Four days after she won the competition, Christina and her family were called to the Beverly Hills mansion of Keith’s boyfriend, where Keith sat them down and said, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you are not the winner.” The winner, Keith said, was another girl, Raquel Beezley. There had been, he said, an “accounting error.”
“They never could explain their accounting error,” Christina reported later on her blog, “but told me that if I didn’t give up my crown, my personal integrity could be questioned, and my career could potentially suffer.” She told Good Morning America that Keith had said, “We know you’re faith-based and a woman of integrity, and we know you’re going to do the right thing, right?”
Then they insisted that Christina herself call Raquel and break the news. “It was so bizarre,” Christina said. “They kept saying, ‘You have to tell her. You have to tell her. You are the honorable one.’” She was. Christina made the call to Raquel just thirty minutes after Keith told her she was fired.
The day after the competition, before any of this happened, Keith called me and asked me what I thought of the pageant. I told him honestly that I would never compete in a pageant again. I had worked so hard—as had all the finalists—that I didn’t think I could psyche myself up to do it again, especially because I thought the panel’s judgment was somewhat arbitrary. Christina is a lovely and accomplished girl, and while I was sincerely happy for her and thought she had done well, I didn’t feel she should have won the competition.
Four days later, I received another call from Keith.
“Carrie, we made a mistake,” he said. “We crowned the wrong girl.”
I was flabbergasted. “How does that happen?” I said. “The poor girl won, and you’re going to take it away from her?”
“She didn’t win,” he said. “We can’t let her keep it if she didn’t win.”
Now I felt butterflies in my stomach—they were mixed feelings of disgust at what Keith had done to Christina, giving her the crown only to snatch it away, and anticipation that he was about to tell me I was Miss California. I had to ask, “Did I win?”
“No, but this now means you are first runner-up.”
At this, I had to laugh. I was seeing a pattern in my brief career as a beauty contestant. I had been first runner-up in Miss California Teen, and now Miss California. I wondered, briefly, if I ever went on to the Miss USA contest, would I be first runner-up there too? In pageantry there is a running joke about there being a first-runner-up curse. I seemed to be living it.
But what Keith told me next really set me back on my heels. He said he wanted me to come back to Los Angeles; they were going to reenact the Miss California finale, this time crowning the real winner. I was shocked—how fake, how phony, how utterly humiliating for everyone involved. He wanted me to hold hands with Raquel—it was all a big photo opportunity for the pageant to try to erase what they had done before in crowning Christina. But I didn’t want to be a part of it. Even when Keith offered to buy me a train ticket up to Los Angeles, I politely declined the offer.
I also remember that from that day forward, I became a little suspicious of Keith Lewis. My respect for his professionalism was certainly beginning to fade. And I started to recognize that his reputation for toughness wasn’t about strength and getting the most out of people; it was about being cold in making other people pay for his mistakes. Sometimes people who get a reputation for being tough are really people who are harsh to others but forgiving of themselves. That’s not very admirable. In my book, someone who is tough owns up to his mistakes as a person of character. I no longer saw that in Keith, especially as more details started to spill out about the pageant fiasco.
Keith’s boyfriend’s daughter later told me that she had been put in charge of the tabulations, and that it wasn’t until between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. the night before the pageant that Keith had given her the points the contestants had been awarded. The values he gave her were on a scale of one to five. He never made it clear, however, which end of the scale was for winners and which for losers. Was a “one” good and a “five” bad? Or was it the other way around? In any event, she mixed them up.
After the press interviewed a distraught Christina (who would later file a lawsuit), Keith’s job as director, not to mention his personal investment in the California franchise of the Miss Universe organization, was on the line. There was talk that Paula Shugart, president of the Miss Universe pageant and ultimate boss of us all, would fire Keith.
In retrospect, it might have been better for everyone, Keith included, if she had. Instead, Paula told Keith that if he wanted to continue as director for another year he would have to find someone who would help the credibility of his pageant, someone who could make it run professionally.
The someone Keith found was Shanna Moakler.
Shanna was a first runner-up at Miss USA (as Miss New York), who went on to become Miss USA when the winner herself went on to win Miss Universe. Once linked romantically to Billy Idol, Shanna later had a daughter with Oscar de la Hoya. Splitting from the boxer, she filed a palimony suit against him demanding $62.5 million. Shanna is also known for posing nude as a Playboy model and for her now defunct reality TV show, Meet the Barkers, about her married life with Travis Barker, the heavily tattooed, Mohawk-haired drummer of Blink-182 (he later survived a plane crash that killed four others and left him recovering from severe burns); their apparently stormy marriage (now over) had been the stuff of tabloid headlines. Among the headlines was the story that Shanna and Paris Hilton had been involved in a physical altercation that led to police reports.
It seemed to me that Shanna Moakler might not have the right image to rehabilitate the pageant. At first, I worried that other state pageants might hold it against us that our state’s co-directors were (a) someone who had managed to crown the wrong Miss California and (b) someone whose private life was all too public. Shanna’s reputation was not what anyone would call “good,” and she could in no way be seen as a role model for young women competing for Miss California. I’ll confess, I was almost embarrassed to call her my director. I thought that pageants were about poise, grace, and character—that’s what I had learned from Pam Wilson in the Miss Greater San Diego pageant, and that’s why I found it worthwhile to compete. But I was just beginning to learn that in this world, celebrity counts for more than character. Having been the target of so many smears myself—and being far less than perfect—I don’t like to revel in other people’s misfortune or supposed scandals. I have also learned through painful experience just how much of what appears in print or on blogs can be completely false. But it did take me awhile to get used to the idea of Shanna helping to run the pageant. Later, when I finally decided to compete again, I knew I’d be working with Shanna, and I resolved to maintain a professional, respectful relationship with her.
I have to say, however, from the first moment I met her, Shanna did not come across as the calm, professional person you ask to bring order to a disorderly house. Shanna was a little rough around the edges and didn’t seem to have the sort of punctuality and tact required of a person in a position of authority. For instance, Shanna was more than an hour late for a meeting at orientation at the Miss California pageant. Some of the girls were laughing together, saying Shanna had been too hung over from drinking and partying the night before to turn up on time. Whether or not that was true, it’s not my idea of professionalism.
I thought I was done with pageants, after the Christina Silva fiasco, but Keith was persistent. He had two objectives: he wanted me to sign on with a modeling agency in Los Angeles (this was the agency that later set me up with a photographer who released photos of me to the media, which were meant to undercut my credibility as a Christian woman), and he wanted me to reenter the Miss California Pageant. I had told him firmly that I wasn’t doing pageants anymore, but he kept calling—at least once a month. Each time it was the same: “Please come back.” He knew, he told me, I would make a great Miss California.
He went on to say that I had the makings of a great Miss USA. Two months before the Miss California pageant, he called one last time, telling me that I needed to reconsider. He said he would waive the entry fee—$1,500—if I agreed.
I thought about it, talking to Keith, walking around my Dad’s house with a cordless phone. My modeling career was taking off, I was very busy, and I had been adamant that pageants were behind me. But Keith finally won me over. After all, I thought, why not give it one last shot? Just like the professional athlete who gets lured out of retirement with the hope that this time he might win it all, I thought it was worth a try. This would be my final competition—that was settled—and that meant I needed to leave nothing behind. I would go all out, and this time I would win—I was already visualizing victory—and when that happened I would strive to be the best Miss California they ever had!
Something else came to my attention soon thereafter, though I paid it little mind. Keith was the executive producer of an award-winning documentary that premiered at the 2007 Sundance film festival, For the Bible Tells Me So, which profiles prominent parents of gays and argues that religious groups opposed to homosexuality have got it all wrong. Keith gave the contestants copies and told them to watch it and tell him what they thought of it. The documentary got a lot of play because it came out around the time of the campaign for Proposition 8, a state ballot measure that defined marriage the traditional way, as an exclusive relationship between one man and one woman. California had become ground zero for this debate, because in San Francisco, Mayor Gavin Newsom had created a political firestorm by allowing city hall to marry gay people in defiance of California law. Already in 2000, California voters had overwhelmingly passed Proposition 22, clarifying the state’s constitutional definition of marriage to be exclusively between a man and a woman. But in mid-2008, the California Supreme Court claimed to have discovered a “right” to gay marriage in the state constitution, which obviously no one had ever seen there before. Many Californians began to worry that a likely result of this “right” would be the loss of tax-exemptions for churches if they refused to marry same-sex couples, and the mandating of same-sex values in public schools. The words of Newsom haunted the political landscape: Gay marriage is coming, he said, “whether you like it or not.”
Californians didn’t like it. They especially didn’t like having an issue that had such deeply religious and social dimensions being decided for them by judges.
Finally, in November 2008, after a long and testy campaign fought out in public protests, debates, and controversial radio and television ads, California voters went to the polls to vote on a constitutional amendment defining marriage as between a man and a woman. My view was the same as the majority of Californians who voted on the issue. My pastor, Miles McPherson, vocally supported Proposition 8—and did so calmly, with a sense of compassion, and without a trace of ill will. I liked to think that I held my own beliefs the same way. I believed that the traditional definition of marriage should not be changed. By the same token, I am not bothered by the idea of gay people choosing to live their lives together as they see fit—just as Keith and his boyfriend did—just don’t call it marriage.
I was not then, nor am I now, aspiring to be the next Anita Bryant. I am comfortable with all God’s children. Civil unions between gay people, at least as a matter of law, have always been fine with me. If asked, I would have told you that I believed that gay couples should have visiting rights in the hospital, just like everybody else. But like most Californians and a certain candidate for president from Illinois, I believed then and I believe now that marriage should be a legally recognized sacrament between a man and a woman. If that makes me a bigot, so is Barack Obama.
But in the fall of 2008, Proposition 8, though it was something that all Californians had to have opinions on, was far from the forefront of my mind. My attention was tightly focused on winning Miss California. I wasn’t researching the political and religious history of marriage, the rulings of the California Supreme Court, or the historical and judicial debates over California’s constitution. I was concentrating on how to win the swimsuit and evening gown competitions, and how to nail the final question of the Miss California Pageant.
The big day came, and once again, I kept making the early eliminations. I made the top fifteen, then the top ten, and finally the top five. Would I be a runner-up yet again? I was ready to win and had concentrated on sharpening my focus through every round of the competition. I also did my best to help my roommate. On the day of our interviews, she was really sick and couldn’t even get out of bed. I almost didn’t make it to my own interview, because I spent an hour coaxing her out of bed and then helping her get dressed and apply her make-up. We both just barely made it to our interviews. Unfortunately, she later ended being hospitalized for her illness, though I’m glad to say she recovered, with her mom providing her with tremendous support.
The last competition was, of course, the on-stage question segment. I was asked about leadership—a pretty dull topic, but at least I wasn’t asked about world peace.
I answered that while I was at San Diego Christian College I had had the chance to mentor other girls. I specifically mentioned how we kept each other accountable with the Lord. It was a direct and honest answer, and in retrospect, perhaps a risky one. But as I gave it, I saw not a flicker of resistance from the judges.
As it turned out, it was a winning answer, at least with judges at the state level. In fact, the judges said they loved my answer; they loved me talking about the importance of faith. They told me they had me pegged from the beginning as the likely winner, that they thought I stood out from the competition—which was flattering. And they said, “When you spoke about the Lord in that last question, we loved you!”
I had never prepared so hard for a pageant in my life, and I knew how much of the credit belonged to Pam Wilson, my pageant coach and mentor. I wept with pride and joy for her, for me, and for God’s blessings, when they bestowed the sash on me, handed me the bouquet, and crowned me Miss California.
I was ecstatic. Words cannot describe my joy at winning the crown. I lived the dream of some girls that night: I slept with my crown and sash next to my bed. In the morning, I drove home to San Diego, just in time to attend chapel at my college, where I was invited to speak. I told my fellow students that I gave all the glory and honor to God, and that I hoped I could do my part to uphold his glory in this new public role I had been given. I told them I felt sure that God had chosen me to represent not only the state of California, but him.
I knew that role might grow. As Miss California, I was our state’s representative to the Miss USA pageant, and already at the celebration dinner after the crowning, everyone was talking to me about winning Miss USA.
I couldn’t wait to go to Las Vegas and compete.
CHAPTER FOUR
Planet Hollywood
I suddenly had a team, a family. Or so I thought. I had Keith and Shanna; I had Pam, who helped me all along the way; and Debbie Dodge, who guided me through fashion and wardrobe (Pam and Debbie were my chief counselors); I had an accent modification coach (Keith said I sounded like I was from the Midwest, and I needed to talk like Miss California—whatever that meant); and I still had Jim, my walking instructor. Keith was ecstatic I had won. He treated me as his pet project, the girl he was molding and shaping to win the heart of the country—and perhaps, as Miss Universe, the world.
But my helpers could only do so much. It was up to me to close the deal for the next level of competition, to win Miss USA. And so I worked on the mind game, the mental and emotional preparation that I think is the key to winning at anything. I worked hard, I visualized victory, and I told myself that nothing could keep me from going all the way and becoming Miss USA.
While I was preparing, a lot of friends, well-wishers, and people knowledgeable about the pageant told me I was the frontrunner, the “girl to beat.” Some might have considered this bad luck. Not me. It fed my desire to win. I
convinced myself that if I acted like I was already Miss USA, my inner confidence would be seen by others, and it would carry me through.
But there is a lot more happening in a contest like this than just emotional preparation. I worked out as if I were training for the state basketball finals instead of a beauty pageant. I kept studying the newspapers and watching FOX News with intense interest. I somehow expected, as I told my dad, that I might get a question with a little political twist. He thought I might be asked: “Do you think America is ready for its first female president?” We thought of every conceivable question—except the one put to me by Perez Hilton.
I could feel the stakes getting higher. The fact that the competition would be in Las Vegas seemed appropriate. I had invested months of my life and my pride in what was turning out to be one big gamble.
The media scrutiny was far more than anything I had experienced in previous pageants. Girls from big states, like Texas, Florida, and my own California, got tons of attention—no doubt because of the big media markets in those states. I tried my best to answer questions from the press with calm confidence. I tried not to act cocky, but inside I convinced myself that all this attention was preparing me to win. It probably helped my chances that most of the judges were from Hollywood. I thought it might give me an advantage that they were acquainted with Shanna, since she was associated with the Hollywood scene. I even remember Keith Lewis telling me, “Carrie, you’re the favorite—you’re going to win this thing!”
As Keith showered me with confidence-building compliments, Shanna inadvertently undermined my confidence. It started out as sort of a good cop, bad cop routine—though pretty soon they double-teamed me as bad cops. Shanna blasted off many emails telling me that this or that about me was just not right. She wanted my hair platinum blonde. And she told me I needed work done on my face. “You need restalyne for those smile lines,” she said, as if a 21-year-old could really have facial lines that required attention.
Still Standing: The Untold Story of My Fight Against Gossip, Hate, and Political Attacks Page 4