Your head is crooked, my first pageant mentor said.

There is no other explanation, she sighed as she stuck yet another bobby pin into the criss cross of elastic attached to the crown that sat a top my crooked head.

What is wrong with your head?, Miss. Statesville said.

Miss. Statesville’s crown sat perfectly a top her head.Each and every point caught the light exactly so. She was good enough to offer tips on how best to attach a crown. Miss. Statesville knew all the tips. Miss. Statesville had been on the pageant circuit for many years, having worn several crowns and titles throughout the years on her sequined path to gain the one crown that would set all other crowns apart: The Miss.America crown.

But first she had to get to Miss. North Carolina.

Ohhhhh, you’re the one who caint keep her crown riight on her head, said Miss. Fayetteville.

We became fast friends. She was funny and could play the hell out of a piano.

Little did I know we would become roommates at the Miss. North Carolina pageant, enduring a week of something that resembled a sporting event, final exams and intense, cut throat competition.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

For a full year in my little green Datsun, I showed up wearing my tilted crown. From shrimp festivals to spot festivals, festivals honoring Rhodendrons and Azaleas, to ribbons cuttings. I was there. From parades to guest appearances all over the great state of North Carolina I became known as the queen who wore the tilted crown.

I have the pictures to prove it.

No matter how many bobby pins or rows of elastic woven between the little metal grommets afixed to the rim of the crown,it tilted. This did not bother me, but it bothered others and was to be a harbinger of what was to come as my year on the pageant circuit began in the summer of 1984.

Your new Miss Onslow County is…….

Me. Summer 1984.

In July, it is hot as hell in southeastern North Carolina . I knew not one thing about pageants, nor did my mother. But I knew I wanted the scholarship money and other perks that came with winning. I wanted a year of singing lessons and the chance to travel around the state and perform. I picked out my own dress from a shop in New River Plaza( Margolis), created my own talent outfit, a self made ensemble with a little bit of Flashdance and a nod to A Chorus Line. And yes. There were flashes of neon striping up and down the side of my leotard. I selected my song of choice for the talent competition, another nod to A Chorus Line. I even found a one piece bathing suit, I mean swimsuit ,in the women’s section from the downtown Belks department store. I had never worn a one piece bathing suit in my life, much less walk in one while wearing high heels. I followed all the how to apply dramatic make-up thanks to a Way Bandy book my mother had given me and I learned how to set my hair and not burn my fingertips with the hot roller set I won at the weekly country club bingo night. Odds were not in my favor but there was a stage, I was going to sing and my tan was on point. This little butterball, that’s what my gymastics coach used to call me during those akward years of what my Grandma Brown used to say was just sweet little baby fat, had butterflied her way into beauty ya’ll, with a Farrahh haircut and a little bit of tweezing.

When my name was called, I was just as shocked as everyone else, including my family. That first night, draped with a sash and a bunch of red roses, the new crown on my head tilted. My mother and her friends who had been sitting on the front row rushed the stage, we hugged and then I was whisked away to the judges room for “the critique”.

Here is how that went:

You’re too fat.Too muscular.Too tan.Grow out your hair.Change the color of your make-up,it’s too dramatic. Change your evening gown, swimsuit, and interview outfit and learn to walk in heels.

But.

You can sing. You can sell the shit out of a song.

The head judge, a former Miss.OHELLICANTREMEMBER, went on reading from her notes.

This is who you will see to design your evening gown,your swimsuit,and talent costume. This is who you will see for lessons in how to walk, how to be a pageant queen and for gosh sakes, we will find someone to teach you how to wear your crown. This is your new pageant mentor. He will be your pageant mentor for the next year as you travel through the state. He had a thick, bushy mustache extending beyond and below his upper lip. He was known to wear short, too short athletic shorts, and baggy sweatshirts. He had a beige convertible that would become my parade car. He ordered magnetic signs for each side of the convertible. “Miss.Onslow County. Gloria Christ”. He ordered a second set of magnetic signs: “Miss. Onslow County. Gloria Crist“.

That’s okay, I said. Everybody put’s an “h” in my name. I joked and said I had not quite gotten that walking on water thing down yet. He did not think it was funny. You don’t joke about Jesus in the south. Ever.

We were off to a great start. He lived in a trailer waaaaaay down Gumbranch Rd. It was sketchy at first, but once inside. the walls of his trailer were covered with Broadway posters and autographed pictures of former contestants.Despite the smell of smoke, I knew I was safe. I don’t remember a time I did not see him without a cigarette in one hand and a rocks glass in the other. I don’t remember what he did for a living. I only remember him as a pageant coach/chaperone/mentor.

The head judge was finishing her comentary as I sat there sweating in an unconditioned room off the to the side of the auditorium.All my Way Bandy make-up melting right off my face.

WehavetogetyoureadyforMissNorthCarolina. Fast. You don’t have a lot of time.

She was done with me. Now, said the head judge. Where do we go for a cocktail in this town?

I sat there with my tilted crown and wilting roses, taking in everything that was wrong with me and all I heard was-

You can sing. You can sell the shit out of a song.

The next few months took me to places along the pageant circuit. I chose my custom made evening gown: a stunning off the shoulder number with a slit on the side, showing just enough calf, in gun metal cracked ice gray. There would be several trips to the designers home. She was well known in the pageant circuit.

Are you sure you don’t want a pale peach color, or off white fabric? Lots of girls are wearing yellow?

No. I want gun metal gray. With the cracked ice overlay. Thank-you Jayme Shaw for hearing me. Years later, I would cut that dress off right above the knee and wear it in Las Vegas,when I opened for Don Rickles but that’s another story.

My one piece swimsuit in the perfect shade of fuchsia pushed up and held in and did all these miraculous things for my short torso. I learned to keep the back of my suit from riding up my behind as I walked in high heels by using sports grip spray.

Honey, you just spray and stick.

Sugar, let me tell you. It sticks and lifts like you cain’t believe.

My talent outfit was bumped up a notch to look like Flashdance meets A Chorus Line meets Miss. North Carolina.Thanks again to Jayme Shaw, I would be wearing a black sequined sweat shirt off the shoulder, over a black shiny leotard with black sequined leg warmers and matching head band.

Shut. Up.

My interview outfit was up to me. It was a two piece houndstooth, double breasted ensemble, with shoulder pads hemmed to the exact placerighthereabovetheknee. White pumps and a smart looking simple white blouse completed the look. Whatever happened to Quiana?

I was ready.

Winning Miss. Onslow County allowed me to take voice lessons at the North Carolina School of the Arts as an off campus student since it was right down the road from the college I was attending. I became a regular in the voice department, the classically trained former opera star took me under her wing and changed the way I looked at music, heard music and how I interpretted phrases and lyrics. She showed me how much I loved singing and how much singing is breathing and feeling. In between fine-tuning Jazz, Motown and R&B, I had to also learn opera and musical theater.That was our deal. She changed the course of my life.

As a visiting queen during events, I was often asked to perform. I turned to the music I grew up with, Motown, R&B, Jazz and musical theater. I also learned how to take a song and reduce it down to the required 2 minutes and 30 seconds. I sang the shit out of song and never thought to adjust my tilted crown. Along the way, I also met the real queens: Gay men from a long linage of pageant coaches and mentors. I learned a thing or two about the fine art of owning every bit of a minute. I learned how to tape, pad, push, placethingsjustso, how to spray, how to shine, how to shimmer, how to curl my crazy hair, how to put on false eyelashes, and most importantly, how to be just me.

Girl. You don’t need to worry about a tilted crown.

And so I did not.

The big week arrived. All the prepping and preening was about to be examined with a fine tooth rat’s tail comb. I packed my bags and headed to state competition: Miss. North Carolina was a week of rehearsals and interviews,photo shoots, more rehearsals, and watching young women break down over the pressure to win, pass out from exhaustion( and too many diet pills), plot to hide or damage evening gowns, while parents and pageant coaches placed wagers on who was going to win.Boyfriends were not allowed. Nothing was allowed except the steel like focus on winning the crown. The contestant who won the Miss. North Carolina crown would pack her bags and head to Miss. America.

Nope. I was not even in the running. Not me with the tilted crown and the gunmetal gray cracked ice evening gown. Not me who could sing the shit out of a song.

But.

I did pull off one of the best wins during the week: Remember Miss. Fayetteville? The one who could play the hell out of a piano? She was missing her boyfriend something fierce. The pageant thing was not really for her anyway, she said.

I just need to see my boyfriend, she cried.

So we plotted and came up with a plan.

Security was tight. Chaperones were lurking. There were random bed checks, lights out and then more bed checks.

But.

What’s the harm in a little pizza? Let’s get it delivered. Miss. Fayetville and Miss. Onslow County would treat our floor of fellow contestants to a mid week treat: pizza. So on a Wednesday, at some point after interview prep, as the hot sun was setting in Raleigh, North Carolina, pizza was delivered by Miss. Fayettville’s boyfriend. And for 15 minutes in private, they did whatever they needed to do while others took small bites of pizza, hoping the laxatives would not kick in during opening number rehearsals later that evening.

My interview with the panel of judges went something like this:

Hello Miss Crist.

I nod,smile and make eye contact with each and every judge.I cross my legs at the ankle. Should I have worn pantyhose? It was too hot for pantyhose.

As each series of questions were lobbed in my direction with pauses in between so judges could write down notes, my hair frizzed in the afternoon humidity. I knew my current events. Go head, ask me anything.

My makeup was melting.

There were long pauses and half smiles from a former something or another, a dignitary from some place or another and a man with a chin and neck spilling over his too tight collar. He was red faced and when he talked his face moved from side to side. He would be the one to ask me the final question.

How do you feel about abortion Miss. Crist?

Welllll, I thought to myself. It’s been a nice week. I made some friends. I learned how to spray my butt with sticky grip, so it looks higher and perkier. I now know the finer points of taping. I sang the shit out of my song every night, and I helped Miss. Fayettville get a little bit of lov’in in between the chaos of getting that crown. I took a big breath and answered as the sweat dripped down the front of my white Quiana blouse.

I think it’s up to the woman. I think it’s nobody’s business to tell a woman what to do with her body. I think choice and the power of choice is up to the individual. I was raised to empower others, to help others, to support community, social awareness, justice, freedom. I guess you could say I am pro-choice.

There was a pause in the toofuckinghot room. There was a bit of writing, some whispers between the judges and then the man with the too tight collar with his neck hanging out all over the place spoke. His jowls shook. His face reddened. He picked up his pencil and pointed right at me.

Miss. Crist, he said. You will never amount to anything. You are too opinionated AND you voice your opinion with a ferocity of righteousness. And then my interview portion of the week was over and that was that.

Ya’ll think I am lying, right?

It shook me to the core so much so, that I hightailed it back to my dorm room with such a ferocity that I broke the heel on one of my shoes. The click clack sound on the coblestone path went from a syncopated angry rhythm to just a click clomp up the stairs to my third floor room. I wrote down exactly what that noneck monster said to me. I wrote it down word for word and archieved his spew in the pages of my journal.

You will never amount to anything.

I played along the rest of the week. I superglued my heel back to my shoe. I looked forward to singing, stepped into my evening gown, my swimsuit, my opening number outfit, sprayed, pasted, taped, applied all the goods, and waited for my family and friends to arrive for the big night. Vaseline on the teeth and smile.

We all know I was not queen material. I was destined for more. As I prepped backstage with all the other girls, my father was in the hotel bar listening as all the other fathers, or “pageant dads” were taking bets and talking politics. My mother was somewhere outside the auditorium dressed in her beach casual, smoking her Marlboro lights. I knew she was nervous for me, and so proud. She would be there when it was all over.

Soon enough the time came for me to crown the next Miss. Onslow County and my reign was officially over and done. I went on to other things.

The silver has tarnished on the official Miss. North Carolina 1984 bowl received as a token door prize. As it happens, my crown fits in the bowl perfectly- if you tilt it to the side.