyfriend, an amateur photographer, to blow it up. She had cut my hair in a page boy style that looked oddly like a painted-on helmet.

A sour taste filled my mouth.

Our first day buzzed with youthful energy as the contestants met each other and the pageant directors were introduced. My skin tingled when we toured the local high school auditorium where the competition would take place.

The glossy pine stage floor perched above a cavernous five hundred seat auditorium. Our voices and footsteps echoed in its vastness, softened slightly by the voluminous magenta velveteen stage curtains.

The next day dawned chilly and gray. I pulled my sweater snugly around me as I dashed into the hotel. My first hurdle was the Judges’ Interview, scheduled later that morning.

As I entered a dimly lit hotel conference room, I was greeted by a group of five businesspeople sitting in a semi-circle, folding chairs creaking in the silence. Icy dread pooled in my stomach.

The first question. “What do you think should happen about oil drilling in Alaska?”

Alaska. Snow. North Pole. Santa? A reindeer-powered sleigh bobbing over fields popped into my head. I blurted out, “Um, oil can pollute and get in the way of animals and um, that’s not a good thing.”

A cold front moved through the room. The judges peered quizzically at me. I can’t remember the rest of the questions, nor do I recall any sparkling, witty answers that saved the day and warmed the judges. However, I can still hear the thud of the heavy conference room door closing behind me.

Later that day, my world in a blur, we began learning our choreographed routine to demonstrate our physical fitness. Our costumes were snow white gowns replete with elbow length gloves and heels. Like debutantes. My go-to dance was the “Funky Chicken,” not the fandango, so I recognized I was on unknown turf.

My competitors learned the moves quickly. I was totally confused. What did we do on count 2? How was I supposed to hold my hands? Trying to imitate the other girls’ elegant poses, I looked down at my feet, bumped into a prop and tumbled.

The dance instructor shook her head in disappointment, rapped her wooden stick angrily on the floorboards, and barked, “Again!” My eyes stung with unshed tears.

To add to the pressure and self-doubt, our pageant organizer told us we needed to create a funny story that happened during the week. We would use this anecdote to introduce ourselves to the audience. My head throbbed. Nothing amusing was happening to me.

I stumbled through the week, and finally, Pageant Night arrived. The once quiet high school auditorium was now packed — laughter and loud voices bounced off the walls like a pinball. I had never experienced stage fright. Until that moment. The blinding lights, huge venue, audience noise. My skin suddenly shrunk, feeling too tight for my body.

The introductions started. The first contestant, an adorable pixie, was hosted by a family whose father worked for the Scott Paper Company. When she asked for a Kleenex, they were oddly silent. Later, the youngest child whispered to her that the Kleenex brand was a competitor — and a banned word in the house. My competitor paused, then dramatically held up her hands, looked skyward and shrugged. The audience roared.

For my introduction, self-deprecation being a defense mechanism I learned early, I thought I would tell the hilarious story of my breakfast experience that week. For three days, I had grabbed a warm, sweet-smelling cinnamon muffin and freshly squeezed orange juice from the hotel restaurant. A sign read: “Continental breakfast 7 a.m. to 9 a.m.”

Candidly, I didn’t know what a continental breakfast was — blame my blue-collar upbringing — so I confused continental with complimentary. On the fourth morning, a waitress stopped me and asked for my room number. Shocked when I told her I thought breakfast was free, she shook her head and handed me a bill.

That was it. This sidesplitting story was going to be my rally point. On stage that night, hands shaking, throat in a vise-grip, I grabbed the mic.

“This week, everyone was so welcoming. Even the hotel. Or so I thought. After eating three free breakfasts in a row, I realized it was a continental breakfast, not complimentary.”

Dead air greeted me. I looked out to see wrinkled brows and heard . . . nothing. I totally messed up the punchline — if there even was one.

Then, I heard a soft clap coming from far in the back. It ricocheted through the silent auditorium. Looking towards the sound, I could barely make out my mom’s silhouette. Blood rushed to my head as I thought of her embarrassment — and mine.

My humiliation was not over yet.

The competition moved onto Physical Fitness. Cue the white gowns and gloves.

My polished competitors drifted across the stage like winged fairies. Their pointed toes seemed to barely touch the floor as their outstretched hands caressed the air. A picture of grace in motion. Meanwhile, wide-eyed and stunned, the music sounding distant and muffled, I jerked through the routine like a puppet tangled in its strings.

The squeak heard round the world

Changing out of the sweaty, billowy gown, I slipped into my black and silver jumpsuit. The brass body of the sax felt cool in my shaky fingers.

Adjusting the black neck strap, I lifted my shoulders and straightened my spine, trying to recenter myself. I had this. Or so I thought.

My high school band director had been my only teacher — good enough for football games and pep rallies. However, I had no training on how to handle performance anxiety or play completely alone on stage. I had no idea if “Yakety Sax” was even the right choice in a high-stakes competition.

It was too late to recite Shakespeare.

Waiting in the wings for my turn, I slipped the wooden sax reed into my mouth. This moistens it so that it adheres better. Trying to get more saliva in my dried-out mouth, I clamped down. I immediately felt a sharp stab and tasted blood.

The reed had split and nicked my tongue. Having used several reeds during rehearsal and practices, I had no replacement. It was a bad omen for an award-winning reprise of my solo. My heart raced.

I walked to the center of the stage, my ribcage suddenly feeling too small for my lungs as lights blinded my view of the audience. I inhaled deeply and blew.

An ear-splitting, otherworldly screech emanated from the bell of my instrument. My entire body stiffened, as though bracing for impact. Every woodwind player’s worst nightmare.

Like a trapped mouse, the squeaking continued. My fingers numb, my knees like water, I kept going until the end of the song. Only then did the ungodly squawking stop.

I could hear the audience murmuring loudly and then — a single person clapping. It had to be Mom. An ache spread through my body. Another embarrassment.

Wanting to melt into the floorboards, I exited the stage in a near gallop. I couldn’t wait for the competition to end.

And the winner is . . . .

The finale could not arrive soon enough. Quivering, we all assembled onstage and held hands nervously, waiting for the winner to be announced.

Completely in my head, my thoughts and I were engaged in a loud heated argument about my horrible performance.

I snapped out of my brain fog when I heard the words: “Wendy Hawke!” My ears buzzed. In a millisecond, a thousand uncertainties filled my mind. Hadn’t I bombed? Maybe I wasn’t that bad? Maybe I didn’t look like a disjointed marionette? I won?

The other girls started applauding vigorously.

I smiled broadly as tears filled my eyes. Then, clutching my heart in that “oh my gosh, I’m so surprised I won” gesture, I nearly tripped as I ran excitedly over to the Pageant Director. I shivered, waiting for the sash and the tiara.

They didn’t come. The Pageant Director smiled and said, “Congratulations!” as she pressed a paper certificate into my trembling hand.

I glanced down. Handwritten on heavy cardstock were the words “Scholastic Achievement Award.”

Oh. My. Lord. With a vivid imagination forged by teenage fantasy, I thought maybe I had done well enough to have won the title. By not paying attention, I missed which award was being presented. My cheeks tightened as I pasted a smile on my lips.

 “I’m such an idiot!” I muttered, returning to my spot on stage.

There’s no place like home

Finally, it was over.

In the scrum of giggling teens and boasting parents, I found Mom and Dad, their friends, and my sisters. Disappointment blanketed me.

“Eek, eek,” one of my sisters squeaked, making mouse ears on top of her head with her fingers.

“You should have done a comedy routine,” she teased.

Not funny.

Dad gave me a hug and quick smile. Then, Mom hugged me.

“I’m proud of you, honey,” she said, holding me by the shoulders, her azure eyes trying to peer into mine.

“I blew it, Mom,” I replied, hot tears welling, head hung. “I’m so sorry.”

“We’ll talk about it in the car,” she replied. I wasn’t looking forward to that ride, knowing my mother carried a streak of perfectionism. She usually delivered her “pearls of wisdom” from the passenger seat of a moving vehicle.

“What happened with your solo?” she asked quietly, as I crammed into the back seat next to two of my sisters. A whiff of cigarette smoke and stale sweat hung in the air, adding to my discomfort.

She didn’t turn, so I answered the back of her curly, blonde wig.

“My reed cracked,” I said simply, my brain filtering through possible reasons for my failure, other than my own fault.

She turned her head towards me. The frame of her glasses caught the glint of a passing car’s head lights, blinding me for a second.

“The other girls clearly knew what they were doing,” she continued. My throat closed. “I’m sure they had dance training and experience competing.”

“They taught us the routines,” I replied dejectedly, now seeing white spots. “I just never felt comfortable doing them.”

The silence that followed was punctuated by the rhythmic ba-bump, ba-bump of the car tires rolling over the concrete road.

“Well,” she finally said, “You have something that no one can take away from you — your brains. And you finished what you started. That’s not easy.”

“Brains versus beauty sounds like a consolation prize,” I said, slinging my words back at her. I was waiting for her to tell me I wasn’t good enough. That I failed.

And then in a surprising Mom move, she replied, “One is forever, the other is not. Good thing you inherited the one that matters.” Then she winked.

I slumped back into the fraying seats as my shoulders relaxed. It felt like my first breath in a week.

There is a morning after

When we got back to the farm, I ran up the creaky stairs to my shared bedroom, dove under my warm, pink checkered comforter and thought about the week and what Mom said. I was smart and I worked to achieve good grades. But I still felt the sting of my profound embarrassment. I fell asleep clutching my childhood stuffed pink elephant.

The next day, mallards quacked as they flew to the pond, and the smell of frying bacon wafted through the vents. Like Dorothy leaving Oz, I was home.

I went back to high school on Monday.

I survived.

And in the years to come, I finished college with honors and achieved my goal of going to medical school.

Over time, I’ve come to understand that the award that mattered that night was what Mom taught me about failure. A mistake, a setback, or a disappointment does not define one. She knew I was more than one terrible performance.

She helped me to understand that we all have something that makes us special, and a tiara isn’t needed to celebrate it. I could survive hurdles, even those of my own doing. I would be okay.

It’s a lesson that continues to weave through my life. As with most of us, I’ve experienced more than a few embarrassing moments, suffered disappointments and faced bad news.

In my career as a hospice doc, I sat with many patients at the end of their lives. They often shared their best and worst moments.

Patients shared regrets about the mistakes they made. However, those who were able to find a lesson in a failure often said these became pivotal experiences. A firing turned into a new career. A broken marriage resulted in new love. An embarrassment created resiliency.

Bad things happen. We carry them.

But they don’t have to define us — we get to decide what does.

Sometimes, I still have anxiety dreams about that night. It is grueling to suffer that level of public embarrassment. Particularly in front of your family.

My mom helped me to realize that a truly humbling teenage experience was just that. One moment in time.

I get to decide what the sash says.

No rhinestones required.