I’ve always been fat. The kind of fat that makes people say, “What are you talking about? You’re not fat!” In a way that reassures nobody and serves only to reinforce the idea that fat is bad.
Ashamed as I am to admit it, I’ve internalized that message for my entire life. At 16 years old, I was the skinniest I had ever been. Flying high, I became a part of what is known as a “scholarship program” through a mix of subliminal pressure from my mother and dreams of wearing pretty dresses. This scholarship program was essentially a pageant — like Miss America, but on a figuratively and literally smaller stage.
The program I was a part of lasted 20 months — eight months of training followed by a year-long ‘reign’ once you’ve been crowned. For six months, I attended workshops that taught us everything from how to make tea sandwiches to how to change a tire.
There were judges at multiple events over the training period, culminating in a final gala at which we all wore ball gowns, had our hair in complicated updos, and performed a dance to a Spice Girls song before one of us was crowned as a queen, another as a princess, a third as Miss Friendship, and the rest as ambassadors — I, of course, was an ambassador.
Like the vast majority of girls who have participated in the program, I am white. The program was founded in 1948; I know of only two crowned queens who have not been or passed for white since 1970. There are many possible reasons why that’s the case — the majority of the girls who participate are white, and we come from a relatively white city, but I would suggest that there is a bias present. I can’t prove it, but I felt it, and so did other girls.
Another important word here is “girls.” This program is the most heteronormative, gender-conforming program I have ever seen. Hair has to be in updos; red lips are worn at every event; skirts and heels are mandatory. I attempted to wear Vans under my ball gown at the gala and was told I had to wear heels.
If anyone attempted to subvert gender norms or didn’t conform to a strict binary of gender, I think heads would have exploded.
Our lipstick-painted smiles and coiffed hair spoke to a larger feeling of erasure. I say that as a privileged white woman, but I felt like a prop. My job at many events was to greet people, serve tea, sit at tables in hospitality suites, and look pretty.
Nobody ever asked me real questions. At one dinner, when I joined a conversation on US politics and offered my thoughts, people seemed shocked that I could contribute. I watched The Stepford Wives and felt like I was seeing my future.
Perhaps being reduced to marionettes is what caused many of us to struggle with our mental health: panic attacks, anxiety, bouts of anger, and depression were all common.
Perhaps it was the knowledge that we were constantly being judged, including by a secret judge who could be observing us at any time — it felt like being in a panopticon.
Perhaps it was the set of rules we agreed to in the contract we signed — no dating, no drinking, no dying our hair, no tank tops, no leaving the house at any time without hair and makeup done, among others.
For me, maybe it was the fact that I was by far the “biggest” girl, as they so kindly put it. Repeatedly, clothes were ordered for me in sizes that I knew wouldn’t fit, or items of clothing made me look like a lumpy blob.
At our gala night, one of the organizers repeatedly told me to “push up the girls” and “adjust the girls,” referring to my breasts. At a photoshoot, they told me to smile, then said “not like that” when I did. It certainly didn’t help that my opinions were repeatedly criticized, my achievements belittled, and my personality deemed “too loud,” “unladylike,” and “brash.”
Whatever combination it was, my mental health suffered. Flareups of anxiety and depression meant that my last year of high school was riddled with absences and days spent in bed. I gained 40 pounds, which only reinforced my rapidly plummeting body image and self-esteem.
Slowly, whatever spark I had inside of me was stomped out. After we were “crowned,” I avoided every event with the program that I could, then moved to Toronto for school, though I still had eight months left in my “reign.”
It’s been more than two years since I became involved with what I call the “pageant program,” and I still cringe when trying on clothes and try to smile big but not too big. I avoid clothing that lets people see my body; I hide behind my hair.
I am learning that it’s okay to talk about struggling with mental health and that I am worth more than a pretty table centerpiece. I have to remind myself of that every time I gather up the courage to talk in a tutorial or a student council meeting. I am learning, and healing, and trying to figure out where to go from here. Wherever it is, I won’t be signing any contracts to get in.
