Miss Ex-Yugoslavia
Page 26
One of those days at the airport, thinking about the things that mattered to me, I decided I might as well make a film about people traveling away from and toward each other again. That weekend, during my shift at the clinic, Peter pinned up a new flyer on the noticeboard, and there it was: the perfect setting in which to examine immigration, war, diaspora, and, it turned out, boobs.
In my language, beside a photo of a woman wearing not much, the flyer advertised the Miss Ex-Yugoslavia competition. “Young women, sign up!” it encouraged members of our community. I knew that young women from the Yugo club would be looking at this with interest, and maybe some of Peter’s clients would attend. The flyer promised that “The winner gets a return ticket to ex-Yu!”—to whichever part of that former country she wanted to visit. And rather than picturing my terrible recent trip to Belgrade, I saw myself once again as a five-year-old splashing naked in the Croatian shallows where we used to go on holidays before the wars. Before I could think too much about it, I sent in two photos of myself, filled out the admission form, and added a request to record the event for my film school project.
Epilogue: Miss Ex-Yugoslavia
Dressed in a pink bikini and high heels, Nina from Sarajevo opens the door of the dressing room a crack and we contestants stick our heads out. Through the cloud of cigarette smoke, we see people in the audience holding hands, dancing in a circle called the kolo while folk music blares. Groups of men, their arms around each other’s shoulders, sway from side to side, singing along to the music at the top of their lungs. A belly dancer makes her way around the room, gathering tips in her belt and bra. It’s the last part of the competition, the swimsuit portion, and for the first time, Nina seems nervous. “I don’t wanna do this. I do not want to do this.”
“Stick together! Stick together!” Tina, the blond Slovenian, says like we’re a group of schoolchildren, and we all grab one another’s hands and file out to the side of the stage. Wearing a bikini with high heels is a very unnatural combination, especially at night, in a club, where everyone else is fully dressed. Before each of us goes onstage, we look back at the rest of the girls desperately, like a lamb going to the slaughter. “You can do it,” we whisper to one another, then cheer each girl as she takes the stage.
Nina, regaining her calm, stands in front of the judges in her fragile glory: her thin limbs, her visible ribs. Her foot that was injured by a bomb shows no signs of trauma, her confident gait gives no indication that anything was ever wrong. She comes off the stage elated.
Next up is Zora, from Montenegro, her dark hair cascading. With her youthful glow, she walks to the end of the runway and stops. Zora is wearing a wrap-skirt around her waist, and with one movement, she rips it off, revealing a small bikini bottom underneath. This surprise reveal of flesh sends the crowd into even wilder applause than when Nina made her touching comment about Yugoslavian unity earlier in the night. The judges nod approvingly as Zora tosses her hair over her shoulder and stalks back down the runway.
When it’s my turn, in my clumsy heels and not much else, I am lifted by the roar of the audience onto the stage. I am buoyed by the cheers. I pause in this surreal nearly-naked-as-the-day-I-was-born moment and muster a sassy shoulder-shrug and a smile for the ex-Yugo diaspora. And the next thing I know, I’ve done it, and I am climbing back down the stairs, feeling euphoric.
We run backstage to put on cocktail dresses as the judges make their final decision, and once we are called back to the stage, we go on together, sharing the spotlight for the first time. We’ve been given a sugary cocktail each, and we stand sipping, as the hosts, Bane and Monica, lead the audience in a round of applause for all of us.
Bane addresses us, sincerely. “Dear girls. You are all equally nice! And not only outside, inside as well.” There are nods of agreement from the audience.
“And now we’re ready to announce the runner-up,” Monica says, pulling out a small, plastic crown.
“It’s Nina!” Barely hiding her disappointment at not winning, Nina puts her drink down on the ground, and lets Monica place the crown on her head. Slowly, she walks to the end of the runway and pauses be- fore the crowd. Though most people are cheering, there are some shouts from those who believe Nina deserved to win the whole competition. Later, there will be speculation about the judging panel, which contained no Bosnians. People will assert that the so-called “unified” ex-Yugoslavian event was biased, tilted to favor certain nationalities over others—the same complaints we have always had about one another. There are people yelling “Shut up!” to each other in the various dialects of ex-Yugoslavia, as the crowd settles once more for the big announcement.
“And now, for the winner of the Miss Ex-Yugoslavia competition . . . Zora!” Upon hearing her name announced, Zora hands her drink to Tina and then puts her hands over her mouth, in a delayed shock reaction. Just as she’s finished parading her sash and crown, we are about to file offstage, when Monica stops us.
“But wait, there’s more!”
“We have here a prize for Miss Personality!” Bane says, chuckling.
“The prize for Miss Personality goes to So-oooo-fija from Serbia!”
I choke on my cocktail as the crowd roars. I have just won a personality prize at a beauty competition, and it’s not even a joke. I look over to the judges, to see if they’re genuinely smiling or taking the piss. I suspect they decided to give me a prize because I know them personally, because I’ve clearly tried so hard with my hair, and possibly because my mother is their counselor. But I don’t care. I’ve won something.
Monica gestures to the runway and I walk down it one last time, as Bane announces grandly, “Sofija’s prize is a hundred-dollar voucher to Just Jeans! Sofija, you’re gonna have some niiiiiiice jeans.”
The final scene of my student film shows me, aged twenty-two, accepting my award, and looking out at my community. In the audience my sister is cheering for me, as is my mother and her clients, the builder who renovated our bathroom, and the man with the groin cyst. Maybe my dad’s ghost is there too, laughing at the absurdity of his daughter onstage wearing a plastic crown, in front of a crowd of ex-Yugoslavians.
Crowned Miss Personality of a country that doesn’t exist, I shrug and turn away.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my mother and my sister for generously allowing me to put our lives on paper. Thank you for reliving and sharing; for reminding, correcting, and supporting me.
Thank you to the experts who worked on this memoir, who were patient, wise, and encouraging through this strange process. You made this book so much better: my agent, Marya Spence; my editor, Daniella Wexler; and my publisher, Judith Curr, and her team at Atria Books. Thank you also to Stephanie Mendoza, Jackie Jou, Suzanne Donahue, Isolde Sauer, and Albert Tang. Thank you, Clare Mao.
Thank you, Kimberly Burns, for your PR expertise.
Thank you to Cate Blake and the Penguin Random House team in Australia.
Thank you to the ex-Yugoslavian community (those who feature in this book, and those who do not). To the people in the diaspora, as well as those who stayed. My friends and family, whose stories inspire me.
I want to acknowledge the people who died or suffered in the wars, and those who still suffer.
And the people who have died whose names I know: Lola, Ksenija, Milan, Tim, Misko, Dada, and Marko.
Thank you to my other families:
The Moth—the wonderful people who encouraged me to tell stories onstage when I first moved to New York. Thank you for sending me to new places and showing me that people want to hear what I have to say. It gave me the confidence to write this. Thanks to story whizzes for working on stories with me (Jenifer Hixson, Kate Tellers, Meg Bowles, and Catherine Burns—I’m so lucky!).
Women of Letters—Michaela McGuire, Marieke Hardy, and Trish Nelson, who gave me the opportunity to host an extraordinary literary salon, where I’m inspired each month by incredible women.
The Wing—speaking of women, thank yo
u to The Wing for providing me with a space to work and socialize, surrounded by New York’s most talented.
Thank you to the team at Joe’s Pub, for the support over the last three years, as well as taking a chance on our latest immigration venture, This Alien Nation.
Those who read this book in detail: Lorelei Vashti, whose support buoys me and whose opinion I value so much. To Harry Angus and Luke Walker for their trusted opinions. To Ivan Berger and Josh Strong for their expertise.
To friends, family, and colleagues who have read things, or given advice, included me in their projects, chatted about immigration, and inspired me: Lauren Cerand, Mona Chalabi, Sophie Cunningham, Maša Dakić, Sarah Darmody, Imogen Dewey, Noah Erlich, Xochitl Gonzales, Maeve Higgins, Abeer Hoque, Matt Huynh, Benedikt Josef, Elmo Keep, Susan Kent, Daniel Kitson, Hanna Kopel, Benjamin Law, Angela Ledgerwood, Sandi Marx, Michaela McGuire, Alicia Mitic, Abbas Mousa, Trish Nelson, Biljana Novaković, Bojana Novaković, Sam Pang, Liam Pieper, Milica Popović, Jon Ronson, John Safran, Matthew Sandager, Ronnie Scott, Neboysha Simic, Mila Stanojević, Estelle Tang, and Danusia Trevino.
Thank you to the Millay Colony for letting me stay and dream there for a while.
Thank you, Payton Turner, for the cover and the little illustrations that I love so much!
Thank you to Michael, whose love and encouragement have always been unwavering, and much needed. Thank you for being an excellent reader and thinker, as well as all the other things you do that make me so fortunate.
About the Author
SOFIJA STEFANOVIC is a Serbian-Australian writer and storyteller based in Manhattan. She hosts the popular literary salon Women of Letters New York and This Alien Nation—a monthly celebration of immigration. She’s a regular storyteller with The Moth. Her writing has appeared in the New York Times, the Guardian, and Elle, among others. Learn more at SofijaStefanovic.com.
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Interior design by Amy Trombat
Jacket illustration by Payton Cosell Turner
Author photograph © Michael Carr
Line art by Payton Cosell Turner
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Control Number: 2017045539
ISBN 978-1-5011-6574-0
ISBN 978-1-5011-6576-4 (ebook)