Being Miss America: Behind the Rhinestone Curtain (Discovering America) (12 page)

In September of 1983, Vanessa Williams was not the only African American contestant at the pageant; in fact, four black women were among the state representatives. Unlike the other forty-six titleholders who arrived in Atlantic City that year, the minority women were treated by the media as almost an “other.” While they were lauded for having made it onto the traditionally white playing field, they were simultaneously expected to carry the burden of American racial politics on their shoulders. The four black contestants were often asked to pose together for photos, “as well as questioned incessantly about ‘what it felt like to have a chance to become the first black woman to win the crown.’
” In the view of Sarah Banet-Weiser, author of
The Most Beautiful Girl in the World
, the presence of black women at Miss America served as a symbol to the media and public that diversity was “alive and well.” This, of course, was both a drastic oversimplification of race in America and, for those who simply wanted things to go back to the way they used to be, a convenient exit ramp to stop thinking about race relations. Almost a quarter century later, the same could be said of the election of President Barack Obama. Americans who simply wonder “are we there yet?” might see it as its own endpoint, but a more nuanced cultural examination reveals that one black president does not right all wrongs. Neither, of course, would one black contestant at Miss America, or four . . . or one winner . . . or two winners . . . or, as of this writing, eight.

For these contestants, the pressure to perform could have been crippling, saddled as they were not only with the normal competition stress, but also with the conflicting goals of assimilating into Miss America’s traditionally white culture while still serving as ambassadors for their ethnic community. Williams, however, seems to have thrived amid the complexity. On her way to winning the title, she picked up the preliminary swimsuit and talent trophies. Some would say that Vanessa Williams skated to victory. Others have suggested a variety of factors that might have contributed to her remarkable success: Was it her lack of over-rehearsal due to her brief tenure on the pageant circuit? Was it that the pageant was ready for, and in fact actively seeking, an African American winner, and she was the strongest candidate? Or was it simply that Williams knew that in order to reach the highest level of this particular institution, she would have to be better than her rivals in order to be considered an equal, and
much
better if she hoped to actually win?

To be sure, the Miss America Organization as a whole has not had the smoothest relationship with ethnic diversity. Even today, there are heated debates in online fan communities about what the “ideal” Miss America actually looks like, how big a role race plays in a winner’s selection, and whether pressure exists within the upper echelon to crown ethnic women for appearance’s sake.

As is true of the race debate in our nation as a whole, there is no answer that satisfies everyone. In fact, some of the pageant’s own supporters and fans remain unconvinced that MAO is an ethnically inclusive enterprise—or, more disturbingly, that it should aspire to be one at all.

Miss America’s own integration has not been without internal controversy. One longtime state pageant judge, off the record, describes walking out of a 1993 judges’ meeting in a particularly conservative state after the executive di
rector implied that the committee did not want the judges to select the state’s first black winner, even though she was a clear favorite and, less than three months later, went on to become Miss America. For years, organizers of the Southern States’ Ball, held off-site a few hours before the Miss America finals, would prompt the audience to “please rise for the singing of our National Anthem”—which was none other than a passionate rendition of “Dixie.” This tradition continued as long as the pageant was held in Atlantic City; for the record, the last competition by the Boardwalk was not, say, 1974, but, in fact, September 2004. Perhaps most shocking, a state director who helped prepare perhaps the most ethnic-looking of the African American winners tells a chilling story of three southern state executive directors approaching her moments after the crowning to ask whether she was responsible for “that blue-gum n****r” winning the title.

Ironically, despite all the Miss America Organization’s efforts to redefine its own image over the decades to reflect a more contemporary aesthetic and values system, it may well be said that a consortium of its own supporters continually thwart its evolution.

Initially, Vanessa Williams’s victory was met with an outcry of support. Anyone with eyes and ears could recognize that she represented herself remarkably well on the telecast, demonstrating a potent blend of poise, intelligence, vocal talent, beauty, and the type of star quality that clearly set her apart from the field. The media response was tremendous, with the
New York Times
announcing in a headline “Black Leaders Praise Choice of First Black Miss America.” Her style, poise, and outspokenness—on issues like reproductive rights and the Equal Rights Amendment—did not go unnoticed. The most striking juxtaposition, though, was between assimilation and diversity;
some heralded Williams’s win as proof that We Are All The Same, while others were far more proprietary in their celebration. For his part, NAACP executive director Benjamin Hooks likened her to Jackie Robinson.

Although the crowning of the first African American winner was hailed in most quarters as a landmark event, the life of the actual woman who wore the crown quickly proved to be far more complicated. Simply put, there was no way an aspiring Miss America could anticipate the pressure Williams was about to face. Like all Miss Americas, she would immediately encounter the difficulty of reconciling her own identity with the decades-old image of Miss America as a whole. Like many, she would come face-to-face with the pressure of representing an organization that seeks to capture and capitalize on America’s feminine identity, especially in the context of the ongoing women’s movement. But she alone among Miss Americas would also need to navigate the more specific layers of racism and African American ideology in the America of the post–civil rights era.

In contrast to Bess Myerson, Vanessa Williams seems to have settled on a Miss America identity that, while inclusive of her ethnicity, was not predicated upon it. While Myerson actively rejected the insinuation that her Jewish heritage was contrary to the Miss America brand, stepping away from the traditional yearlong dog-and-pony show in order to become a social agitator, Williams represented the somewhat milder Reagan-era practice of nodding respectfully to diversity while identifying her race as merely a single aspect of her identity. “I think I would be doing the same thing if I were Spanish or white or Chinese,” Williams said at the time. “I am still a person, I still feel the same way about being crowned. I don’t think they chose me because I was black and it was time for a black Miss America. They chose me because they thought I could do the job.”

Although she had undoubtedly digested how her ra
cial differences were explored during the competition, her life after winning the crown showed how the very things that caused her to be celebrated also had an ugly underbelly. Her parents were deluged with congratulatory letters in the first week. But, as her mother, Helen, later recalled, they soon began to receive a different type of mail: “Someone wrote that they were going to throw acid in her face. People sent notes: ‘YOU’RE DEAD, BITCH,’ ‘You’ll Never Be Our Miss America,’ ‘You’re all black scum.’ I gasped the first time I saw some of the contents. Some letters had pubic hair in them; some had spit; some had semen. They had an agent from the FBI show me how to open mail, so, if necessary, they could take some of the letters and trace them back to where they originated. I wore gloves and opened the mail with a letter opener. I’d never take the stuff out—it was just too disgusting.”

Personal appearances, especially in the South, necessitated extra security measures, including nearby sharp-shooters as she rode in her hometown parade. Even when no one’s life was on the line, Williams’s victory was ruthlessly dissected by writers and observers of every race. Scholar and author Gerald Early, for example, ruminated about the significance of this Miss America even as he waited in line with his family to meet her at a St. Louis department store. Would a black Miss America, as he overheard some women saying, “show black men that we’re as good as white women”? Was it simply very public proof that black women were also beautiful, a representation akin to the crowning of Bess Myerson? Early is alarmed by the possibility of the former, fearing that perhaps “black women needed some giant manufactured event of American popular culture to make them feel assured that they were and are, indeed, as good as white women.” But one thing that largely escaped mainstream conversation was the reality that Williams happened to be a black woman with light skin, light eyes, a narrow nose, a slender figure,
and straight hair. Her features, her speech, her body were far more Caucasian than ethnic . . . and for this, too, she would be criticized. “She does not look like the little black girl of the inner-city projects who reeks of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke and who sports a greasy, home-made curly perm and who has a baby at the age of fifteen for lack of anything better to do,” Early continues. “Vanessa Williams will not even in a distant way remind anyone of
that
hard reality.”

Unfortunately, Williams would soon face her own hard reality. In July 1984, about eight weeks before she was to crown her successor, she was informed that explicit modeling photos taken two summers earlier were going to be published by
Penthouse
magazine. Although she claimed she had never signed a release for the pictures (and eventually sued
Penthouse
publisher Bob Guccione for printing them), the news was a devastating blow to her tenure. For their part, the pageant leadership was between a rock and a hard place. Future CEO Leonard Horn—who served as the pageant’s legal counsel during that time—has said privately that if Williams had not resigned, it was unlikely that her bosses could have legally fired her. However, he has also painted a vivid picture in which the
Penthouse
incident could have dragged the whole enterprise under. Recounting the incident in 2001, he claimed that the television sponsors were poised to pull their advertising from the pageant broadcast “if we didn’t handle this right.” Horn further asserted that “if they pulled out at the end of July, there would have been no money and no Miss America pageant in 1984. And there would not be a Miss America pageant today.”

Williams resigned from her station just as she had ascended to it, amid a firestorm of media attention. First runner-up Suzette Charles (who, by also being of African American heritage, allowed the pageant to dodge a giant bullet) served just six weeks before Miss Utah, Shar
lene Wells (1985), was crowned the pageant’s first Mormon Miss America.

Even today, the Vanessa Williams story remains both cautionary and controversial. As Hollywood starlets continue to learn, the casual nude photo is a powerful skeleton in the closet of a young female celebrity. But Williams’s legacy, bolstered by her subsequent career success, has made her both an underdog to root for and an enduring symbol of grace under extreme pressure. Interestingly, she is remembered as a favorite Miss America by pageant fans and the media alike, albeit for different reasons. Journalists and academics still debate her significance, as an example of evolving ideas about race in America (particularly gender-based norms about black women, sexuality, and the Jezebel stereotype) and as a feel-good story of a woman who triumphed over adversity to become the most famous former Miss America of all time. The pageant’s faithful volunteers and fans, so disappointed by Williams’s premature exit, generally speak with great reverence about her. They may be conflicted about the scandal itself, but most admire how she actually performed her duties during her ten months with the crown. In 1988, with the aftermath of Williams’s resignation barely consigned to the rearview mirror, Academy Award–winning author William Goldman was invited to judge the national competition. His observations and conversations regarding Vanessa Williams indicate that many fans were still enthusiastic about counting her among the pageant’s alumni: “I remember talking to some pageant people and they said that the best Miss America they ever had was Vanessa Williams. Apparently she was just sensational. She was just the most verbal, bright, terrific seller of the Miss America contest they’d ever had.”

As long as the Miss America program exists, so too will the conversation about Vanessa Williams. How did the controversy truly affect her future? Was her status as the fallen Miss America ultimately the springboard for a suc
cessful career, or simply an obstacle to overcome? Did the leadership address the scandal with the same grace it expects from its young titleholders? Finally—and most frequently discussed in some circles—if a similar situation were to arise today, would the pageant’s strategy differ from the one it adopted in 1984? These topics, and others, are still hotly debated. The release of Williams’s 2012 memoir,
You Have No Idea
, in which she publicly discusses the subject in more depth than ever before, served as a catalyst for the reexamination of her notorious year with the crown. One issue, however, has already achieved consensus: as much as Miss America may have changed the life of Vanessa Williams, she, in turn, left an indelible mark on Miss America.

In September 1987, the annual ritual was again under way. Fifty contestants showed up in Atlantic City with the unassailable knowledge that only one of them would leave with the crown. Among them was an unassuming registered nurse who would also make her mark on Miss America, albeit in a very different way.

Kaye Lani Rae Rafko arrived on the Boardwalk—from her hometown of Monroe, Michigan, where her father owned a junkyard—with an unlikely name, an unusual talent, and a unique goal. Though her family had discouraged her from competing in pageants, she eventually did so anyway in order to earn scholarships to pay for her studies at St. Vincent’s School of Nursing in Toledo, Ohio. Six years and fourteen pageants later, she had won more than $45,000 to that end. For the talent competition, she performed a dizzyingly elaborate Tahitian dance; she was crowned Miss America in a refashioned donated wedding gown. Before her Atlantic City victory, Rafko memorably—if unwittingly—was featured in Michael Moore’s Rust Belt documentary
Roger and Me
; the filmmaker framed her as
an out-of-touch daughter of privilege who cared more about her fortune at the national pageant than about the plight of factory workers in her home state. Moore, like almost every one else, failed to recognize that she was a working-class girl who would not only go on to win the pageant, but would set Miss America on a trajectory toward lasting and significant social relevance.