“I want to apologize to our sponsors,” Shanna twittered. “Ms. Prejean’s opinions are her own and do NOT stand for the Miss California family.” But who said I was standing for the “Miss California family”? Perez asked for my opinion—and I gave him an honest and respectful answer. But apparently when you’re asked your opinion in the Miss USA competition, the judges are not really interested in your opinion. They want you to give the politically correct answer they believe themselves. And the game is, if you believe differently, you lie, you do anything to appease the judge and win, even if it costs you your integrity. That wasn’t a game I was going to play.
But at the time, I felt devastated. Something terrible had happened. My pageant directors had turned against me; I was the subject of a torrent of abuse on the internet; and I still could not see how I had done anything to merit such an outpouring of anger, hate, and apologies on my behalf. Was it really so offensive to say, Well, I think it’s great that Americans are able to choose one or the other. We live in a land that you can choose same-sex marriage or opposite marriage. And you know what, in my country, in my family, I think that I believe that marriage should be between a man and a woman, no offense to anybody out there. But that’s how I was raised, and that’s how I believe that it should be—between a man and a woman.
I went to bed really upset. I cried a little and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
As it turned out, I didn’t need a wake-up call. At dawn, the phone started ringing nonstop. The first call was from Billy Bush. He was polite and asked me what I thought of the pageant and about the controversy, and I tried to respond calmly and diplomatically. More calls came, mostly from the media. I was beginning to sense how big a story my little answer had become. But I had to focus on more practical things, like getting home with all my stuff.
I had brought three weeks’ worth of wardrobe, which I now had to get back home to San Diego somehow. I assumed the Miss California organization would help me with transportation and moving my wardrobe. I called Keith Lewis five times, but he wouldn’t pick up. Finally, after I had left a couple of messages, I got a hold of him, and I said I needed a ride home.
“Keith, all my luggage is here,” I said. “I need a ticket home.”
“Carrie, I’m still very upset by what you said.”
“I don’t know what happened, Keith. Can we talk about this later? I just need a ride home.”
He told me he would pay for my plane ticket but not my luggage. The bill for a wardrobe filling six huge suitcases would be by far the greatest expense, money I just didn’t have. Being a member of the Miss California “family” apparently didn’t count for much, because no other contestant was treated this way. They were all professionally managed and sent on their way home with planning and care.
I looked to Pam for advice. After all, I was told that when Perez asked his question, she began to shake her head in astonishment. Unfortunately, a health emergency forced Pam to rush to see a family friend. I also understood that Pam was in a difficult position. She had always been a wonderful advocate to me, but as the person who runs the Miss Greater San Diego pageant, Pam needed to maintain a good relationship with Keith over the long term. She really wasn’t in a position to take sides, if sides had to be taken.
Pam did, however, graciously arrange for Debbie Dodge and her husband, Skip, to drive my clothes home. For that, I was very thankful. She had (literally) lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. With my luggage off, I dressed casually in an old blouse, blue jeans, and Ugg boots. I caught a shuttle to take me to the airport, where I would go to San Diego and try to forget the last twenty-four hours. On the way to the airport, my cell phone rang. It was Paula Shugart, head of Miss Universe. I was taken aback. In the pageant world, this is like getting a call from the White House.
“Carrie, I am getting all these phone calls,” she said. “Larry King wants to interview you; there is the Today Show, Good Morning America, all these shows.” She added, “Keith has given you the ‘okay’ to go.”
That’s when I realized the magnitude of the tsunami that was about to hit me. I got another call from Roger Neal, Hollywood public relations honcho for Keith, just as I was about to step out of the shuttle. (Roger played a big role in getting Keith through the Christina Silva fiasco the year before.)
“You need to get on the next plane to New York,” Roger said. “I need to talk to you about messaging.” He already had me lined up to appear on the Today Show, MSNBC, Access Hollywood, and Inside Edition.
I told Roger I didn’t want to go to New York. I had already sent all my clothes to San Diego. I had no makeup or makeup kit. I was in jeans and a sweatshirt.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said, offering me a clothing allowance. So I agreed to go to New York.
I asked the shuttle driver to take me back to Planet Hollywood. There is a mall nearby, and I needed to find some appropriate clothes quick. I ran through a clothing store, picked out a skirt, a cute top, and pair of shoes, and rushed back to a shuttle to take me to the airport to catch the next flight to New York, which Roger had booked for me. I was rattled as I talked to Roger after clearing airport security. My phone was almost out of power. I remember sitting on the airport floor charging my phone, all alone, about to board a plane to New York. I knew this was a flight that could change my life forever—and not necessarily for the best. I was in a national controversy I had never sought, never wanted, never dreamed of.
“Carrie, I need you to focus,” Roger said. “I need you to remember this. Carrie, a lot of people are mad at you. Keith, Shanna, and the sponsors are all mad at you. Everybody’s mad at you. So this is your opportunity to make it up to the gay community. I understand your point of view. Right now, you can’t think of you, this is about saving the Miss California brand. Don’t talk about Prop 8, don’t talk about faith or God or anything.” Part of saving the Miss California brand, he told me, was not ruining his daughter Chelsea’s chances of winning Miss Teen USA. (She was Miss California Teen 2009.)
He emailed me some guidelines for my “messaging.”
This is what he told me to say:I believe that every state should decide what’s right regarding their state regarding same-sex marriage. Recently in California a majority of voters upheld the definition of marriage as only between a man and a woman. Courthouse licenses marriages. Each state has the right to set up the laws of who can get married. California is a diverse state. One of the Miss California USA platforms is regarding our great state’s diversity.
Regarding the insulting things Perez Hilton said—I was hurt by them, I stand by my reputation as he is obviously standing by his.
Dating Michael Phelps—Based on all this controversy, I don’t know if I will be able to date anyone.
Regarding offensive questions—That question is so offensive it doesn’t deserve a [comment].
The fact that Keith Lewis is gay—My question was not about gay people. My question dealt with same-sex marriage not same-sex couples. I have a lot of gay friends, who I love and respect.
Prop 8—I did not lobby for Proposition 8. The word marriage as I have been taught was defined between a man and a woman.
If you don’t have an answer to a question—I don’t know enough about the subject matter to get specific. I know about my own state and the struggles we just went thru.
Roger wanted me to reinforce the first part of my answer, and buck the whole question back to the right of states to regulate marriage. He wanted me to punt.
I got on the airplane and took my seat in first class, feeling out of place in my jeans and Ugg boots.
The pageant was Sunday night, this was late Monday morning, and in about eighteen hours I would be sitting across from Matt Lauer answering questions about the most controversial social issue of the day. Miss USA always gets interviewed a few days after she wins. I would actually be going on Today before her.
I took another look at Roger Neal’s statement. It was the handiwork of a professional s
pinmeister, but I didn’t like it. It was designed to deflect, not to address. It didn’t sound like me.
Once we were airborne, I began to panic, quietly. I tried praying, but felt as if no one was listening.
Lord, what I am supposed to do? I thought of catching the next plane home. I wiped my eyes with the airline cocktail napkins, and I had a little meltdown. Lord, what have I gotten myself into?
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Wing and a Prayer
One of the businessmen in first class kept giving me funny looks. Finally, he had to say something.
“Young lady, why are you crying?”
I told him I had been in a beauty pageant and had given what I thought was a perfectly straightforward answer to a judge’s question. Now all hell had broken loose, and I was on this flight to New York only because I had to face hostile questions from about a dozen TV shows, and all I wanted to do was go home.
His eyes lit up.
“I know you!” he said. “You were at the Miss USA!”
“Yes, I was.”
“You’re that girl.”
I nodded.
“Good for you,” he said.
Then I told him about the media interviews that had been set up for me. He asked if someone had prepared me for such a big event. I showed him the memo from Roger Neal.
He studied it carefully, and then handed me the memo and said, “How do you feel about this approach?”
“I’m just not comfortable saying all this. It’s not me. It has an apologetic tone, but what do I have to apologize for?”
He introduced himself. His name was Sean. He asked me to elaborate on my opinion about marriage, and then he started arguing with me. At first, I was troubled—I wondered if Sean was a very opinionated man just looking for someone to argue with. Then I realized he was playing devil’s advocate—he was toughening me up for my big day of media interviews.
Sean pushed back on every point I made.
After a while, he said, “Carrie, you convinced me. You did nothing wrong. Just go out there and be yourself.”
I appreciated Sean’s help. As we landed in New York late that night, however, I felt my sense of panic return. There was one bit of good news: my mother had gone ahead of me. She would be waiting for me at the hotel, a strong shoulder for me to lean on. I needed to find her. I also needed to recharge my cell phone (I hadn’t been able to fully charge it before I got on the plane) so I could catch up on changes to the next day’s schedule.
Now that I was in New York and half a day from appearing on practically every major news outlet in the country, the worry really set in. On the flight across the country, I kept reminding myself of a passage in 2 Timothy that says that “all who desire to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted.” I also remembered a passage shortly after that saying, No one came to my support, but everyone deserted me. May it not be held against them. But the Lord stood at my side and gave me strength, so that through me the message might be fully proclaimed and all the Gentiles might hear it. And I was delivered from the lion’s mouth. The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack, and will bring me safely to the heavenly kingdom.
I hoped so!
I prayed in the JFK terminal as I had never prayed before.
“Lord,” I quietly asked, leaning against a wall with my eyes shut fast, “let me know if I am doing the right thing. Give me a sign.”
My prayer completed, I looked for somewhere to plug in my phone and find out just how long a list of interviews I had for the next day. I searched for an outlet in the luggage area and found one in a dingy corner. Immediately, text and voice mail messages began rising like popcorn, filling screen after screen. One text message in particular stood out.
“This is Miles McPherson from The Rock Church. I will be in New York City 10:30 Monday night, landing at JFK. Call me girl, I’m proud of you.”
I fell to my knees and said aloud, “Thank you, Jesus, thank you!” Of all the people in the world, God had sent me my pastor. I had been going to The Rock for four years and, while I had loved Miles’s sermons, I had never talked to him one-on-one. Still, I had always deeply admired him. Miles was always encouraging us not to be lukewarm Christians, but to stand for something, to do something. People milling about the terminal gave me weird glances as I sobbed and prayed. “Another nut case in New York,” they might have thought. But I didn’t care.
As many times as I had heard Miles preach, I still was a bit in awe of him. Would he really see me? Support me? I finally got Miles on the phone around 2:00 a.m., as I was being driven to the hotel, and heard that deep, melodic voice I had heard so many times before from the pulpit. He knew who I was, that I attended his church, and what had happened.
By complete coincidence, Miles was in New York to attend a board meeting. He and his lovely wife Debbie were also looking forward to visiting relatives. He said he had time to see me before I went on to my battery of shows.
He asked me where I was staying, and we soon realized my hotel was only eleven blocks from his. He told me to call him again after I got to my hotel. I didn’t get to my room until 3:00 a.m. He was not irritated to be called again. This time Miles asked me to run through what had happened. I told him about my concern at trying to mealy-mouth my way out of the controversy, as Roger and Keith wanted me to do. I told him about the advice Sean had given me.
We walked through the issue and my beliefs, point-by-point. Miles thought of every conceivable question the media might ask me.
He also asked me, “Are you willing to lose the Miss California crown? The people who are confronting you are vicious and will stop at nothing. Are you ready to pay that price?”
I said yes.
Our conversation shifted to my first media appearance.
“What time are they coming to get you?” he asked.
My limo was coming at 6:00 in the morning.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m going to get a little sleep. I will be at your hotel at 5:30 tomorrow morning and then we will go to the Today Show together.” Then he said words that reached to the quick of my soul.
“Carrie, I just trust you.”
Like most Americans, Miles McPherson had caught my answer two days before on the top of the news. At first, he did not recognize me—a tribute to my dyed hair and makeup. In fact, Miles later told me that when he saw my answer on TV, he said to himself, “I wish she went to our church.”
The next day, the flight Miles and Debbie were on to New York from the West Coast was diverted from JFK to suburban Newburgh Airport. While sitting on the tarmac, Miles checked his cell phone.
There was one message: “We have a situation at the church.”
“Every time I see that,” Miles later told me, “my heart stops.”
He called the church and was told that it had to do with Miss California.
“I don’t even know Miss California,” Miles said.
“She goes to The Rock and she was told to go to New York to face the media,” his assistant told him. “Someone called and asked us to pray for her.”
Miles tracked the call to my friend, Juliana. She told Miles what had happened to me and how distraught I was. He was concerned for me, especially being a 21-year-old sent off alone to make so many appearances on national television on such a hot topic with so little preparation.
I couldn’t have asked for a better friend or a pastor with a deeper connection to how a person’s life can take a tortuous path. While playing for the Chargers, Miles had gotten deep into marijuana and cocaine. One day, after his second season—April 12, 1984—he just stopped doing drugs and other sinful activities he now labels as “drama.”
Debbie, he said, was just “trying to get me to be a boyfriend.” Miles had bigger ideas than that. He became her husband in September 1984. Miles started going to Bible study with teammates. When he wasn’t in training, he ministered in prisons, in high schools, and at special Christian events. After helping a few teenagers work to overcome dr
ug habits, Miles started a Bible study for troubled teens. Soon, Miles had as many as thirty kids making regular trips to his house for Bible study. Some were kids trying to get off crystal meth, others were trying to get themselves out of gangs.
Then something happened to Miles that he compares to my own recent career jolt. In April 1986, the Chargers cut him.
Like me as a pageant winner, Miles was not ready to give up on the path he was on.
“I had had my best games against the Denver Broncos,” Miles says.
“So I called up the Denver coach and told him I was a free agent. He said he’d love to try me out. He called back the next day, and said, ‘It’s the strangest thing; they won’t let me sign you.’ This was really bad news. Signing up someone is a light commitment to just take them to camp. And who better to bring to the Denver camp than a guy who was a Charger, a rival?”
And yet Miles was not wanted, even as a prospect.
“God was saying, ‘I got something different for you,’” Miles said.
“But I kept pursuing it. Finally, a general manager told me that it is time in your life to move on. At the time, I took it as very condescending. I was only twenty-six years old, and I didn’t want to walk away.”
With football season over, and his future in the NFL looking bleak, Miles started doing ministry full time. He went to his pastor and told him about all the kids meeting regularly in his house. But if he was going to be a full-time minister, he would have to be paid.
“How much do you need?” the pastor asked.
“I need $1,500 a month just to make my house payments,” Miles said. It seemed to him like a reasonable offer. After all, as an NFL player, Miles had been making $9,000 a game.
The senior pastor offered Miles $500 a month—and he took it. From that humble start, Miles built his Rock.
Miles later told me that he was standing in his hotel room at around 3:00 a.m. next to his open suitcase, saying to himself, “I thought the Prop 8 drama was over. But she goes to the church, she’s twenty-one, she’s eleven blocks away, okay God, what do you want me to do? It took five minutes to get there.”
Still Standing: The Untold Story of My Fight Against Gossip, Hate, and Political Attacks Page 8