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A Royal Dream

What's Height Gotta Do With It

By pamela mayerPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 3 min read
4
               A Royal Dream
Photo by Ante Hamersmit on Unsplash

Tiara, it started for me with a tiara. Beautiful, be-jeweled crowning glory. “There she is Miss America, there she is your ideal” sang the great, Johnny Desmond. Bert Parks stood handsome in his tuxedo with his giant pasted on smile, took her by the hand and guided her to the runway.

I was eight and glued to the screen, tears running down my cheeks as the beauty queen strutted down the red carpet holding her long stem roses.

That night I dreamed of when I would be Lee Meriwether. I was born to be Miss America. I regally stood — step, pause, step, pause while I waved, turning my wrist ever so slightly, nodding to my royal subjects.

Slamming the refrigerator shut, my brother poured himself a glass of milk, slurped it down and belched, “Who are you waving to?” my brother looked at me strangely as he interrupted my triumphant, glorious entrance.

“I’m Miss America. Can’t you tell?” I said over my shoulder as I sat down to eat a bowl of Sugar Pops cereal, “Yeah, right. You’re wearing Mom’s nightgown holding a bunch of plastic flowers and you are Miss America and I’m Superman. You’re too short,” he shouted as he grabbed a slice of Mom’s gooey chocolate cake and shoved it into his mouth. “Bye, teeny tiny sister,” and walked out the door. “Jerk,” I yelled out after him, “You don’t know anything about the pageant. Besides whose asking you? I know what I know.” Just like that he ruined my day, my entire day.

Short what’s that got to do with it? You have to have talent, you have to be warm, sweet, kind, caring and beautiful. You wear a bathing suit, you wear an evening gown and you smile with amazing chiclet teeth. Height? Tall? Where’s that in the qualifications - nowhere. I ran to my room to make plans for my day in the winner’s circle.

That’s not a problem, I have years of growth ahead of me. I’m sure to have a growth spurt along the way. It’ll happen. “ You can bet your best pair of Buster Brown shoes my brother won’t be invited to my after parties with full press and all the gorgeous contestants.” I murmured under my breath.

I enrolled in drama lessons, dance lessons, modeling lessons, elocution lessons, lessons with lessons. Keeping my eye on the prize. I was growing and as tall as everyone in my class. Always remembering my brother’s curse about short. Then in sixth grade they kept growing and I slowed down. Girlfriends got little waists and boobs and 1/2 foot taller than me. They really added on height over the years till I faced it. I was short.

Short, short, short. I realized I would never be a basketball star, nor volleyball player, nor athletic anything and most of all to my sadness I was never going to be a Miss America. My dream came crashing down on me.

Reality, the truth. That damm brother had been right all a long.

Decades went by and that dream faded until now. Times have changed little people star on tv series. Short people have gained stature in the world. Good things do come in small packages. Today you can dream, you can be anything you want. A rock star, a hip hop idol, President of the United States. Even though Miss America has disappeared practically into obscurity - vanished, gone. Yet not for me. There’s still a tiny little light that burns bright inside of me. Today, tonight in front of all of you out there I crown myself the last perhaps, even though still short, Miss America.

The dreams of a million girls who are more than pretty May come true in Atlantic City…there she is your ideal….hum

siblings
4

About the Creator

pamela mayer

Pamela Mayer does all things creative — theatre, art, and writing. She is certain she will bump into her Prince Charming in the produce section of Trader Joe’s, Miami Beach very soon.

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