Crashing the World's Most Exclusive Club.
A transgender
friend said something recently that I’d been thinking but was afraid to say out
loud.
“Miss Universe allowing transgenders?” she exclaimed. “We have our own pageants. I’ve never heard of a trans pageant allowing genetic women, so why should Miss Universe allow a trans?”
Her
comment took me back to the Miss Gay Pilar Universe pageant of 2017, the only
transgender beauty contest I’ve ever attended. Pilar is my wife’s hometown on
Siargao Island, where our principal contribution was a fancy pair of high heels
to help her barangay’s contestant win.
She
didn’t.
But
we ended up spending three hours in a standing-room-only crowd having the time
of our lives. For starters, the event took place in a huge gymnasium wherein
the 15 contestants were judged by a panel of local dignitaries, including the
mayor. And I found myself on fairly familiar ground; it was an almost
blow-by-blow parody of the bigger international Miss Universe pageant that
recently enthralled Filipinos nationwide.
The
contestants were judged prancing about in evening gowns, bathing suits, and
regional ethnic costumes. They were also asked to exhibit their talents and
answer pointed personal questions. And, as always, I was struck by the charming
enthusiasm displayed by the audience, a warm attitude of acceptance I have come
to associate with the Philippines.
“This
is a culture,” I later wrote, “imbued with a natural sense of acceptance and
friendliness towards, not only strangers, but the strange.”
Which
struck me as ironic, given the Philippines’ long association with a Catholic
Church that, until recently anyway, didn’t look kindly on any form of what it
considered sexual deviance.
Transgenderism
is certainly less “strange” today than it was even six years ago. And yet, I
can’t help but feel a little disappointed at what Miss Universe seems to have
become. Historically, and by definition, it was always one of the world’s most
exclusive “clubs.” Now, it appears, the goal is exactly the opposite: to become
a model of inclusivity. This year’s pageant, besides two trans candidates,
included a “plus-size beauty queen” and two married “misses” with kids. Does
this mark the end of what the pageant has historically represented? And can the
pageant Filipinos know, and love, survive such a radical change?
My
daughter, a 39-year-old newspaper editor and country singer in Portland,
Oregon, thinks the widening inclusivity may, in fact, provide the very key to
the pageant’s survival. “They are reaching out to new audiences,” she
maintains. “Every woman has her own kind of beauty. The greater number of
people who can see themselves on that stage, the more popular the pageant will
become.”
An
informal survey of Filipino friends and relatives strongly disagreed. Virtually
everyone opposed the participation of married mothers, and almost everyone felt
the same about transgenders. Only plus-sized women got a pass.
I
remain stubbornly on the fence. On the one hand, larger-framed and trans women
don’t fall within my sense of what constitutes feminine beauty. On the other,
well, maybe — just maybe — they should.
The
real question, though, is this: can a beauty pageant survive based on
different—and sometimes conflicting—standards of beauty? Or, finally, is there
really only one? Every woman has her own kind of beauty, yes, but by what
common standards can it be judged?
And,
of course, one might also question the slipperiness of the slope on which the
pageant is perched. If trans, plus sized, and married contestants are allowed
today, who will be allowed tomorrow; disabled, scarred, or misshapen? For they
too have their own kind of beauty, do they not?
I
wait, with bated breath, for Miss Universe fans — and history — to settle the
matter for good. (DH)
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