My picture was an awkward mess.
On my grandmother’s mantel it blended in with the other twenty photos of when I lost my first tooth or got a sleeping bag for Christmas but blown-up and placed in a glass cabinet next to the girls bathed in hairspray and soft lighting, it looked like I had been forced to pose in a white lace tablecloth after peeing on myself.
The tight smile, big 80’s hair, and a necklace of cheap, chunky pearls were highlighted by a description near the photo detailing my hobbies. I liked to travel, crochet, and sketch small animals. My royal competition liked to volunteer at church and cheerlead in between helping the elderly.
The Rose Festival theme that year was, “From the Marquee,” a nod to Broadway, and it encompassed the glitz and glamour that was the Great White Way. Past themes included “For You a Rose in Portland Grows” and “Set Sail For Fun!”
In 1986, I knew nothing about the Great White Way; I knew nothing about Broadway. I was a sixteen-year old whose closest friends were happy meals, calculus and Janet Jackson on tape. At 5’4”, I weighed 165 pounds and happily consumed five meals a day plus snacks. I excelled at quadratic equations and pizza.
And I was the new girl.
No one expected me to win and reminded me everyday in AP English that the majority of my problems could be solved with a curling iron and lip gloss.
