Dawn may not have been the prettiest girl my Mississippi hometown- that honor went to Sheri, a cheerleader who drove a red Trans Am with T-tops and married at a very early age. But there was something compelling about Dawn’s beauty, which seemed to have been achieved through sheer force of will. She’d done pageants her whole life, walking runways all over the state in hand-beaded gowns made by her florist father.When I was in sixth grade, Dawn managed to work her way into the Miss Mississippi Pageant. The whole town was buzzing about it- Miss Mississippi had managed to snag the national title a few years prior, and with Dawn now in the running, Kosciusko was basically two steps away from being the hometown of an honest-to-God Miss America.
At her farewell party and "trunk show" in the Methodist Church Fellowship Hall, Dawn modeled all of her outfits for the upcoming week: Luncheon, interview, and of course evening gown, with her father at the podium providing commentary and insightful tidbits on his careful construction of each ensemble. Then Dawn sang some opera and we all had cake. It seemed so strange, watching Dawn taking delicate bites of cake and shaking hands in a bugle bead strapless gown, her face a mask of Mary Kay and her hair teased within an inch of its life. There wasn’t exactly a surplus of glamour in Attala County, so having this momentary insight into the life of a beauty queen was all rather exotic. There was a look in her eyes I’d never seen before- sort of a glazed expression of sanguine contentment which I now associate with all pageant girls and people tripping on mushrooms.
Sadly, Dawn was not destined to become Miss Mississippi. She had the will, but at the end of the day she lacked the genetics. Miss DeSoto County (who was freakin’ gorgeous) grabbed the crown, and went on to place 4th Runner-Up in nationals, but nobody was allowed to talk about it around town. The wounds were still too fresh, us having gotten so close and all. But even years later, after Dawn was working for the post office and her pageant days were behind her, she was forever cemented in my mind as the girl who might have been queen.
Dawn’s been on my mind lately, as I’ve accepted an invite to throw on a pair of size fourteen heels and work the runway as a debutante for this year’s Atlanta Cotillion. It’s a tremendous fundraiser for AID Atlanta, with a half-dozen fellas hosting events all summer long to raise money. There’s a ball in September, where Preppy has to put on a tux and escort me down the aisle, like a practice run for our wedding only I’m in a big dress. Then they announce who raised the most dough, and YOU GET A CROWN. Not a little tiara from Party City, mind you. I’m talkin’ a proper, glittering crown that Dawn from Mississippi would tackle me and try to steal.
I’d initially signed on as kind of a lark, thinking it might be a fun story. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized… I want that damn crown. How many times in life does a big awkward gay guy have the chance to be crowned anything?
“You realize you have to host big fabulous events, darling,” said my buddy George when I told him of my debutante status. “Like pool parties with DJs. You have to host events you wouldn’t necessarily be fabulous enough to attend.”
“If I show up somewhere in a swimsuit, people will start taking their money back. How do non-fabulous people raise money?”
“How on earth would I know what the non-fabulous do with their spare time? Cake walks and tag sales, from what I’ve seen on television. It’s not pretty.”
George was right. I’m not fabulous. Semi-fabulous at best. I don’t know what DJs people like, or enough guys who look good in Speedos. If I’m gonna win, it’ll take some serious creativity. Because I’m not just doing it for me. I’m doing it to send a note back to my hometown paper letting them know one of their own finally scored a crown. And following Dawn’s example, I will do it by sheer force of will.
