Still Standing: The Untold Story of My Fight Against Gossip, Hate, and Political Attacks

by Carrie Prejean

  The other ministry with which I got involved is “JC’s Girls.” This is a special ministry directed to women who are trying to transition out of the so-called “adult” entertainment industry, which is not only larger than you might think but also far more horrible. Some of JC’s Girls have been strippers or involved in pornography. Others, like me, were there because we felt a calling to witness to these young women. The purpose of JC’s Girls is not to judge or condemn, but to help these women heal through a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. We tell them that they are beautiful, and that Jesus loves them. Many of these girls have been through the ringer. When we reach them, or they come to us, their eyes are deadened by what they have seen and done, and their sense of self-worth and respect is down to absolute zero. Their souls feel crushed because they know they have taken a beautiful thing and, instead of using it as God intended, they allowed themselves to be exploited and degraded. Don’t let anyone tell you that there are no victims in pornography. Anyone who tells you that has no idea what they’re talking about. The very nature of pornography is abuse and exploitation and victimization; and for women, it is a modern form of slavery. Our goal is to set these women free and to help them find the inherent human dignity that is theirs. And believe me, I have seen them find it.

  The Rock showed me where my true home was, and it was there that I found that all the values I had learned throughout my life had come together. My sister and teammates had taught me to fight and never give up. My grandfather had taught me that the independence some take for granted is hard won. My grandmother taught me about love and what a marriage should look like. My parents showed me that people could change. The Rock showed me where to find the truth, in faith and service.

  Later, I would be asked by the Miss USA contest to identify my favorite song. I chose “I Was Here,” by Lady Antebellum, which talks about making a difference, about doing something that matters, speaking out, and leaving your mark. Another song that was important to me was Nichole Nordeman’s “Legacy,” about leaving the world a testimony by which they can remember you.

  I’ve always been a competitor, and I was psyched to set the world on its ear, to do something to put my stamp on life. That was my goal—and it was a goal I achieved in a way that I never could have imagined, or would have sought, and that sometimes made me think I was living through a new bloodless form of martyrdom, a sacrificial Christian thrown to the vicious and cruel media lions to be torn apart.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Just Another Sport

  It all began, like so many other things in my life, with a dare. I was still seventeen when my friend Amanda said, “You’re so pretty, Carrie. You really ought to compete in a beauty pageant.”

  I didn’t want to offend her, but I didn’t take to the idea at all. I was so into my sports. Then Amanda used the one word that she knew would hook me in. She called it a “competition.” Some of my girl friends from church were competing at the local pageant level, so I started asking them questions. It’s easy, they said. In many cases, they told me, all you have to do is enter an evening gown competition and answer a few questions; if you can model clothes with style and answer questions with finesse, you can set yourself up to win scholarships and attract job interviews. With the divorce and custody lawyers having taken so much of my parents’ money, I especially needed scholarship money.

  I imagined the pageant life would be a lot like sports. Eat right. Go to bed early (at least at the local level). Keep up your grades. Just as you are accountable to your team and coach, so I would also be accountable to my new team of handlers and directors. I would once again be working hard for something. Winning for me was everything—but this time, I’d be on my own, without my sister watching my back. I was ready, though, and the idea of competition was just too attractive. Before long I was asking, “How do I sign up?”

  My first competition was Miss Teen Vista. When I told my parents and my sister about it, they looked at me like I was crazy. They knew me as the girl who scraped her knees sliding into second base, who got a fat lip jumping up for a rebound in the midst of flying elbows at a basketball game. But a beauty contest? Even I had to step back, after hearing their doubts, and confess I never thought I had what it took to win a beauty contest. I had watched them on television when I was little; I’d never imagined I’d be a participant in one. Still, even watching pageants as a little girl I’d been impressed with the poise of the participants. I always considered them role models—women little girls could look up to. I wanted to be a part of that if I could.

  As competitions go, Miss Teen Vista did not ask a lot, which made the competitive athlete in me all the more infuriated when I lost, c oming in as second-runner-up. If I was going to compete in pageants, I was going to compete to win. If I had to train harder—that’s what I’d do. I asked the director what I had to do to win. She smiled at me in a way that made me even more desperate to win next time; in her mind, I should have been pleased to be runner-up. But second best has never been good enough for me, so I asked her, “What’s the next step after winning Miss Teen Vista?” She told me the winners compete in Miss Greater San Diego Teen. That became my goal—not only to win Miss Teen Vista, but to win at the next level.

  As luck would have it, the winner of Miss Teen Vista didn’t want to go on to Miss Greater San Diego Teen. Neither did the first runner-up. So I stepped forward and said, “I’ll do it, I’ll compete.”

  When I told my parents I was doing another pageant, their disbelief had hardened into resistance. My mother asked, “Are you sure? You didn’t win the first one. Are you really sure you want to try again, at a higher level?”

  “Pageants really aren’t your thing, Carrie,” Dad would say. “You ought to pursue basketball. You’re good at it.”

  But I was persistent. I told them I wanted to do this, and I meant what I said. I trained hard, preparing myself to be in top shape physically, mentally quick, graceful, balanced, and coordinated. Come the event, I felt I was ready for all the tests—the gown, the swimsuit, and the interview. And this time I won! The hard work, the determination, the perseverance had all paid off. I was on my way to the next level and already thinking of what I would have to do to win that one. I became Miss Greater San Diego Teen. When they gave me my sash and crown, with my whole family watching (Grandpa was crying, he was so happy for me), I was beaming with joy.

  In winning that pageant, I brought to bear an old sports trick that I had been using for years. As a basketball player, I was able to pull off critical three-pointers by visualizing how the shot would go. I know a lot of athletes have this experience. If you can visualize what you need to do—sink that basket, make that punt, throw that strike—your mind and your body will get it done. When athletes talk about being “mentally tough” as well as “physically tough” that’s partly what they mean. Part of it is not getting flustered, not losing your cool, not giving in when you’re feeling tired or sore or afraid. But the other part is staying focused and visualizing what you need to do. It’s a bit like acting. All successful athletes have to be actors to a certain degree, in the sense that they have to put their mind into the role of being a winner, of being successful, of acting out in their mind what they need to do on the field, or on the softball diamond, or on the basketball court. If you can do that, if you can play with confidence, you can be a winner. When I competed in the Miss Greater San Diego Teen pageant, I felt I was not only physically prepared, but I had my mental game on as well.

  I was glad to win, of course, but I also recognized that some of the girls felt resentment against me. It wasn’t just that they were upset to lose—I knew that feeling—it was that they regarded me as an outsider. I was more of a tomboy than a girly-girl—and tomboys weren’t supposed to win pageants. Moreover, some of these girls were pageant veterans, who had competed from as early an age as six, and here I was, a newcomer walking away with the crown. But in my own mind, if I didn’t have their experience, I had my own—the fierce c
ompetitiveness that came to me from sports and the inner strength that I felt I had developed from having to raise myself without the benefit of an intact home. I was dedicated. I worked hard. And as they say in sports, I was hungry—winning wasn’t an option, it was a necessity; and I think I might have brought a bit more hard work to the pageant than some of the other contestants who thought they would cruise to victory.

  Now I can imagine that some of you might roll your eyes at the idea of beauty pageants being about hard work. But let me tell you—they are. The dieting, the working out, all the physical aspects of the pageants are only a part of it. Even at the local level you have to survive a grueling interview with a panel of judges. You have to convince these judges that you have the poise and the knowledge to be a great Miss Whatever. For me, the next great “whatever” was Miss California Teen. As winner of Miss Greater San Diego Teen, I had free entry to the next level. If I was on my game now, I had to raise it to an even higher standard to compete successfully for the state title.

  Part of that was schooling myself on the issues of the day. Traditionally in beauty pageants, judges avoided asking questions that were too political—perhaps for obvious reasons. But I had heard that some of the judges were veering in that direction—if for no other reason than to see if contestants could handle the pressure of coming up with a quick and articulate answer on subjects where feelings might run high and there were two sides to the story. So just to be on the safe side, I started watching FOX News with my Dad and reading the newspapers a little more closely.

  I took etiquette classes. I started walking around the house with a book on my head. I even had a “walking instructor” who taught me a thousand things, but especially how to walk. Yes, you read that right. How to walk across the stage, hands in and open, shoulders relaxed, posture straight, chin up, eyes on the judges—make sure they remember you!

  My instructor, Jim, a wonderful man who was openly gay, sized me up after first asking me to walk across the room: “Are you an athlete?”

  “Yes.” I was proud that Jim could tell it at a glance.

  “Well,” Jim said, “you need to get in touch with your feminine side.”

  He taught me how to walk like a beauty contestant, using first the technique of having me walk with a book on my head and then adding a kind of slinky style where each foot crosses in front of the other. He taught me when to smile, when not to smile, to put my hand on my hip at just the right moment, and to keep it down at my side while posing. I would work hard at that. And then I would go to basketball practice to work on my lay-ups and blocking. I lived in these two worlds. While sitting on the bench during a timeout in a game, I definitely was no beauty queen. At basketball practice, I was still Carrie the Jock. Then I would leave practice—and not tell my teammates where I was going for fear they would make fun of me—and go to see Jim, put that book back on my head, and try to walk like a beauty queen.

  I also had help from Pam Wilson, a great coach and a woman of poise and intelligence, who had mentored me when I was competing as Miss San Diego Teen. She taught me which fork to use with which dish, and other points of etiquette. It was Pam, a veteran of the business, who taught me how to comport myself with confidence in an itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny bikini. She taught me how to stride elegantly in an evening gown, chin up, making eye contact with the judges and with the audience. She taught me to be myself—harder to do than you might think when you’re on a stage or being grilled in an interview—and to use who I was to practical advantage. She taught me to appreciate my height and to stand tall with confidence. She instilled in me the importance of never forgetting who you are, and that what would make me a winner was not trying to become some generic beauty pageant contestant, but to be the best Carrie Prejean I could be. She encouraged me to be proud of my athleticism. When practicing questions at her house, she would remind me, “Carrie, remember who you are, where you came from, and your life experiences up until this point. You can answer any question! Do not be nervous, make them love you!” Those four special words—make them love you—were words I always remembered; they were a reminder that to win I had to bring out the best in myself.

  I owe my instructors a lot, Jim and especially Pam. They brought about a transformation in me. They showed me how to go on stage and be a lady—the woman I was meant to be.

  After winning Miss Greater San Diego Teen, I set my sights on the next level: Miss California Teen. Again, I went all out in my training and preparation. This time I came up just short: I was named first runner-up, which only whetted my appetite for more. From then on, what had been a lark became a passion for winning pageants. It was my new thing.

  But there was a price for my new passion. Every time I didn’t win, I felt bummed out. Failure in anything impelled me to work harder, try harder. But losing always hurt, and there were times when I wondered just how much more I could do. Still, from those low points, I resolved to push myself, always setting the bar just a little bit higher. I told myself I needed to improve in those areas where I displayed weakness. In my mind I would draw the line, and then push myself to live above it.

  It was at this point that I enrolled in Santa Barbara City College, until the culture of endless parties—blenders and Margaritas, wine and beer, and the odor of marijuana in the hallways and in the parks—made me realize that I belonged in a place of order and competition. Pageants gave me that.

  No sooner had I moved back home than Pam Wilson called. I was now old enough to compete for Miss Greater San Diego, the grown-up version of the Miss Greater San Diego Teen pageant. She encouraged me to go for it. Win that, she said, and who knows—you might become Miss California.

  Pam had a warning for me as well. No girl in twenty-six years who had ever won the teen title, as I had done, had gone on to win the Miss Greater San Diego title. And so I thought, being the competitive girl I am, I’ve been off to college. I’ve grown up a little bit. I’ll be the first.

  If I thought I had worked hard before, it was nothing to the investment of training that I put into this competition. One of the great things about sports and competition is that hard work can pay off in tangible results; all the perspiration and determination, the dedication to staying focused on the prize, can lead to victory. Here the competition differed from the world of sports I was use to. I couldn’t rely on teammates to throw me the rebound or pick me up when I got knocked down. I was on my own. Pam always told me, “Don’t worry about the other girls. You are your competition.” And the hard work paid off at last. I competed for the Miss Greater San Diego title—and I won.

  Suddenly, the big time was dangling in front of me. Go on to win Miss California, and I might become Miss USA. But I soon found I was at a whole new level of competition, facing “girls” who were as old as twenty-six. I was still only nineteen years old and had been in the “beauty racket” for less than two years. Some of my competitors had been at it for a dozen years.

  It was at this time that I heard there was a new director of Miss California, the owner of a modeling agency, who was innovative and shaking things up. His name was Keith Lewis. He was running Miss California with his firm, K2 Productions.

  My first impression of Keith was very favorable. Keith is a handsome man who looks a little like the actor Kyle MacLachlan on Desperate Housewives, or maybe Matthew Perry. He is always nattily dressed, in that LA way that is both casual and businesslike. His hair is dark, thick, and always well styled. A tall, slender man, Keith has soft mannerisms belied by a professional demeanor that can be a little cold.

  I soon learned that Keith was an openly gay activist who had been with his boyfriend for seven years. Despite the impression you might have of me from the more hysterical corners of the mainstream media, I took in all this information without judgment. The fact of the matter is, I liked Keith. I think he took to me as his protégé.

  I saw a lot about him to respect. Keith is bright, has top connections in Hollywood, and is obviously a devoted father to his two chi
ldren. That last point, being a good father, counts for a lot in my book, and I hoped his admirable devotion to his children might be reflected in a humane attitude to his contestants. In short, I sized up Keith as a very professional, very LA, entertainment entrepreneur who was going places—and might take me with him.

  It wasn’t long, however, before I began to see another side to Keith. At first I was told that he is known for being “tough.” But another word might also be incompetent. In his few years as director, the pageant has been mired in controversies, lawsuits, and the discontinuation of his relationship with pageant winners. And it didn’t start with me.

  Christina Silva is a lovely girl of Ecuadorian descent from Los Angeles with short, dark hair and flashing eyes. I got to know her well as we competed against each other for the title of Miss California in LA’s Orpheum Theater on the evening of November 25, 2008. Christina later told Good Morning America that on the night she won Miss California, “I saw my family by the balconies, and all I could do was cry and wave at them and say, ‘Thank you God, thank you God.’ It was an amazing, amazing feeling.”

  I watched all this as a second runner-up. Even though I lost, I, like everyone else that night, had tears of joy flowing for Christina. She was a great competitor, a surprise victor, and I knew how much this evening meant for her. The president of Ecuador actually called Christina’s grandmother to congratulate the whole family on this great achievement for all Ecuadorian-Americans. That was the highlight of her reign. Unfortunately, it was her only highlight, because her reign was cut short—not through any fault of her own, but because of Keith.