Finally, at long last, the judges were ready. Gary read the results: Fourth runner-up, Miss Alabama. Third runner-up, Miss California. Second runner-up, Miss Oklahoma.
There were seven of us remaining, and only two of the seven would be picked. So near and yet so far.
And then he called my name and, a beat later, Maya Walker, Miss Colorado. The final two.
As I was walking to the center of the stage I saw Kaye Lani standing in the corner. Our eyes met, and she gave me the tiniest nod. I didn’t think she knew anything (and that turned out to be the case), but I took the nod as an encouragement—her way of saying it was going to be okay.
To the side I was aware of a flurry of white—my hometown fans waving their white hankies. The idea of the hankies came from the Minnesota Twins, who had won the World Series in 1987. The team had Homer Hankies that the fans would wave, so we produced some for the pageant, and my family and friends from Minnesota waved them wildly every time my name was called.
Maya and I hugged each other, and she cried emotionally, “Oh, Gretchen!” The only thing I could think of to say was, “I can’t believe they picked the two shortest ones.” We were both stunned.
Gary played it out. “Now there are two—just two,” he announced solemnly. “I mentioned earlier tonight ninety thousand are involved in the pageant, and it’s come down to two. One of you is going to receive a $17,000 scholarship. You will also be Miss America’s standby. First runner-up is still pretty sensational.” He paused. “But now one of you is going to have her life changed dramatically, forever, from this moment on it will never be the same.”
Another pause. Then, “The first runner-up . . . is Maya Walker. Miss America is Gretchen Carlson!”
I burst into tears and mouthed “thank you” to the judges.
People always ask me what I felt at the moment I became Miss America. I wish I could say. It was all a blur of emotion. Later I heard criticism because I crossed my arms and it was interpreted as “hugging myself”—as if I was full of myself. Really. Truth is, the sense of relief was so intense—almost impossible to describe. But that was just the beginning of how my every little move would be analyzed to death.
Before I could even catch my breath, someone put a rose-covered stick in my hands, which I later learned was a scepter. Shows you what a novice I was. Kaye Lani was there behind me pinning the crown on my head. By the way, that crown doesn’t go on so easily, and there’s no guarantee that it will stay on. In 1970, when Phyllis George won, her crown fell off her head right on the stage, rhinestones splattering all over the place. She walked down the runway holding it in her hand! After that they wisely sewed in elastic pieces in the shape of a T so that the crown could easily be bobby-pinned into place. However, when I won Miss Minnesota they used duct tape. When the outgoing Miss Minnesota went to put the crown on my head she accidentally stuck it too far down on my forehead instead of on the top of my head. I couldn’t help giggling coming down the runway and imagining what it looked like.
I started walking down the runway, waving and crying, and the Miss America theme song was playing. I felt my mascara running in rivers down my cheeks. (Waterproof mascara, anyone?) Halfway down, I spotted BeBe Shopp, the first Miss America from Minnesota, 1948, now in her sixties, running alongside the runway, cheering. It was incredibly emotional seeing her. I grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. (The other Miss America from Minnesota, Dorothy Benham, 1977, would have been there, but she was giving birth to her daughter that night in a Connecticut hospital.)
It was all lovely and romantic, but behind the scenes there were other considerations. For one thing there was a Disney World commercial to shoot. The “I’m Going to Disney World” spot was an advertising campaign that first aired after the 1987 Super Bowl. New York Giants quarterback Phil Simms was shown stopping in the middle of the celebration to answer an announcer’s question, “Where are you going now that you’ve won the Super Bowl?” His response: “I’m going to Disney World!” They made a deal to do the commercial at Miss America, and we were all coached in advance. Of course I forgot as I was coming back up the runway, and they were yelling at me, “Gretchen Carlson, you’ve just become Miss America, where are you going now?” Finally I realized I was supposed to say, “I’m going to Disney World!” It was the last time the commercial was ever aired at the Miss America pageant, although it’s still used in football and baseball, and Nancy Kerrigan did the spot with her Olympic silver medal for ice skating in 1994.
When I finally got backstage, two nice ladies took charge of me and led me to a chair. When I sat down, the first thing they asked was if I wanted smelling salts. I thought that was so quaint. I had heard of people getting smelling salts when they fainted. Wow! I didn’t feel like I was going to faint—at least not yet. I casually said I would pass on the kind offer.
Meanwhile, they were fluttering around me, fixing my eye makeup, because my next stop was the press room.
They took me down, and what seemed like a hundred photographers mobbed me, yelling, “Miss America, here, here, over here!” I was in a fog, and I had no idea who they were talking to until I realized, “Oh, yeah, that’s me. Miss America is me!” Then I went on to a room full of reporters. I stepped up to the podium, and they barraged me with questions. No surprise, I didn’t have prepared remarks. I babbled thanks to everyone, and fortunately it didn’t last too long. I was completely beside myself by that point.
Finally, my family crowded into the room. Dad was crying, of course, and Mom was beaming. She hugged me. “I knew you would do it!” she cried, and she really meant it. She had known all along. Kurt and Molly were at the pageant, but I couldn’t see them yet. I later learned that they were in the bathroom crying their eyes out. My grandfather was there with his second wife, smiling proudly and calling out, “Sparkles!” Kris came up and threw her arms around me. We were both sobbing. It was a very emotional moment.
Afterward, with the clock ticking toward 1:00 a.m., I was swept away through the back kitchen of the casino, still wearing my gown and crown and clutching my scepter. They brought me to a reception of all the contestants and their families, where I spoke briefly before getting into a limo to ride back to my hotel. I was staying at Resorts International, which was owned by Merv Griffin. Merv, who was excited that I was staying at his hotel, acted quickly, along with his companion Eva Gabor, to set up a pizza party for me and my family in the presidential suite, and they joined us there. Behind the scenes, all of my things had been moved from my regular room, and I’d be sleeping in that lavish suite for my first night as Miss America. Not that I got much sleep.
By the time everyone left, it was 3:00 a.m., and I was dead tired but running on adrenaline. I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “Oh my gosh. You did it.” I thought back to the previous morning when I’d been a nervous wreck, and now it was all over, and I felt indescribably thrilled. But I was also thinking, somewhat petrified, “Now what?” I’d been so focused on getting there that I hadn’t given any thought to what the year was actually going to be. It stretched ahead like a great, terrifying, exhilarating adventure.
Chapter 5
American Womanhood 101
What is the first thing Miss America does when she wakes up the morning after the pageant? Jumps in the Atlantic Ocean! I’m not kidding.
I’d heard about this tradition and seen the pictures in newspapers of previous Miss Americas jumping in the waves, but I hadn’t really thought about it. Now I had to do my first big photo shoot and it was only 7:30 in the morning. I put on shorts and a top and went out to the boardwalk where a gang of photographers was waiting for me. It was a chilly September morning, and I shivered.
I immediately felt insecure. The photographers were gruff, ordering me to leap in the waves, which might have been a fine idea for a tall, long-legged person, but I was having a hard time lifting my short legs above the water. The photographers were not amused. They
wanted the cheesecake shot, and they became frustrated with my graceless efforts. “Hey,” they yelled, “you gotta jump higher! Higher! No, no, higher!” I thought of Kaye Lani, my five-foot-ten predecessor, and was sure she’d done a beautiful job of jumping in the waves. I had a big smile pasted on my face, but inside I was thinking, “Seven hours as Miss America, and already I’m blowing it.”
They wanted a shot of me on the beach doing some kind of victory leap. I jumped a couple of times, and one photographer called out, “Can’t you do better than that?” I took a deep breath and thought, “Here goes!” and I jumped as high as I could with my legs folded behind me like a cheerleader. The newspaper caption called it “a joyous leap.” Phew! I did it. I’ll tell you a secret: To this day, in spite of having done hundreds of photo shoots in my life, for Miss America and in television, it still doesn’t come naturally to me. I always feel awkward posing for the camera. I would have made a terrible model!
I was relieved when it was finally over. I quickly dressed in a pink St. John knit dress I’d borrowed from my mom and went to meet the press. This was my first big interview, and I hadn’t been coached. I was just being myself. I told them I was an overachiever. I told them I didn’t carry any good-luck charms to the pageant and my win wasn’t luck but hard work. I told them about my brothers calling me Blimpo and the Hindenburg when I was a kid. It was all fodder for the headlines. When they asked me what kind of Miss America I’d make, I laughed and replied, “A short one.” I learned quickly that every single word out of my mouth would be pored over for meaning, and the most unflattering depictions would make it into the headlines—“New Miss America Confesses She Was a Teen Blimpo.” They loved that one!
I didn’t even stop for breakfast, and I should have been entitled to a big spread after nine months of dieting. But I didn’t eat much at all my first week as Miss America. The schedule was too packed. The first time I remember actually gorging on food was a night in New Hampshire alone in my hotel room a week later when I ate an entire box of gingersnap cookies.
After my press conference, I said goodbye to my family, which was a wrenching experience. I was already insecure about my ocean frolic and was overwhelmed with the feeling that I didn’t know what I was doing. I was now losing my rock and foundation, knowing I wouldn’t see them until my “homecoming” in Anoka in a month. It was a tearful parting. I then got into a limo and headed to New York for an intensive week of media appearances. There was a lot going on, including choosing a wardrobe for the year. People are always curious about where I got my clothes for my time as Miss America. Thankfully, I didn’t have to come up with them on my own. The pageant had an arrangement with the Crafted with Pride in U.S.A. Council, an organization that supported clothing made in the United States, to supply my wardrobe. They brought racks of clothing to my hotel, and an assistant was there to help me pick out outfits. Immediately there was a problem because I was petite. The clothing had been selected before the pageant, with the assumption that Miss America would be taller, so a lot of the items didn’t fit right. Every petite woman in America knows what I’m talking about! Later, they sent some boxes of petite clothes, and that was great.
The pageant also sent in a couple of women who gave me advice about how to write speeches and develop talking points. They coached me about doing interviews. That would turn out to be absolutely crucial training, because now I was in the public eye.
My first night in New York, bleary-eyed, I met Leonard Horn and Kaye Lani for a late dinner. I was very conscious that I had to get up at the crack of dawn to appear on Today for an interview by Deborah Norville. It was going to be another short night.
Early in the morning, the renowned hairdresser Vincent arrived to do my hair and makeup. Vincent was so famous that he was known by his first name alone, and he served as a consultant to the Miss America pageant. When he was young he’d styled hair for the likes of Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly, and Judy Garland. He’d even been called on to style Jackie Kennedy’s hair. He was also Diane Sawyer’s longtime hairdresser and still is. Vincent was amazing—and he made me look totally different than I looked when I won. Using his Velcro roller technique, he smoothed my hair out in a simple flattering bob that was sleek and sophisticated, and much more natural than my hairstyle at the pageant. Not so much hairspray and teasing. I loved the look. I was now more like the girl next door than a glamorous queen.
I’ve already recounted my torturous first press conference in the Big Apple, with the reporter Penny Crone trying to trip me up, followed by an uncomfortable interview with Jack Cafferty where he tried hard to attribute my win to “luck.” These press encounters tested my mettle, but I was pleased to see that the verdict in the wider media was that I’d handled the rudeness gracefully. I have to say that in general, reporters across America treated me pretty well. Usually they were interested in hearing what I had to say and knowing about my journey. Looking back at the headlines from that year, the majority of them stressed my credentials, my violin performances, and the fact that we were in a new era, where Miss America was judged for who she was, not what she looked like. Those headlines didn’t always filter down to the public perception, but it was a step in the right direction.
One of the first big decisions was whether I’d go on Johnny Carson or David Letterman. You couldn’t do both. Leonard Horn was pushing for Carson, because, as the story went, Letterman hadn’t been so nice to previous Miss Americas. I also favored Carson because he allowed people to perform, and I wanted to play my violin on The Tonight Show.
But Letterman was really working for it. Every night he put a stool in the middle of the stage and placed a violin on it. He’d tell the audience, “She’s coming, folks. She’ll be here. Don’t worry. I’m going to get Miss America.”
The pageant finally relented and agreed to do Letterman. In spite of the violin on the chair, Letterman didn’t have musical performances on his show, so I was disappointed I wouldn’t be displaying my talent. I was on the same night as Julia Child, who was dozing in the green room when I arrived. She went on after me for a cooking demonstration with Dave. The idea was to make hamburgers, but when the cooking element didn’t work, she quickly changed it to steak tartare. It was a very funny segment.
When I walked out on the stage the first thing I said was, “Where’s the violin?” Letterman said he thought I was bringing my own, which was back at the hotel. He wasn’t serious about me playing. It was a talk show and we talked. He revealed that he had a sister named Gretchen. At one point he asked me, “When you’re on the road, if a guy comes up to you and asks, ‘Would you like to have dinner?’ could you go out to dinner with him?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “But I don’t really know, actually. It hasn’t happened yet.”
“I’m sure it’s going to happen a lot,” he said, grinning wickedly. Then, “Would you like to have dinner?” That got a huge laugh.
Frankly, I kept waiting for him to be mean or sarcastic, but he couldn’t have been nicer. I was surprised that I felt so comfortable schmoozing with Dave.
At first I liked my label as “the smart Miss America,” but I soon realized that it meant being tested at every turn. Within a week, I had my biggest test ever. I was in Denver when Gary Collins and Mary Ann Mobley invited me to appear with them on a live TV show to promote a new type of satellite device called “Miss America.” The broadcast would be beamed to a convention of five thousand engineers and executives in Washington, D.C.
What I didn’t know was that we were filming a segment of the show Super Bloopers and Practical Jokes, hosted by Ed McMahon and Dick Clark. I was the unwitting foil.
It was in my nature to be prepared, so before the event while they were doing my makeup, I kept asking questions about the device and how it worked. No one had any answers. In fact, everyone acted nervous when I asked questions. I think they were worried that I had somehow found out that I was being set up. But that
was not the case.
Gary, Mary Ann, and I took the stage next to the odd-looking contraption. Everything was fine. But shortly before we were scheduled to start broadcasting, Gary was called offstage to answer a phone call. Then Mary Ann left to fix her broken microphone. As I was waiting for them to get back, the segment director suddenly told me that the broadcast was starting early. “Just ad-lib for a couple of minutes until Gary gets back,” he said. Sure, I could do that. I gave a nice little speech about being Miss America and how pleased I was to be there introducing this new machine.
Still no Gary.
“Talk about the system,” the director whispered.
“I don’t know anything about the system,” I whispered back. But I kept ad-libbing, trying to describe the machine in front of me.
“Gary will be coming,” he promised. “Here, we have cue cards.”
Well, that was a relief, but the guy was holding the cue cards upside down. I read them anyway, and I must say I did a flawless job—and then he dropped them, scattering them all over the floor. I didn’t miss a beat, just kept reading off the floor. I thought I must have looked incredibly stupid and nervous. It was absolute torture. So many thoughts were racing through my head. Here I was, barely Miss America, and now they were probably going to fire me. I was supposed to be the smart Miss America! What a laugh. I felt my heart pounding in my chest as I realized that all of my hard work to become Miss America was literally on the line. I felt such anxiety and desperation.
Finally, after this had gone on for an excruciating length of time, Gary and Mary Ann appeared on the stage. They told me to press a button on the machine, and Ed McMahon’s voice boomed out, “Gretchen, you’re on Super Bloopers and Practical Jokes.”
Getting Real Page 11