For an instant, I forgot that today was the day that my first article would appear in the paper. But then I was fully awake. Today was the day that Savannah would realize that I was or wasn’t a human-interest writer, was or wasn’t a suitable replacement for Gloria, was or wasn’t any kind of writer at all.
I jumped up, put on some jogging clothes, brushed my teeth, and ran downstairs. I grabbed the leash and attached Duke to it, grabbed the newspaper from the iron console, and didn’t stop running until I reached a bench on the perimeter of the park’s east side. I sat down and slipped Duke’s leash over the arm of the bench so he wouldn’t drag both of us after some fair lab. Opening the paper directly to the local section, there on the front page was my picture with my name under it: Savannah Phillips.
I was shaking so badly, I almost didn’t think I was going to be able to read it. I tried to breathe in about six or seven times and refocus my eyes, but they were getting blurred from sudden light-headedness. I leaned back against the bench and enjoyed the fact that at least Mr. Hicks liked some of it. I mean after all,my picture was there, so he had to have kept at least part of it. Sure, maybe he had edited it to smithereens, but if he used my picture, he at least had to have used my premise.
“Just read the story already, Savannah!” I said out loud. I looked down and began to read the product of my so-called investigation.
I have lived most of my life never quite understanding beauty pageants. Not that there is anything wrong with them; there just doesn’t seem to be anything necessary in them. They don’t solve world hunger; they don’t change the political climate; they don’t even do much to affect a city. But I have recently come to realize that no institution truly changes any of these things either. Hunger organizations don’t feed world hunger; people giving of their time, money, and energy do. The government doesn’t change the landscape of this nation; people who care about issues, who serve in blood banks and listen to the needs of the elderly in small corner cafés and play with children and repair dilapidated playgrounds, they do. And cities don’t change themselves, but people who love them, who give of their time and care about every detail from the trolley tour to the airport lobby, who build corner bookstores and open up coffee shops, and who raise the next generation to love their neighbor, they do.
So, as unnecessary as beauty pageants may seem, by this standard everything is unnecessary. What makes anything of value are the people who are a part of it. And yes, believe it or not, countless women who enter beauty pageants every year are some of the most productive, viable, and life-giving forces behind the very causes that matter most to each of us.
The time I have spent considering the relative value of beauty pageants has proven enlightening. I will spare you the many horror stories I have been forced to endure over recent days: tales of manufactured cleavage, dresses worn backward, and cymbal concertos. No, today I want to suggest that even though beauty pageants hardly fortify the fiber of a nation, they can shatter the life of an individual. And when a life is so shattered because of pride or greed, when it is thrown off its destined course, the fiber of a nation will ultimately be weakened.
Consider the story of one of the most beautiful women Savannah has ever seen. Today, her beauty is gone. Her glory is such a distant memory that I have wondered if even she recalls it.
Savannah’s jewel once won every pageant, every homecoming, and every heart. Her inner spirit was as beautiful as her physical self. I know, because on one of my more desperate days at the tender age of thirteen, I was the unexpected recipient of her compassion and kindness. But as I stood at her door just days ago and stared at her dirty T-shirt and uncombed hair, as I witnessed her grim outlook on life, I didn’t see how this could be the same person I once knew.
She had a dream too. A dream to be Miss Georgia United States of America. But when that dream was taken from her, the loss was too much to bear.
She came home, married a man who abused her, had four children, and has spent her life since forging a dreamless existence. I went to her home the other day, and as I wiped old Cheerios from the sofa, I tried to force her to see herself as she was, remind her of who she had once been. I wasn’t eloquent. Frankly, I wasn’t really even nice. But I was honest.
After I left her home, my anger at the people who had done this to her began to grow, so I went searching. And what I uncovered was an age-old story of greed, deceit, and lies, all in the name of money.
Some of you may blame her for allowing such a “petty” loss to destroy her own life. But I would challenge all of us to consider our power to affect others’ destinies. When we are entrusted with the life of another—to direct or guide or lead or aid—and we deem anything greater than that life, then we have devalued the greatest treasure any of us could ever have the privilege to bear.
If I could give Savannah’s one-time reigning beauty anything, I would restore her ability to dream. I would wrap up a crown, place it on her head, and assure her she is a princess. I would wash her face and comb her hair and try to help her remember her true beauty. But what’s done is done. We can’t go back. The choices we make to affect people’s lives are done. We can alter the future, but the path is forever littered with reminders of past losses.
I have much more to say, but today, I will urge you to nurture the personal destinies that fall within your realm of influence. Speak life into them, and help them find their wings. Because the life of a city is determined by the destiny and character of its individuals.
Until Friday,
Savannah Phillips
I sat back and realized I’d been holding my breath. I couldn’t believe it. Mr. Hicks had edited me more lightly than I could have hoped. Not only was my story intact, but most of the words were mine too. I grabbed Duke, kissed him square on his nose, grabbed his leash, and took off toward home.
I took the first eight steps of the staircase by twos. “Vanni, if that’s you, Mom wanted me to tell you that Amber is going to meet you at The Lady & Sons at noon,” Thomas said sleepily. I stopped dead in my tracks, took a breath, and continued my climb by twos. Not even Amber would be able to ruin this day.
I showered and dressed in a giddy mood. And I don’t do giddy. I sang every Barry Manilow song I knew. I danced around my bedroom like a woman unleashed. I swung on bedposts, tap-danced on the tile floor in my bathroom, even struck up a chorus of “I Write the Songs.” I’ve never written a song in my life, but by George, I wrote an article. And it was a good article.
I flitted to the closet and picked out something extremely “out of control.” I picked out a dress. Then I actually put it on. A black linen dress, but it was a dress nonetheless. I don’t know what came over me, but something did. And then I picked out a pair of Kate Spade shoes in black, which I had come to adore, that still flipped when I walked, but weren’t technically flip-flops.
“Somebody stop me!” I screamed at the mirrors that covered my sliding closet doors. Then I swirled around and about whipped myself too hard again, but this time I recovered with nothing more than disheveled hair freed from a ponytail holder. Hold on, Hannah. Savannah has let loose and traded her pulled-back do for a straightened mane of dark hair. I had forgotten how long my hair had become. I ran my hands through it, wondering if I could handle an entire day with this flopping around my head.
Well, today anything was possible. With one last gander at myself in the mirror, I took off down the stairs.
The seventh step from the top, my flip-flop-clad feet slid out from under me. The rest of the trip down was endured by my backside, though I tried to stop myself with one hand on the railing and the other descending the stairs beside me. I made such a commotion coming down that I thought surely the neighborhood would come in to check on me. Sitting on the floor in sheer agony, hoping for someone to kiss my boo-boo, it occurred to me that no one in the world would be hailing my latest achievement if they had witnessed my ungraceful fall.
The silence of an absent audience encouraged me to gather my dignity and my bruised behind. I headed out the door and shouted for all the world to hear, “Miss Grace has left the building.”