Little Miss Brantford

As seen in the current/wonderous issue of the Innis Herald!:

When I was 9 years old, living in Brantford, Ontario (Canada’s capital of teen pregnancy and birthplace of the telephone!), I wasn’t very cool. I was the kind of kid who tried to star in the school play and run for class president, but ended up spending a lot of time reading alone at recess instead. I would spout $40 words in class, sing loudly in the church choir, but forget to hand in math assignments. I didn’t fit in. And because of this fact, I was always searching for ways to stand out.

About halfway through Grade Four, signs were posted in the Brantford Mall advertising the first annual “Little Miss Brantford Beauty Pageant”. The grand prize would be a $50 gift certificate to the Brantford Mall (which held a Biway and Bulk Foods at the time) and the honorary title of being Little Miss Brantford for a whole year, complete with a hypoallergenic sash and crown. Searching for Sultana raisins in Bulk Foods with my mother (life’s rough when you’re 9 years old), I saw the sign and was floored. My mother grudgingly agreed to let me participate in the pageant, visions of Jon Benet Ramsey dancing in her head.

Filling out the application form (my “greatest dream” at the time was to win an Academy Award in the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion – I recited my impromptu speech and my mother would critique it, reminding me to thank my agent), I thought about my glimmering future as a pageant queen. First I would slaughter the competition at the Brantford contest, and move on to win the title of Miss Brant County. On I would go, netting the title of Miss GTA, Miss Ontario, to finally, blowing kisses to each of my fifteen boyfriends in the audience, winning Miss Canada. The world would be my oyster. It didn’t matter that my current best friend was my 6-year-old brother, too stymied by my control of the remote to ever complain that I was making him try on cardboard tiaras.

On pageant day, my mother fluffed my thick brown hair out to Joan Crawford-like proportions and gave me a Dynasty-era green velvet dress to wear, purchased at the mall’s Biway. I admired myself in the mirror and reviewed my lyric sheet of “Colors of the Wind” for the twentieth time. I was in it to win it. But backstage, my stomach grew tense. Standing next to me were the girls I was afraid to speak to in gym class. Tall, blonde, thin, with strictly “colors in the border”-type personalities, these were the girls I had to turn rope for when we played double dutch at recess. That is, when I wasn’t reading copies of “Sweet Valley High”, exiled to my place next to the swing set.

The judges were also pieces of work. One woman I remember had nails so long they began to coil over in curls, painted bright coral pink. A man (who I would later find out was in fact, the manager of Bulk Barn) looked like he had gotten lost on the way to Mark’s Work Warehouse next door. And the audience, mostly pageant mothers and my own, holding my brother (wearing a baseball hat this time) on her lap, looked both worried and excited for their insecure preteens, sweating onstage under the hot lights, set up in the Brantford Mall food court. Onlookers ate corndogs and observed, patting their newly pregnant bellies in amazement.

I watched a bevy of border-colourers recite their practiced lines about who their “favorite person” was (Jesus, obviously) and what their favorite thing was to do (rhythmic gymnastics). My palms began to feel gooey as I watched the judge with the coral talons awkwardly enter scores on pink “Little Miss” judging stationary. And then it was my turn. I felt as sweltering as the corn dogs I could see rotating at the food stand next to me. For the first time in my life, I wished I were eating a corndog instead of standing onstage.

Coral talons took the mike. “Contestant Number 5”, she announced, in a clasped voice. “What is your favorite day of the year?” This was easy. My mother and I had practiced this one while I was supposed to be studying for a test on roman numerals. “My favorite day of the year – “, I said, pausing for dramatic effect, “is Remembrance Day. Remembrance Day is my favorite day of the year because it is the day that brave soldiers died in the war. They gave so much for our country so that we could have the kind of autonomous (cha-ching!) lifestyle that we do today. And – “, I gave another pause, tension growing like kudzu, “it’s also my birthday.” The room erupted in applause. Just wait until I perform Pocahontas, I thought to myself. Those border-colourers had better watch their backs.

Time passed, rhythmic gymnastics were performed and eventually it was down to the final three: myself, and two of my most feared competitors, Sara and Kara. In Grade 4, there was a table of girls that sat together, trading in pencil crayons and stuffed animals for secrets about training bras and foreplay. The thing that made these girls the most powerful girls in all of Grade Four (they were basically “The View” of Cedarland Public School) was the fact that all their first names ended in an “A”. Sara, Tara, Kara and Tina (the exception) excluded me, an “R” from their table, forcing me to sit with all the other alphabetically undesirable. While these were not the same girls, the fact that they had what I didn’t already made me uneasy.

Sara, Kara and myself formed a little semicircle in the middle of the stage, trying to dodge the jabs of the coral taloned judge as she explained the events that had occurred today in the Brantford Mall food court. “Now we have three contestants left”, she announced dramatically onstage. “But only one can become Little Miss Brantford.” She held the envelope in her hands as I made eye contact with my mother who gave me a little conspiratorial wink. If I won, I told myself, I would be a role model for girls who read every recess. Maybe there was room in this world for young girls who couldn’t jump rope properly, who preferred the world of Sweet Valley High novels bought at garage sales and the companionship of a 6-year-old boy to reality. Maybe I really was Little Miss Brantford. Talons opened the first pink envelope. “And the second runner up is – Contestant Number Five, Little Miss Chandler Levack!” Pity applause was given out to Little Miss Congeniality as I received my second runner up prize, a $10 gift certificate to Bulk Barn (my Mom looked appeased) and a cheap plastic picture frame featuring a smiling girl who looked nothing like the savior I wanted to become. Sara and Kara moved closer to center stage as I moved father back. I can’t remember who won.

On the drive home, my mother tried to console me while I slunk low in my seat, $10 worth of Smarties melting in the sun of the Ford Windstar dashboard. “It’s because you weren’t ten”, my mother explained. “Both those girls were ten, I asked their mothers.” I shook my head, big pin curls practically smacking me in the face. “Anyways, it’s not the end of the world. You wouldn’t want to be Little Miss Brantford. Look what happened to that poor Jon Benet. Do you want to be murdered and found in our basement?” my mother added for good measure. I looked over at my brother, who stared at me from the back seat. “Am I ugly?” I asked him. He shrugged. I slunk back down and shoved another handful of Smarties in to my mouth. I could only wait for next year. Already my mind was reeling; as I pictured myself in the sash, standing victorious over all the Kara’s in the playground. I would be a year older, taller, prettier, a real Little Miss.