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Right in the middle of my planned walk to the other side of the stage, I’m suddenly handed an enormous bouquet of flowers covered in ribbons. I push away another as someone places the crown on my head.
The applause goes from a little less deafening to beyond fucking loud. The spotlight dims enough for me to see, though. It looks like the audience is giving me a standing ovation, which I think they would for whoever won.
I’m gripping the bouquet with one hand. This would be much more comfortable for people wearing clothes. Right now, though, I just want to get rid of it.
I consider throwing it into the audience, like a bride at a wedding, but it’s kind of heavy for that. I settle for holding it out
, away from me, dangling it by one of the decorative ribbons.
The spotlight ramps back up to its former, blinding brightness, and somebody—it just looks like a disembodied hand and part of a forearm—hands me a portable microphone.
The music ends, and the audience has fallen dead quiet in anticipation of my words.
“Could somebody please turn down that spotlight? I can’t see a thing.”
Whoever’s in charge of that light immediately turns it down a few notches.
“That’s better,” I continue, “my thanks to the lighting crew. I don’t know if you all can’t see me now, but...whatever. I can see, at least.”
I can see now. I can see the first few rows of the audience, their faces set on me in anticipation.
I can also see the runners-up, both watching me with static grins.
“So,” I begin, holding up the flowers, “I’ve worked really hard for this stuff—these flowers, this crown, the chance to give this speech...At least, that’s what I thought I was working for.”
I let go of the ribbon, and the bouquet falls with a thump. It seems symbolic, but really, it was just uncomfortable.
“I don’t think any of this crap, in itself, means anything to, well, anyone. I know that what it symbolizes means something, but, honestly, I couldn’t tell you what. What I can tell you is what this pageant means to me—or meant to me, back when I was still preparing for it.
“What it meant was a chance to gain confidence in myself. That’s something I struggled with, but not anymore. In that way, it’s been a success story. Those struggles are a thing of the past for me...”
I’m interrupted by some scattered clapping from the audience.
“Hold on.” I hold up my hand, stopping the clappers. “Like I was saying, I have overcome those struggles, and I’ve gained more confidence in myself than I’ve ever had.”
I scan the crowd to see their reactions, but no one is making a sound. “So, it has worked, in that way,” I continue. “But, in another way, all that meaning attached to the crown, now it’s just gone for me.”
I pause to let the crowd murmur and grumble. It’s the first time anyone’s said anything like that in the history of the pageant, I’m sure.
The grumbling dies down. The faces I can see in the audience are still watching me with rapt attention, which is nice, but I’m finishing this fucking speech no matter what.
“When this all meant something to me, which it did until recently, it meant celebrating something. I know it’s a competition, but to me, it meant celebrating beauty—the beauty of being who I felt I could be...the beauty of who I know I am.
“I know that now, and I know my body is part of that, no matter how I much I weigh. Still, this pageant became a goal to work towards, to feel better about myself. As a future goal, it worked. As a present reality, it sucks.”
There’s more grumbling, and I take a look over at the runners-up to see how they’re taking this. Miss Sexy Japan is listening politely, and she’s dropped her fake smile. Miss Sexy Australia is still grinning, but her grin is becoming much less convincing at this point.
I turn back to the audience, now that they’ve shut their yaps again, and continue.
“Celebrating my own beauty, and my own body, with the men I care about, has been one of the best things to ever happen to me. But competing in this pageant has not been part of that celebration. It’s been degrading and gross. This whole thing...it’s not celebrating, it’s commodifying, and it’s objectifying.”
I stop, waiting for more muttered complaints from the crowd, but there’s only silence.
“Any meaning the crown had is gone. I want nothing to do with it. What I do want is to continue doing what makes me happy with the men I love.”
I pick up the bouquet by its ribbons and hold it away from me. I look at the runners-up, and the look on Miss Sexy Australia’s face is becoming undeniably pained.
“I’m rejecting the crown,” I state clearly, addressing the first runner-up directly. A bright, real smile takes over Miss Sexy Australia’s face when she finally realizes that, yes, this means the crown is hers.
