The Beauty Queen

It was the summer of '96 and the local mall was holding a modeling contest. There was no charge to enter, and the winner got an all-expense-paid trip to California.

"Please, Mom, can we do it?!" my daughters asked excitedly. Joy and Michelle were thirteen and nine at the time and I wondered if they could deal with the rejection that goes hand in hand with modeling contests. Even the prettiest girls lose, and for those who win it can be a mixed blessing. Did I really want my girls being judged on their looks? They were insistent, however, and so I agreed. I submitted their photos and the following week we were notified they had both made the semifinals. That Saturday they were to be at the mall at 10 A.M. for a briefing.

Saturday morning the mall was all abuzz with girls ranging from ages three to nineteen. A tall, thin, fortyish, former model (no doubt) made her way to the front of the room and spoke into the microphone.

"Congratulations, girls, on making the cut! The semifinals will be held tomorrow morning. Six of you will go on to the finals tomorrow afternoon. I want you to understand this is not a beauty pageant. We don't want you to buy a new dress for the occasion. We also would like you to refrain from wearing makeup. We're looking for real girls, not beauty queens."

The crowd let out a collective sigh, and it was obvious that many of the girls - if not their mothers - felt that being a "real girl" just wasn't good enough.

"Old clothes and no makeup?" Joy whined, "What fun is that?"

"She didn't say old," I replied, "but I think it's great that they just want you to be yourself."

The following morning we headed to the mall. The girls were organized into groups according to their age, and soon the parade began. One by one they strutted down the runway. There were girls of every size and shape, some "prettier" than others, but one little girl in particular caught my eye.

It wasn't her beauty that got my attention. Yes, she was pretty, but what beauty she had was eclipsed by her hair and outfit. She couldn't have been more than five or six years old, but it was obvious her hair was bleached. Not only that, it was teased and sprayed. She looked like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.

I wasn't the only mother who noticed. Soon people began to whisper.

"Didn't her mother listen to what the woman said yesterday?" I heard one mother say. "That dress is straight out of a pageant! And she's wearing makeup! None of the other girls are wearing makeup. It isn't fair!"

Although I didn't want to be petty, I had to agree. With her elaborate, expensive dress and lavishly styled hair, this girl stood out like a sore thumb. What kind of a mother would do this, I wondered? Would the judges be impressed by her beauty and give her the prize anyway?

That afternoon the winner was revealed. The "Beauty Queen," as the other girls were calling her, didn't win. Neither did my daughters. Both of them had fun, however, so I was glad they had participated. And I was happy that the judges had stayed true to their word.

Several months later, my husband and I were watching TV when he casually commented, "Well, with the OJ hysteria finally winding down, I wonder what the next big story will be."

On December 26, he got his answer when JonBenet Ramsey was found murdered less than a mile from our home. A chill went down my spine when her picture was flashed on the screen. The "Beauty Queen" was dead.

Within days Boulder was inundated with media. A strange mixture of fear and excitement filled the air. Was a killer on the loose, as Patsy Ramsey had proclaimed? Or were the parents themselves responsible for her murder? And which was more frightening? For the first time in their lives my daughters were afraid to go to sleep.

As the months went by, the media became hungry for stories. My friend Jessica met a reporter from the National Enquirer in a bar. She told him my "story" and he wanted to talk to me.

"There really isn't much to tell," I said when I spoke to him on the phone a few days later. Her mother 'broke the rules' but that doesn't necessarily make her a murderer."

"Please let me know if you hear anything you think I might be interested in," he said.

"Sure," I replied, although I had no intention of calling him. He had all the class of a....National Enquirer reporter. But several weeks later, he called me.

"We know where Patsy Ramsey is staying," he said, "and we want to stake out the house. I'll pay you if you let me use your van."

"No," I said, "I really can't help you." Three weeks later, he called me again.

"A tree was planted in JonBenet's honor at her old school. I'll give you $100 if you and your daughters will tie a yellow ribbon around one of the branches." It seemed fairly harmless, and I needed the money so I agreed. I told the girls we could split the money equally, and a half an hour later, a photographer met us at the school.

The tree was lovely. It was an aspen tree about five feet tall. I watched its leaves shimmering in the Colorado sun as the photographer set up his equipment.

"You know," I said, "I have a story the Enquirer might find interesting. I delivered my babies myself. Both Joy and Michelle were born not too far from here. I was alone when I had Joy. It was a beautiful experience."

"I don't know," he said, "Did it happen by accident? Now that would be a story."

"No," I replied, "It was intentional. But my dad is a physician. That might give it an interesting twist."

"I'll pass that info along," he said, although I knew he wouldn't. I was tempted to say, "So maybe if my baby had died the Enquirer would have been interested?!" But I didn't. The sad fact is, death, not birth, sells papers.

The photographer handed Michelle the yellow ribbon. I lifted her up and watched as she carefully began tying it around the branch.

"I wish you well, JonBenet," I said silently. From then on, that would be the image that would come into my mind whenever I thought of JonBenet; my beautiful daughters, standing in the sunlight, tying a ribbon around a little tree.

Perhaps for the rest of the world, Boulder had become a town of death and sorrow. But for me, it would always be a place of hope, joy and birth. The photographer snapped the picture as Michelle put the finishing touches on her bow.