You Have No Idea: A Famous Daughter, Her No-Nonsense Mother, and How They Survived Pageants, Hollywood, Love, Loss (5 page)

My name was called in the top ten on stage. As Miss New York, I was ready to do it all again live. I walked onto the stage in my ivory gown and introduced myself to the audience. I said that my goal was to one day have a successful career on Broadway. Later, I belted out “Happy Days Are Here Again” and strode onstage in my white one-piece. I felt great and confident. There was no pressure. I’d won these competitions already, so this was for the camera—and it was fun.

Suzette Charles, Miss New Jersey, also sang a Barbra Streisand song, “Kiss Me in the Rain.” She had an extraordinary voice and she was also of color (her father was Italian and her mother was black). Even though I’d won swimsuit and talent, Suzette was a pageant pro and this was her hometown. She had been Little Miss New Jersey in the Little Miss America pageant; she sang in the Atlantic City casinos and had been on shows like
Sesame Street
and
The
Electric Company
as a little girl; she was the hometown sweetheart. I knew that if she won, I’d be runner-up. I’d hug her, congratulate her, and then head off to London. That was the plan.

Gary Collins, the pageant host, announced the runners-up—fourth, third, second—and my name wasn’t called. Then… first runner-up: Suzette Charles.

This could only mean one thing.

“Six of the brightest and loveliest young women in America are standing on our stage,” Gary said. “One of them will be the new
Miss America and the winner of a twenty-five thousand dollar scholarship. And our new Miss America is… Vanessa Williams!”

As Debra Maffett, the 1983 Miss America, put the rhinestone crown on my head, I thought,
There goes my junior year abroad in London
. The applause thundered and ricocheted off the tin roof as I walked along the runway, smiling, waving, and thinking. Some said I strutted down the runway.
What happens next?
I had no idea. I had no idea that I’d be traveling twenty thousand miles a month, changing locations every twenty-four to forty-eight hours. I had no idea that in a few weeks I’d be dining with the president and first lady. I didn’t know anything yet. I just knew I wouldn’t be taking a plane to England.

It was a strange feeling to be the center of such a big event but to feel so detached. I had no emotion—I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t excited. I wasn’t there.

I just smiled and waved, smiled and waved.

I went to the end of the runway and turned. Then I made my way along the platform toward the New York delegation. It was the last stop of my winner’s walk.

The clapping and hooting and hollering were louder and more intense there than anywhere else in the room. There was a whole bunch of my family—my mom, dad, and brother; my aunts and uncles; and my grandmother, plus a lot of other relatives and friends. A big group had rented a bus and taken it from Buffalo. They were all standing up and clapping like this was the greatest moment of their lives. They were going crazy. I swear, through the din I could hear my dad—who always clapped the loudest and the longest. The excitement brought me out of my trance and snapped me back into my body. That’s when it hit me:
Wow, this is a big deal. A huge deal.

Up until that moment I was just going through the motions. I hadn’t thought about what it meant.

I was Miss America. The first black Miss America.

I’d made history.

It was thrilling. It was unbelievable. It was crazy.

It was also scary… but I didn’t know that yet.

On the front of Vanessa’s birth announcement there’s a drawing of a smiling baby girl wearing a big crown and holding a scepter.

It reads, “Here she is—Miss America. She’s also known as Vanessa Lynne.”

I had searched the aisles of the local Hallmark store until I found the perfect card. I bought it because it was cute and funny. I never in my wildest dreams imagined it would also be true.

When we arrived in Atlantic City for the pageant, it was like entering a different world—a world we didn’t know existed. These were all serious pageant people. Even the parents were dressed with glitz and glamour. All they talked about was pageants, pageants, pageants. These parents looked at Milton and me in our plain clothes without even a speck of adornment and, well, they thought we were so not of their element. We got a big laugh out of it.

There was a parents’ luncheon and all anyone could talk about was how many crowns their daughters had won, how many pageants they’d been in. They asked us about Vanessa’s pageant history. I shrugged and said, “She has no pageant experience.” Most were shocked to hear this. I enjoyed telling them because I loved to watch them get ticked off and see their expressions of disbelief and surprise.

We were on another planet—a very glittery planet—thanks to Vanessa.

There was no question in my mind that Vanessa was the most poised. I wasn’t surprised when she won the swimsuit competition—
she was always in good shape. And she really looked so stunning in her evening gown with her hair up. She made a great impression on the audience. Some of these girls seemed so programmed, but Ness was a natural and so unpretentious.

And talent? Well, of course Vanessa has talent. She gets it all from me!

They started calling the names of the runners-up. When it got to the last two, I figured Vanessa might be possibly the first runner-up. Suzette Charles, Miss New Jersey, would be the winner. She’d grown up on pageants and this was her dream. She was also black, so I thought if they’re going to have a black Miss America, it would be someone who was pageant oriented.

But then Suzette Charles’s name was announced as first runner-up.

I nudged Milton. “I don’t believe it! Vanessa pulled it off. She really did it.”

When Vanessa was named Miss America, the place went wild. There were a lot of people pulling for her. Our friends just erupted into cheers and applause. We were all on our feet, screaming. It was such an indescribable moment to see your child win Miss America, to make history. I was so proud of her.

And her father? He was always the first to clap, the last to stop, and the loudest.

During the first few days, the mail was incredible. We got thousands of notes congratulating Vanessa. But a week after Vanessa won, reality set in. The tone of some of the letters changed. Someone wrote that they were going to throw acid in her face. People sent notes: “YOU’RE DEAD, BITCH,” “You’ll Never Be Our Miss America,” “You’re all black scum.”

I gasped the first time I saw some of the contents. Some letters had pubic hair in them; some had spit; some had semen. I went to the police. They had an agent from the FBI show me how to open
mail, so, if necessary, they could take some of the letters and trace them back to where they originated. I wore gloves and opened the mail with a letter opener. I’d never take the stuff out—it was just too disgusting. I gave some to the police and kept the others.

We experienced racism from both camps—black and white. We got letters from black people saying we were liars—that she wasn’t really black. How could she be black with light skin and blue eyes? We’d go to hell for our deceptions. Then we got letters from white people saying that she shouldn’t be Miss America because she’s mixed blood. She’s not pure. She’s not Miss America material.

We were so worried about Vanessa when she was on the road, but we didn’t tell her everything because we didn’t want her to be afraid. At certain appearances, they’d have extra security. Milton and I were especially nervous when she’d be in towns in the South where there were still members of the Ku Klux Klan. They had to put armed guards outside her hotel room in Alabama. They wouldn’t let her ride in convertibles there. There were sharpshooters on the roofs of buildings during her hometown parade through Millwood and Chappaqua. Her car was flanked by police officers.

When Vanessa won, we had been excited for her year-long reign as Miss America. We had no idea that there’d be all this anger and hatred. We had no idea that her Miss America reign would quickly become a reign of terror for us. We had no idea how once it started, we couldn’t wait for it to be over.

And we had no idea that Ness had a past that could come back and haunt her.

1 and 2:
The newly crowned Miss New York, July 16, 1983.
3:
Meeting Muhammad Ali during pageant week.
4:
With my wonderful chaperones Midge Stevenson and Ellie Ross.
5:
Signing my first autographs as Miss America.
6:
The evening gown competition.
7:
With Los Angeles mayor Tom Bradley in 1984, being honored at the NAACP seventy-fifth anniversary event.
8:
After winning both the Preliminary Swimsuit and Talent Awards. I became one of only thirteen Miss Americas to accomplish this feat in the pageant’s ninety-one-year history.

9:
My first press conference as Miss America.
10:
The historic final Miss America Top Five.
11:
Being crowned by the reigning Miss America, Debbie Maffet, who was outspoken about it being time for a black woman to win the title.
12:
In less than five months, I went from Miss Greater Syracuse to Miss America!
13:
With my Atlantic City police officer bodyguards the morning after the pageant.

All photos courtesy of the Miss America pageant © 1983–1984

CHAPTER

3

If you give your children the tools they need to survive, they can overcome anything—even a Miss America scandal.

—HELEN WILLIAMS

T
his will all be over in a few minutes. Just get through the speech.

I had to be focused and composed. I repeated this to myself while taking some deep breaths. This was the biggest speech I would ever have to make in my lifetime.

It seemed like the world had turned out for my press conference. I knew there would be a lot of people, but this was pandemonium. Outside the Sheraton Manhattan, supporters lined the sidewalk, yelling: “Fight for the crown! Fight for the crown!”

I walked into the conference room flanked by Dennis Dowdell, my lawyer; and Ramon Hervey, my newly hired publicist. It was hot, noisy, and crammed with four hundred reporters and photographers from every newspaper, magazine, and television station—local, national, and international. I could feel the electricity and anticipation bounce around the room as photographers jockeyed for
position, pushing and pulling and squeezing through the throng to get the perfect shot. I was blinded by the endless flashes from every direction.

This is about me? Me? All this fuss and chaos is because of me? What? Everyone is acting crazy because of me? This is ridiculous.
I felt like I was the only sane person in a room filled with hundreds of Larrys, Curlys, and Moes.

The press was falling over one another. They were hurling insults when their angles were blocked. Now I could take a step back from the craziness and realize that this wasn’t about me anymore. This was about an image that felt as removed from me as a stranger. I was observing a news story unfold. Two nights earlier, I watched Dan Rather report about me on
CBS Evening News
: “Vanessa Williams, the first black Miss America, was given seventy-two hours to resign.…”