Getting Real

by Gretchen Carlson

  I collapsed laughing, but I was kind of sobbing too. I cried, “I want my mommy!”

  I didn’t like being tricked that way. What I didn’t realize at first was that my unflappable performance was actually a selling point, showing I wouldn’t melt under pressure. After the show aired six months later, I received calls from two different TV agents asking if I’d ever thought about doing television. They said, “If you can do that, you’re a natural.” Later I included the Bloopers tape on my professional reel when I was looking for jobs in television, and ironically, it became a point in my favor.

  Right after the Bloopers show, I was on the road in Atlanta to attend a dinner for one of the sponsors. There were two thousand people in the hall. I sat at the head table and we ate dinner, and it was delightful. Then, right before dessert was served, a guy came up behind me and whispered, “I just want to give you a five-minute warning for your keynote.”

  I turned around. “Excuse me?”

  “Your keynote,” he repeated.

  “Oh, yes,” I mumbled. Nobody had told me I’d be giving a keynote address. “How long would you like me to speak?”

  “Thirty-five or forty minutes.” In other words, a lifetime.

  I grabbed a cocktail napkin and excused myself from the table and went into the bathroom. I had five minutes to write down a bulleted list, and I tried to remember the talking points my coaches had given me.

  I gave the speech, and to this day I can’t remember what I talked about, but they applauded enthusiastically, so I guess I did okay. It was a great lesson. From that moment on I didn’t go anywhere without having at least three speeches ready. But it also gave me confidence. That and the Bloopers experience showed me I could perform under duress, and that was a quality I needed, because every day of being Miss America presented another unexpected challenge. I was called upon to deal with the public in ways that most twenty-two-year-olds would never face. I had performed my whole life, so I could do it, but now, I thought, I was developing as a person. I felt much older than my age. I’d been in many scary and tough situations before—violin competitions, being on my own in Aspen—and I’d learned how to dig deep to find a sense of confidence. I found comfort in something that was said to me the day after I won: “You weren’t necessarily the most polished person on the stage, but you were the most refreshing.” I took that to heart.

  I have to admit I suffered a tremendous amount of self-doubt that year. Yes, I knew I was smart and talented, but the little voice never went away: How was I stacking up against other Miss Americas? I’m not talking about looks—sure, I was short and I couldn’t change that. The truth is, Miss America is an icon, but each of us is unique, and people don’t always appreciate that. They see the icon, and they fill it with unrealistic expectations. In the years since being Miss America, I’ve learned from other winners that those feelings of self-doubt and inadequacy weren’t exclusive to me. It’s a big role to fill.

  When you’re crowned Miss America, you immediately go up on a pedestal. Young girls look at you and think you’ve achieved everything you ever dreamed of—that it’s the pinnacle of your life and not just the beginning. They think you’re unapproachable and far above what they could ever hope for. That’s not what I wanted young girls to see when they looked at me.

  I was trying to be real, to be myself, to show my flaws, which is why I talked about being overweight as a child. I wanted young women and girls to look at me and think, “If she could do it, I can too.” That’s the essence of being a role model. I believe that every child is born with a gift, and it just needs to be cultivated from the inside out. Later, when I had a daughter, I didn’t even tell her I’d been Miss America. Kaia found out from someone else when she was eight. I was conscious of not wanting her to feel that she had to live up to something so big before she’d had a chance to build her own sense of self. I realized from experience that self-esteem is hard won and easily shaken by the realities of the world around you. The fact that I could still feel insecure as Miss America was proof of that.

  I was also dealing with an unfamiliar level of fame. Our culture loves celebrity, and we give it liberally to people, whether they’re worthy or not. The biggest shock is when it lands on you overnight. One day no one knows your name. The next day, everyone does. I was grateful that my upbringing gave me such a solid grounding and an understanding of what matters and what doesn’t. The fame never went to my head. Even so, the enormous notoriety of being Miss America was quite an adjustment. People came out of the woodwork, claiming they had dated me or were related to me. I discovered many cousins, seven times removed! My family was also under siege. In the early weeks my parents’ phone in Anoka was ringing off the hook, and they were completely inexperienced in handling the press. They trusted everyone. Big mistake. One day a reporter and a cameraman appeared on their doorstep claiming to be from the London Times. My parents invited them in, gave them a tour of the house, and let them take pictures. The next day the pictures were splashed across the front page of the National Enquirer, not the London Times. They included some very personal and private photographs of our family and our bedrooms. My parents had been hoodwinked. They had expected a certain level of respect that the paparazzi did not recognize. The stress of sudden fame included the realization that there were eyes and ears everywhere, and they weren’t necessarily trustworthy. The experience made me a little bit jaded, a little more cautious than I’d been before, and that distrust has always stayed with me. Even a public person has a right to personal space, and I protect mine.

  Fortunately, a month into being Miss America, I had an emotional and spiritual reprieve—my official “homecoming” trip to Anoka. It didn’t come a moment too soon. Until I saw my family, I was beginning to wilt under the tremendous pressure. To win, I had visualized becoming Miss America, but my visualization ended at the runway. Being thrown into the status of a celebrity, literally overnight, with no preparation about how to be Miss America, is tough. Home with my family I could relax for the first time—even if it was only for a day. I cherished the reminder of my small-town values and the upbringing that had nurtured me.

  Anoka had declared a Gretchen Carlson Day, which included a parade down Main Street and a balloon launch at Lincoln Elementary School, followed by a violin performance at the high school and a reception at Zion Lutheran Church. Ten thousand people came out to the parade, cramming the streets and reaching out to shake my hand as the car slowly edged forward. I saw “We love you, Gretchen” written in chalk along the parade route. At the elementary school, the kids had been there since early morning preparing for the balloon launch. An additional five thousand people crowded into the Anoka High School field house where I gave my violin performance.

  The reception at Zion was a five-dollar-a-head benefit to establish a scholarship for an Anoka High School student who excelled academically and in the arts. The food was great. It turned out that earlier someone had asked me what my idea of paradise was, and I’d answered, “An endless buffet of Leeann Chin’s foods,” referring to the famous restaurant chain in Minneapolis whose buffets I loved. When Leeann Chin heard what I said, she offered to supply a selection of appetizers for the reception, including all of my favorites. So I got my wish.

  I also autographed pictures at Main Motors and enjoyed chatting with all my neighbors and friends. America is a big country, and people who didn’t know me were forming instant impressions. But here I was known. It was just the kind of day I needed to restore my spirits, to remind me where I came from and how much the love and values of my hometown meant to me.

  • • •

  Being Miss America was the fullest full-time job I’ve ever had. I was on the road every single day of the year, except for six days off at Christmas and four at Easter. Many people think being Miss America is glamorous, but glamour is probably the last word I’d use to describe my nonstop schedule. I traveled about twenty-five thousand miles a mont
h, landing in about five different cities every week. By year’s end I had visited 240 cities. After I won, Kaye Lani joked to me, “Gretchen, the minute you feel this starts to be a burden to you, the minute you want to quit, don’t worry, because if they can’t find someone else, I’ll take over the spot and go another year.” She was trying to say that although it was arduous, she had loved it and was even sad to see it end. I thought about her words often, because it was true that I was constantly moved by the amazing reception I received across the country and grateful for the opportunity to meet so many incredible people. It more than made up for the strenuous schedule. Still, I think most Miss Americas are ready to pass along the crown at the end of the year.

  One of the biggest surprises for me—and the real beauty of it—was discovering that the Miss America Organization was a homespun, grassroots organization. My appearances were booked through the office in Atlantic City, where one lone guy, Bob Bryan, the business manager, handled all the details. Before I was even chosen, Bob had booked appearances for three months solid, with the remaining months filling up by the day. I was scheduled for charity and civic events, fund-raisers, autograph sessions, conventions, club luncheons, parades, visits to children’s and veterans’ hospitals, and speeches to student groups. I also did commercial and sponsor appearances, for which I was paid a fee.

  For example, Gillette was a pageant sponsor, so I toured their facilities in Boston for two days and met all the people on the factory lines. I also went to drugstores all over America and signed autographs on behalf of Gillette for several hours each stop. Afterward I often had dinner with the executives from those stores. In between I did local TV and radio interviews. Then I was on a plane the next morning. My schedule was packed, but the perks were amazing. I was driven everywhere in stretch limousines, and there were always flowers—huge bouquets of flowers. The roses I got that year could have filled a florist’s warehouse.

  I also got to rub shoulders with some pretty famous people. I soon learned that everyone wanted to meet Miss America, including people I had once only admired from afar. It was a thrill to go to the White House to meet President Reagan. He was absolutely charming, and, noting that I was a student at Stanford, he remarked, “Stanford is getting too liberal.” He loved California, though. It was his home, and I think because I went to school there he considered me a little bit Californian. I hobnobbed with the iconic golfer Arnold Palmer (my dad’s hero), hockey phenom Wayne Gretzky, and country music legend Glen Campbell. I was especially touched to receive a gift from Louise Mandrell—a violin-shaped case with a bottle of champagne. I still have that case.

  I always traveled with a companion, an older woman hired by the pageant. There were two of them, alternating every other month. My first was Ellie Ross, who was a seasoned veteran in her early sixties, an old pro. She’d grown up in Atlantic City and lived nearby her whole life. She was a huge pageant enthusiast and a volunteer for many years. Most people don’t realize that the Miss America system is built on volunteers, but it’s a remarkable fact. There are few paid people in the system. In 1977 someone asked Ellie if she’d like a job as a traveling companion. Her daughter was grown and her marriage was ending so she said yes, and she’d been traveling with Miss America ever since. By the time she got to me she’d seen it all. She used to talk about the prayer she said every year at the Miss America pageant: “Dear Lord, I don’t care what state she represents. It doesn’t matter what her talent is or if she’s blonde or brunette. Just let her be easy to live with.”

  I quickly realized that I couldn’t have managed without Ellie. She was more than a chaperone. She was a coordinator who took care of all the details—and there were many, many details. More important, she was an enforcer, who got me in and out of appearances without ruffling feathers. When it was time to go, she’d announce it, and there was no arguing. I was grateful that I didn’t have to be the one to call the autograph sessions to a close. I probably would have ended up staying long into the night. Being Miss America’s traveling companion was a very challenging role, but as Ellie once quipped, “We haven’t lost one yet.”

  We had adjoining rooms in hotels, and Ellie was supposed to help me get dressed, but I sometimes ended up helping her get dressed, because she often couldn’t reach her zipper. We were quite a pair. I was helping her and she was helping me. She had amazing stories of her adventures. She actually tried to write a book, which she planned to call Queen Mother, but she said no publisher would buy it because “it didn’t have any sex in it.”

  When we registered at hotels, both rooms were in Ellie’s name to protect my identity. You can imagine the kinds of pranks people might play if they knew Miss America was staying at a hotel. My successor, Debbye Turner, tells the story of how some guy got up on her floor and knocked on her door, and she looked out of the peephole and he was totally nude.

  On long nights alone, too tired to do anything else, Ellie and I sat in the hotel talking and playing gin rummy, although most of the time I played solitaire, which sometimes was a pretty good analogy for my life growing up and sometimes even as Miss America.

  When we flew—always first class—Ellie made sure to collect a few miniature scotch bottles, and when we got to the hotel she’d mix herself a scotch with ice, avoiding the expense of hotel liquor.

  Ellie hated that I traveled with my violin—well, not really, but it was kind of a pain. I also had four large pieces of luggage, but they were all checked, except the violin, which we had to cart through security. Ellie would grumble, “Why couldn’t you play the piano?”

  “Well, actually I do,” I said.

  “Oh, shut up,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  This was in the days before security was so strict, but every single time, I’d get pulled over and asked, “What’s this?” Believe it or not, the most common joke among security guards was to ask, “You don’t have a rifle in there, do you?” Goes to show how times have changed!

  Ellie carried the crown, and it had to go through security too. Everyone wanted to look at the crown. In earlier years it had been placed in a cookie tin, but the rhinestones kept falling off, so now it was encased in a velvet-lined wooden box. We’d open the box and the other passengers in line would crane their heads to catch a glimpse of the famous crown.

  My second companion, Anita Puhala, had only been on the job for a year. About halfway through my year she got sick, and I suggested that my mom could fill in as my companion for the month of May. The pageant was skeptical. They preferred having an impartial companion, fearing there would be fights if family members were involved. I just laughed. “Who better to fight with than my mother?” I said.

  I was grateful that my mom was willing to step in. I didn’t realize it at the time, but she later told me it was quite boring for her—sitting hour after hour while I signed autographs, gave speeches, shook hands. We both appreciated that people like Ellie were pros who deserved a lot of admiration. They loved the work. For them it wasn’t an ordeal.

  I called Bob Bryan frequently, cajoling him. “Bob, if there’s a chance that on any of these appearances I can play my violin, that’s what I want to do.” He’d usually try to make it happen, and I was happy to have many opportunities to play. I played during the intermission at the Ice Capades. I played the national anthem for a Twins game in the Minneapolis Metrodome (which was demolished in 2014). I played at the Grady Gammage Memorial Auditorium in Tempe with the Phoenix Symphony. I played at the Ordway, the new auditorium in Saint Paul, as a soloist with my former Greater Twin Cities Youth Symphonies. I played at the Epcot Center at Disney World with a national youth orchestra. I played at schools. I played at VA hospitals. I played at big corporate events. It was the highlight of my term and very important to me. I figured that if people doubted what the program was about, maybe I had a chance to change their minds with my music. And that actually happened.

  I also gave more speeches than I can count, mo
stly motivational speeches to companies and at corporate events, where I talked about success and failure.

  A big lesson of being Miss America was that I could never wake up on the wrong side of the bed. Every day people were meeting me for the first and probably only time, and that first impression would stick. Trust me, there were a lot of days I woke up exhausted and not feeling sociable, but I pulled myself together to go out and meet the public, because, after all, being Miss America was a once-in-a-lifetime, amazing opportunity.

  I was humble about being Miss America, and it wasn’t in my nature to seek out recognition. Once on a plane, I had my nose in a book when the man sitting next to me suddenly said, “You’re Miss America, aren’t you?” I whispered, “Yes, but please don’t tell anyone.” He snickered and looked at me unpleasantly. “I thought Miss America was supposed to be nice.”

  I had to tread carefully because people had incredible expectations of who they thought Miss America should be. I remember one incident at a sponsor dinner when I had a couple of glasses of wine, and someone called the Miss America office and complained about me drinking. On another occasion I was wearing a pretty green dress and it was a bit low cut, and the guy in charge of the event called the pageant and complained about my “décolletage” being too exposed. I didn’t even know what a décolletage was! I got a good laugh out of that. I realized that I was never going to please everybody, but it was still a surprise when people had negative impressions of me without even knowing who I was.

  My dad’s advice from my early life resonated with me. He said, “Gretchen, no matter how hard you try you’re just never going to get everyone to like you; you’re just not.” It’s good advice, and I often pass it on to young people when I give speeches today. It sounds simple, but you have to work on having that mind-set. If you’re always focused on having everyone like you, it destroys your spontaneity and sense of self. So as Miss America I had to get a handle on that pretty quickly, because there were also plenty of people who just didn’t like me because of my title. Some critics were quite open about saying I was part of a system that exploited women.