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320 pages, Hardcover
First published August 4, 2020
The sashes weren’t particular to Miss America (Southern girls had worn state-specific sashes in monument-dedication ceremonies as early as 1908), but they were highly symbolic at that historic moment: suffragettes, for whom pageantry was a powerful vehicle for activism, had worn them in marches beginning with the historic 1913 Woman Suffrage Procession in Washington. (“Through pageantry,” wrote Hazel MacKaye, the feminist who pioneered the sashes as a tool of the cause, “we women can set forth our ideals and aspirations more graphically than any other way.”) The sashes conveyed solidarity with the National Women’s Party through their colors (purple, white, and gold) and their motto, “Votes for Women.” By contrast, the beauty pageant sashes expressed local affiliation and individual aspiration. This contest was not about women. It was about Woman.
Because many of Slaughter’s board members preferred to cultivate movie stars, the scholarship was only grudgingly approved, and to her astonishment, she alone was expected to raise the $5,000 to fund it. She merely flinched, then sat down and hand-wrote letters to 230 companies who sold products a beauty queen might endorse, landing $1,000 contracts with Bancroft & Sons, a textile manufacturer; Fitch Shampoo Company; Harvel Watches; and Catalina Swim Suits, which had been designing swimwear since 1912, inspired initially by Annette Kellerman. With giants Jantzen and Cole, Catalina had been dictating affordable beach fashion for decades. Now its suits would become Miss America’s crowning uniform.
She was an instant media darling with an endless supply of quotable sass. But her most famous comment, dropped like a bomb the morning after her coronation at a breakfast where she was told she would tour the country modeling Catalina swimsuits, was a simple “no” that changed not just the course of Miss America, but the landscape of American beauty pageants, period. “I’m a singer, not a pinup,” she declared.
Conveniently, she had failed to sign the binding contract, so the pageant backed her decision and Catalina was out of luck. Infuriated, they pulled their sponsorship. Months later, when Jacque Mercer was still modeling for them, Catalina president E. B. Stewart griped to her about the Miss America contest, which he felt focused too much on talent and not enough on the Catalina curves. To Slaughter’s enduring dismay, Mercer replied, “Why don’t you start your own pageant?” Thus Miss Universe was born, along with its own feeder pageants, Miss USA and later Miss Teen USA, all of which now run parallel to Miss America, and which Donald Trump owned from 1996 to 2015. In March 1951, Business Week reported that Catalina’s rival contest would focus “strictly on the body.”
To this day, Miss USA and Miss America are conflated in the public mind, though the former has historically been the lowbrow cousin to the latter—more voluptuous, less wholesome, and only belatedly adopting the high-minded girl-power rhetoric that Miss America has been pushing since the 1940s.