The Carpet Bagger's Journal — moving from NYC to Mississippi

July 27, 2016

Breaking Glass and Other Unladylike Activities

Pardon my silence, gentle readers, over the last two weeks. Apart from the horrible shooting of innocent civilians and police officers in Louisiana, about which I will have much more to say later, I have been glued to the television watching a barrier  to women’s progress drop — why others seem to care less, I cannot say.  All I know is that whether you adore or loathe Madam Clinton, that barrier got busted last night, and I feel like a huge burden has been lifted off of me that the women in my family have carried for generations.  I suspect the women in your family have been carrying it, too.

window glass

It’s not corny. It’s not something to take for granted. It’s really important.

My family’s women fought for the right to vote.  They have been involved in politics in material ways since then.  One of my grandmothers joined the League of Women Voters pretty much as soon as it was opened and organized for the Democrats.  My other grandmother joined the Communist Party when she was young, attended meetings (really quite possibly) in the same place Arthur Miller did.  The women in my family never devoted much energy to Junior League-approved activities.  Multiple generations of them (before me) were bad cooks. They never did more sewing than the socially acceptable minimum, probably dating back to the reign of Queen Neb in Ireland. They wanted something more public to do, always.more engaged with the world outside, but that world dismissed their efforts.

Survival for these women was always precarious, as they couldn’t run their own lives as much as they ought to have been able to do, and it was always by grit that they pulled themselves out, not ladylike graciousness.  Let me give you some examples from my past:

Sfearthquake3b

My great-grandmother walked out of this mess with a chest of drawers strapped to her back and toddlers clinging to her skirts.

One of my great-grandmothers lived in San Francisco in 1906.  She had a drunk for a husband and several small children. When the quake hit, her house stood, but her husband was trapped under rubble in some bar.  She assumed he must be dead.  As the fire approached her block of the city, she had to flee.  She took a chest of drawers, some of her husband’s belts, filled the chest of drawers with all the valuables she could stuff into it, strapped it shut with one belt, strapped it on her back with two others, and she told her children to cling to her skirts while they walked away from the fire, the billowing smoke close behind them, the sound of windows exploding in the heat shattering, the dust of the rubble in their nostrils. She managed to walk the little family to a patch of land they owned far outside of town.  She managed to get a house up.  She managed to get a job as the post mistress, though this was a novelty at the time, a woman touching others’ letters. She put money aside to build a church in the country town near the house was.  Meanwhile, her husband eventually showed up, temporarily sober, and eventually disappeared again for years and years, to show up periodically. She didn’t legally own the land or the house.  She couldn’t preach or even read a Bible passage in the church.  She couldn’t have risen in the ranks of her profession.  She didn’t own her own life, really, but she had built it out of the ashes of disaster.

lower-east-side-history

My widowed great-grandmother, saddled with six kids, made it out of this squalor and sent all her children to college.

Another example: Another one of my great-grandmothers was on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, married young to a door-to-door salesman at about that time.  They had six kids, one right after the other.  She did work with artificial flowers for a factory at home as she watched them in a tenement apartment. When the youngest child was two and the oldest child was only ten, my great-grandfather stepped on a rusty nail while making his rounds and died of tetanus the next day.  There was no social security back then, and no life insurance.  By the absolutely mammoth grit of that woman, she worked herself harder than a human being ought to work in order to send all six of those children to college.  She made every activity into a lesson.  Counting blocks on the bus was a math lesson.  Family meetings were run by Roberts rules of order as a civics lesson. All six of those children went to college. A couple of them became millionaires. She never lived in anything bigger than an apartment in a city. She poured all her resources into others, except for her truly indomitable strength.  I remember her staring at me when I was a toddler, beaming with pride.  She did not suffer weaklings well.  In the bitterness of her hard life, she could be cruel. In me, she saw a future of strong women.  That, she liked. She needed someone to win the fights she had not been able to win, to carry on a struggle that stemmed class struggle and the double indemnity of being born female and poor.

Nobody tells these stories to children, I think.  They don’t want to frighten them.  Grandmas are supposed to bake things. They are supposed to sing songs with little girls and braid hair. But that’s not the truth, really. The truth is that life is always tough as a mother in one way or another, and the women have to dig deep into the dirt, drill into the concrete, to make sure they can withstand it all.  You probably have no idea of the struggle behind you.  It’s not ladylike to talk about such things.  I’ve had to piece together the real story of my family in tiny scraps. You weren’t told the war stories of your foremothers.  You don’t even bear their family names.  But believe me, this is your story, too.  You probably don’t know half the hell you’ve made it out of, because you were clinging to somebody else’s skirts while you walked along slowly singing the alphabet, unconscious of the disaster you just barely eluded.

So all this I just told you — that’s why I don’t care whether you love Hillary Clinton or you hate her. What happened last night in Philadelphia matters to those rugged women behind you that got the short end of every stick. When they announced her nomination, my lungs filled with new air.  I stood taller. I felt different, a difference that I am certain will be permanent.  If you are a woman, and you don’t love what happened last night, I declare you blind.  I declare you unpatriotic.  I declare you so frigging privileged you have no idea what a spoiled brat you really are.

Gentle readers, I tell you — register to vote. Be brave. Take a deep breath.  The air is different today.  You can breathe deeply today.  You have no idea how much oxygen is left for you to take in.

 

June 3, 2016

The Official Guidebook to Whoredom — New Orleans’ Storyville Blue Book and the Women it Commodified

New Orleans has plenty of prostitutes today, but about a hundred years ago, sex work in this city was legal, zoned, taxed, sponsored and cataloged.  Yes, I said “cataloged,” by which I mean approximately what Land’s End and Fingerhut mean when they say “catalog,” only it’s not snow boots that are for sale but the bodies of women, complete with Zagat-like ratings for the services of each.

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, New Orleans planned Storyville, a community of whore houses, segregated officially between octoroon “cribs,” where women of color or of mixed racial background sold their bodies, and all-white Maisons de Joie, perhaps the most famous of which was Mahogany Hall, memorialized by Louis Armstrong’s “Mahogany Hall Stomp.” Storyville was named for the legislator who suggested its legal codification, reform-minded Alderman Sidney Story.  Women of ill repute were supposed to be confined to a sixteen-block ghetto in the Treme section of town, and the implication of their zoning was not only to restrict the work of prostitutes but also their lives, as women who worked there were supposed to stay within the boundaries set up by the city government for almost any imaginable activity.  It was as if they were under house arrest, only they were expected to continue to work as whores to the benefit of the madams, pimps, and Tom Anderson, mobbed-up cabaret owner and the putative “mayor of Storyville,” who seems to have taken a cut of everybody else’s ill-gotten gains in this district.

storyville whorehouse bedroom

This is where clients could expect to have sex for money, — no visible sign of venereal diseases on those throw pillows.

The city itself of course turned a profit, as it could tax these very lucrative businesses that were kept under a watchful eye.  As one government official remarked about sex-for-hire in New Orleans — “You can make prostitution illegal in New Orleans, but you can’t make it unpopular.”  The city, too, was reaping benefits from the legalized trafficking of women’s bodies, and some men’s bodies, too (there are some references to “fairies” in Storyville, though they are not cataloged like women are), it seems. The only initial concern expressed about Storyville by many city officials was that it should not encourage men of color to sleep with white women, though white men were free to roam the district and purchase anybody’s body at will.

Before the establishment of an official tourist bureau, New Orleans businesses compiled something it called Blue Book, too racy to mail according to federal law, but the City of New Orleans determined could be given out to tourists and thrill-seekers of any kind.  In it, potential whorehouse customers could see a list of women for sale in Storyville, divided between white and black women, and inside, one could see photos and read about the various charms and talents of the women for sale, like they were seat cushions on display at Pottery Barn.

The purported purpose of the sixteen-block ghetto designated for whores was, according to the prose of Blue Book, was first, “to put the stranger on the proper and safe path … free from ‘hold-ups’ and other games,” and perhaps more atrociously, “it regulates the women,” keeping the rest of the city free from women who make a living selling their bodies. The purported purpose was therefore to pen in and legalize the transaction of the prostitute and Jon for the Jon, especially if he were white, but it made the woman a prisoner of a mobbed-up prostitution district.  If the sex worker entered Storyville freely to start work there as a prostitute, the law henceforth could hold her hostage even if she wanted to quit the oldest profession for something new.  It made her subject to pimps like Tom Anderson, madams who might tolerate brutality or cheat women of their wages, and with a smile in Blue Book, she was trapped night after night, day after day, in a Mahogany prison.

blue book prostitute mademoiselle rita walker

Mademoiselle Rita Walker’s Blue Book listing exoticizes her, and the combination of her barefoot dancing and expensive wardrobe make her a spicy commodity.

I do not assume for a minute that all the women in Storyville were there against their will.  Surely some of them, whom men at least called by names of royalty or aristocracy — there was “Queen Gertie” and “Countess Willie” — might have found work in a brothel preferable to other forms of menial labor open to working-class women, and perhaps the work itself was less exploitative than some “legitimate” jobs.  In a world where sexual harassment was frequent and legal, maybe getting paid for sex was better than being used for sex while officially being a washerwoman, nanny, or store clerk.  But the fact that these women couldn’t leave if the city didn’t let them slip by, if the mayor of Storyville did not wink — that made Storyville into a gilded form of convict prostitution.  It was not unlike the situation of sharecroppers just outside of town who might have been menaced by the Klan if they threatened to board a train for New York City in the middle of the sugar cane harvest.  In Storyville and the plantation, just like at the Hotel California, you could check out any time you liked, but you could never leave.

And the idea that women were for sale like stoves at Sears — how American a way to hurt people! Capitalism is often subtly ugly when it sells clothes made in factories where workers do not make a living wage, but the clothing itself is lovely.  This, though, was not subtle.  The commerce of the female body is here, and adding insult to injury,  the women in this trade were expected to smile for a photo that advertised them like washboards or shoes.  They were reduced to things, rides at the carnival, adventures — not fully human at all.  I wonder if we remain inured to this kind of commodification of women as pornographic websites speak of parts, not people.  What is voluntary in our day troubles me less than the thousands of underage girls advertised for “outcall massage” in legal classified ads, girls kidnapped, brutalized, and peddled for profit by the mob.

I wonder if we continue to live in a society that could sanction the selling of female flesh while male flesh is mercifully off the auction block these days. Joe Francis has made a wholly disreputable bucket of cash from his disgusting Girls Gone Wild series that convinces women to flash their breasts for his profit.  Women in New Orleans, at least some of them, lift shirts for plastic beads once a year.  Again, I am less troubled by girls lifting shirts than I am boys filming and making bank off of it.  I am not really against whores, ghettoed or not, but I am uncharitable in my views toward Jons and am really totally ready to cut a pimp.  New Orleans places no stigma on what the French call louche.  I particularly take exception to bohemian proclivities expressed by one person that others leech and exploit.

Storyville did not end because of any moral sentiment from the city government of New Orleans.  Rather, the United States military insisted, under the aegis of Woodrow Wilson, who was no whoremonger, that it would be morally and physically unhealthy for soldiers and sailors to catch a boat to World War I through a port town where hookers operated legally.  One may be pretty certain that the president did not consult the soldiers in question about this, but he was adamant.  As a result, Storyville’s interests were less lucrative to New Orleans business and government than a military port contract.  The Mahogany Hall and its neighboring buildings were shuttered, but unsurprisingly, the hooking has continued on the DL to this day. It’s not hard to find a prostitute for sale in New Orleans in the twenty-first century, but it is hard to find a published catalog of them, and the city has ceased to sanction anything they do officially.  There are no doubt plenty of cops on the take, plenty of pimps, and plenty of frightened girls who never went wild, who just fell into the hands of abusers. Storyville might be closed, but it is still open in spirit all day and all night in the city that zoned it.

August 23, 2015

The Stepford Sorority of Alpha Phi and Their Right to Freedom of Expression

When the University of Alabama recently banned a recruiting video http://youtu.be/UnKexlL2Mcw for the sorority Alpha Phi, they did not do it on the grounds of obscenity; it was no more obscene than the movie it seemed to gently mimic, Legally Blonde.  They did not ban it because of explicit language.  Indeed, the women in the video were all mute.  The banned it because it demonstrates a truth about southern fraternity and sorority culture, a truth that did not make the university appear erudite or even remotely academic.  If all I knew about the University of Alabama came from that video, here is what I would glean:

  • That for some reason at this institution, white women like to wear white outfits and sit on beige couches in a big living room, laughing.
  • That for perhaps the same unknown reason, they need to blow glitter into the air when they get together.
  • That they have one black friend, and he’s on the football team.
  • That no one who has joined the sorority Alpha Phi has any cellulite.
  • That everyone in that sorority got the same spray-on tan to dance around on the football field.
  • That it’s hot in Alabama. Nobody wears very much clothing.
  • That students in Alpha Phi seem to have no textbooks or concern about study.
  • That the women of Alpha Phi seem eager to dance and hug.  They blow kisses as well as glitter, leaving one to wonder if they blow anything else.
  • The sorority has money.

white women in white laughing for no reason

Fraternities have gotten scrutinized lately for promoting a culture of rape. Rightly, there are cries of outrage against chants of, “no means yes, and yes means anal,” and against repeated cases of assault and rape taking place at frat parties.  If the white men (for they are overwhelmingly white men) of this so-called Greek system have absorbed an idea that sexual aggression is acceptable, in this video, we see the yang to that rape-culture yin.  Women in sororities have internalized the idea that they are rightly considered objects, that appearances matter much, much more than ideas, and that “pretty” is the highest aspiration of a young woman’s college career.  From this Greek factory of wild oats sown, one still sees a huge number of traditional outcomes, meaning those rapists marry the girls without cellulite or expressed ideas before grad school.  But the amount of sex, consensual or not, and the amount of sexual objectification would probably shock sweethearts of sigma chi of yore. Women on the campus of Ole Miss have had, I know personally, meetings where they have expressed uneasiness at the pressure they feel in sororities to “put out,” but to my knowledge, they haven’t organized any revolt against this pressure. Part of the problem is that sororities do things, almost everything, together, and this seems to imply that sexual consent feels within the walls of the sorority house like a group decision.

I submit that the University of Alabama had no reason to insist that the sorority Alpha Phi pull the video. It shows the truth. It is an honest expression of what these young women feel about themselves. They value looks over all.  They have no black female friends or friends who are white but somehow ethnic-looking. They don’t read books. They don’t have deep discussions. They are like Elle Woods’ sorority sisters: neither introspective nor troubled by world events.  They see themselves as characters rendered two-dimensionally. They are things, pretty things to adorn the world, in their own view.  If the university is upset by this, then they need to shut down fraternity and sorority row, not censor a non-obscene video that accurately depicts the worldview of many of their students and of many of their alumni donors. If they don’t like what the drone overhead shots reveal about the school, they need to shut down the football program and host poets influenced by Sylvia Plath, teach gender studies as a requirement, and raise expectations all around. These laughing Alpha Phi women with whitened smiles, they are not the problem, though they might diagnose the problem. The video is cute. They are cute. What is not cute is that some universities are more football rooters clubs than temples to learning.

February 20, 2011

Fiddle-dee-disempowerment — Why every feminist should watch the movie SOUTHERN BELLE

Last week at the Oxford film festival, I saw the scariest film I had seen in a good, long while.  The monster that re-emerged from its crypt was not a slime-covered zombie, exactly.  The thing that made me afraid of things that go bump in the night was not a decaying ghoul.  She was wearing a hoop skirt, a corset, and she was about sixteen years old, very cute, in fact.  My horror was not due to her so much as the people who were using her image to try to take away twenty-first century women’s sense of their own rights and leadership potential.

This girl is beautifully dressed for her disempowerment lessons

Makewright Films, run by two outstanding documentarians, Kathy Conkwright and Mary Makley, documented without apostrophe, for no comment is really necessary, the 1861 Anthenaeum Girls’ School in Columbia, Tennessee, where the antebellum South attempts to rise again, at least the version of it that a man who is clearly at odds with twenty-first century uppity Yankee women like me, founder and historical revisionist Mark Orman has concocted.

The sad thing is that the actual Anthenaeum Girls’ School in Columbia, Tennessee in the actual year of 1861 (not the undead reenactment version) was a place that was exploring the possibility of conferring empowering educations to young ladies of the South.  The actual place, shut down some time after shots were fired at Fort Sumter, was a four-year college for young women — this at a time when women’s post-secondary education was a very new thing in this country, North and South.  However, Mark Orman, with the conspiracy of several older women, is painting a version of that academy’s past that has no historical foundation.  Rather, he gives a speech where he claims to twenty-first century high school girls that the war was over states rights (a view recently decried yet again by credible historians in The Washington Post as recently as this past week) and not slavery, that a greater percentage of freed negroes who remained South owned slaves than did white people in the South, which even if it proved to be true would in no way justify the institution of slavery.  He even draws on Paul’s epistle’s exhortation, “Slaves, obey your masters,” as a God-sanctification of the institution as it was practiced in Tennessee in 1861.  Let me tell you what I REALLY think, in that offensive Yankee way I have — Mark Orman’s views are repellent, they stem from a clear insecurity about real women’s agency in our current society, and if I were not a Christian (who by the way, would never own slaves or think God wanted me to), I would be out looking for him to kick his ass right now, preferably in front of a bunch of men who would laugh at him later for being beat up by a girl.

Don’t misunderstand me.  I have spent a year in the New South — and believe me, brother and sister Yankees, it is not like a black-and-white film strip with fire hoses plowing down scared African-American students praying on courthouse steps.  It is a place of vibrant questioning and repositioning, not always smoothly, but always toward a better place.  New Southerners are optimistic, progressive, intellectual, curious, and excited about new possibilities in their region and beyond.  Guys like Mark Orman are part of a South that New Southerners reject.

Again, I say don’t misunderstand me.  Look at this blog — you’ll see a hundred references to Gone with the Wind, a seminal document for Southern Culture.  However, at the 1861 Anthaneum Girls’ School, they tell the young women who come there to participate in what can only be loosely called a reenactment that Southern ladies are not allowed in hoop skirts  to behave as Scarlett O’Hara.  Instead, they exhort them to behave like Melanie Wilkes.  Even if I were the most racially and gender-issue insensitive teenage girl bitten by the fashion bug of 1861, I would drop my bustle and get out of the hoop skirt right then — because Scarlett is awesome, and Melanie is mealy-mouthed.

Once they have laid the foundation of  a false construction of racial issues in the South, they then proceed with their primary project — that of teaching twenty-first century girls that being a lady means being self-effacing, having no right to decide to move even from one part of a room to another without a proper escort, that it means never standing up to a bully in any direct manner.

Understand that the girls who attend this so-called school are marvelous young women — one was there poignantly looking for a trace of her deceased mother, whom she had seen in a period costume photo taken at Dollywood.  Another was clearly bitten by the aforementioned fashion bug, and with the complicity of her mother, she had a million outfits that were spectacular — making her the belle of any Edith Head Hollywood production set in the Old South.  Another girl, who won a prize for being the best lady of the term, was bright, lovely, kind to others, beautiful in old-world terms (think not slutty-looking), and mentioned a desire to climb the corporate ladder, but she had decided she wanted to do it — she actually said it — without equal rights.  If I were a relative of  hers, I’d be staging an intervention right now.  The last, and possibly the most disturbing story of the whole film, was a rather geeky girl who had tons of personality, lots of opinions.  The film leaves her looking more poised and grown-up, but she says that she has  learned that a lady is someone who doesn’t stand out — she is a part of the background, only part, as she put it, of the big picture.

That’s why I’d go to Tennessee, but for the love of Jesus, and beat that fat Mark Orman to a pulp if I hadn’t made a promise to God to behave in a manner not more ladylike but more Jesus-like — for that girl, the one whose character he apparently crushed.

Why do I take this so personally?  Because, I, too, received without irony the disempowerment lecture that these girls received.

When I was in eighth grade, I attended a girls’ school — Castilleja School for Girls.  On Founder’s Day, back in the 1980s, the year I was in eighth grade, they made us listen to a lecture from the vice president of the alumni association.  She told us in no uncertain terms that ladies  do not pursue careers and marriages — that the few most spinsterly among us might just need a career, but those of us with the slightest feminine charm should go trolling for a rich husband whose career we would support with our intellectual efforts and whose children we would raise without seeking something that credited us apart from this family unit.  Even in eighth grade, some of the girls there had already begun trolling, with their mothers egging them on.

This vice president of the alumni association was eloquent — I remember most distinctly something she said, even today.  She said that any woman who had ever protested or fought in any indirect way for her rights, including the right to vote was “a wingless valkyrie of questionable sexual orientation.”

What a vivid turn of phrase!  Clearly, she had done well in English before she quit thinking for herself.

I remember, at age 13, sitting there, in the front row (because I had arrived almost late), realizing that I had just seen it all spelled out for me.  On one side of an insuperable barrier — there were the ladies, like the woman with the face lift and the slicked-back bun in front of me, talking, insulting my grandmother and great-grandmother and mother, who were all pioneering heroines for women’s rights.  On the other side of the barrier — there were my ancestresses and women in viking garb, singing  but not flying, Marlene Dietrich, who had already impressed me with her powerful, pan-sexual ethos sizzling on the screen in fishnets in black and white, and other women, complicated, maybe not all happy.  However, at least they were not pretending to be happy like the women on the other side, the ladylike side, of the barrier. These wingless women were apparently talking in loud tones about things they really cared about, not like the Castilleja’s mother’s club, that pretended to like each other but stabbed each other in the back while wiping their vampirically lipsticked mouths with monogrammed napkins when any of  the others of them would leave the lunch table — yes, I had heard them, too.  I knew whose party I wanted to be invited to — it wasn’t the smug supper club.  It was the wingless valkyrie rave.

I thank Castilleja School for Girls for trying unsuccessfully to disempower me for the twenty-first century.  It clarified a bundle of things.

I left the next year and went to public school in no small part because of this speech.

I thank the makers of Makewright films for clarifying things, too.  I have never  been prouder of my ancestors who fought with the Yankees against slavery.  I have never been prouder of myself for speaking loudly, having opinions and demanding that others who may not find  them palatable hear them, for getting arrested for women’s rights and for the end of Apartheid.  I know which side of the barrier between Old South and New South on which I belong, and that Mason-Dixon Line I will never cross unarmed.

Every feminist should watch this film.  The fight isn’t over.  The grapes of wrath are still in the field waiting to be trampled.  If anyone wants to come trample them with me, let me know.

July 12, 2010

Miss Directed

Drag queens on Christopher Street -- meet the actual Miss Deep South, Julie Amelia Falgout

When I was a seven year-old, I wanted to be Miss America for Halloween.  My mother obliged me, going to Toys ‘R Us and buying this pink apron of a costume with a sash on it and a mask of a blonde woman.  At the Halloween Party my elementary school threw, I saw kids dressed as many things with magical super powers — witches could cast spells, superheroes could stop crime, cats, though not supernatural, could jump and claw, but what could Miss America do?  I believe this was my first feminist realization, and I took the costume off in disgust before the party was over.

I was not the only one — several years earlier, the one time that it might be said that feminists burned their bras was in a trash can on the Atlantic City Boardwalk as a protest to the Miss America Pageant.  There is something about those artificial trappings that make women angry who are trying to be in charge of their own lives on their own terms.

When I moved to New York, there was a show on Christopher Street where drag queens played mean rival pageant contenders, and the sluttiest one of them was called — in a double entendre — Miss Deep South.  It was ironic and delicious, and the drag queens were subversive in their appropriation of the symbols of American “beauty” for their own.  I later took a cue from them when I organized a protest of lack of women coverage in sports by crowning myself in deep-tissue irony Miss Sports Ill Lust Raided 1992.  I vogued in front of the Time Life building with cameras rolling, calling myself Ruth Babe, and giving the president of NOW-New York City a media moment where she could talk about job discrimination for women in Sports.

However, I have moved from the land of irony to the land of cotton — old times here are not forgotten.  Look away.  Look away.  Et Cetera, Dixie Land.

Pictured to the Left is the real Miss Deep South 2010.  She wears the crown without irony, and she has gone home from Vicksburg, where I now live, dejected no doubt, as she did not win the Miss Mississippi Pageant, which is held here every year.

I am sympathetic to the plight of the would-be beauty contest winner in a way I was not when I vogued  in front of the Time-Life building.  If a young woman is interested in broadcast journalism and is from the smallest towns in the country, how else is she going to get out of Dodge?  Some mothers — including mothers of contestants in this pageant — don’t understand the aspirations of daughters who want, say, PhDs in clinical psychology, as one contestant did here, but they understand the swimsuit competition.  Ten thousand dollars in scholarship money, when parents will buy Preparation H for dark circles but no College Preperatory academy, that might be the ticket out of Pine Scratch in Yoknapatawpha County.

The pageant even calls itself a scholarship pageant, not a beauty pageant these days, but don’t apply if you have love handles or a hairy upper lip.  The standards of beauty are, if anything, more artificial than ever.  Vaseline goes on teeth.  Cream for the rectum goes under the eyes.  Glue spray on the buttocks makes the swimsuit that is a little too tight not ride up.

The local papers ask Miss Mississippi what she thinks about a variety of issues, as if she were not some empty head.  However, there is no reason to suppose she is not judged chiefly on her ability to look artificially pretty while she struts in evening wear and a one-piece non-thong with high thighs.

In New York City, being Miss New York is not really most young women’s aspiration the way it is generally accepted as such here.  Young women who are pretty might aspire to be models or actresses, talent optional.  The standards of beauty are about 20-40 pounds lighter, less vaseline, more scowls on the cat walk.  They are absurd as well.

The most beautiful woman I ever saw in my life in person was from East Africa.  She was getting off a plane from Nairobi and landing in JFK, and I was standing behind her in customs on a summer day.  She was wrapped in colorful cloths, and she wore a high turban.  She looked a little tired, but she still glowed.  Her smile at her children was broad and strong.  These were clothes that were not available in a boutique in the US anywhere, and yet she looked more elegant than any other women I can remember seeing.  She was thin and tall, but she was so in a way that appeared effortless.  She wore no make-up, doubtless in part because of the long flight.  She looked like a queen, not a judged pageant queen, but an actual queen, one with real authority.

The most beautiful woman  I have seen in Mississippi does not wear a crown.  Her name is Jessica, and she is a farmer who sells vegetables her family grows at the Vicksburg Farmer’s Market.  She has a daughter and a husband, and they call their farm Ebenezer Farms, and their sign is emblazoned with a quote from the Bible.  Jessica is so wholly uncynical about life, I sense, that it is a source of inner beauty to her.  She has perfect farm girl skin — as if someone had poured cream into a clear glass jar.  She has honey blonde hair, uncolored, un hairsprayed, that hangs down the back of her cotton blouse to her waist.  She does not wear makeup to the market, and she focuses mostly on her little girl.  She was kind enough to offer to pray for me.  How could a pageant judge a woman like this?  What would be the point of her entering a contest, given who she is and whose she is?

I would like to take the tiara off the woman who won the pageant — Miss Metro Area Jackson — and give it to Jessica, but I know what she’d do with it.  She has read the Book of Revelation, and she would cast any crown on her head at the feet of Jesus, as it says to do there, because it means nothing in face of eternity.  Hence, perhaps the real Miss Deep South, whom I do not assume was a tenth as slutty as a drag queen, Miss Julie, perhaps she need not feel bad about losing to another competitor.  Perhaps all of us should take off our Miss America costumes before the party is over and see what superpowers we actually have inside of us despite unrealistic and oppressive standards of appearance for women.

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