A Red State Of Mind

\ \ A Red State Of Mind\ \ \ \ By Nancy French\ \ \ Center Street\ \ \ Copyright © 2006\ \ Nancy French\ All right reserved.\ \ ISBN: 1-931-72288-9\ \ \ \ \ Chapter One\ \ \ What Is a Catfish Queen? \ MANY GIRLS DREAM of fairy godmothers, glass slippers, and handsome\ princes as they drift off to sleep under pink gingham quilts ...\ but not the ones in Paris, Tennessee. We liked Cinderella, Sleeping\ Beauty, and the Little Mermaid, of course, but our favorite princess\ was no mass-marketed, consumer-oriented creation with figures\ featured in the latest Happy Meal. Instead, we idolized a princess\ who never went out of style. Year after year-as we graduated from\ Slinkys to banana-seat bicycles to training bras to electric-blue\ eye shadow and shirts inexplicably emblazoned with the Coca-Cola\ logo-one thing stayed the same. We all dreamed of winning the crown\ in the Fish Fry pageant, whether we admitted it or not.\ I guess that's why I put on a rhinestone necklace and entered the\ pageant. My dress was actually quite tame compared to the one I'd\ later wear to the prom, which resembled the grisly aftermath of a\ run-in between a mermaid and a sequin monster with a glue gun. The\ dress I'd chosen for the pageant was royal-blue satin, with a\ straight skirt and a fitted bodice with princess sleeves. I looked\ nice and slim in it, especially since my permed hair-poufed out to\ beach ball proportions-created the illusion of height.\ I was 5 feet7-1/2 inches, which my basketball coach rounded up to 5\ foot 8 to create a more intimidating roster. Point guard for the\ Lady Blue Devils that year, I had spent many hours hanging out in\ our locker room, which smelled slightly of mold and socks. That\ night, however, it wasn't filled with lanky ballplayers complaining\ of shin splints. Instead, I walked in my satin shoes (dyed to match\ my dress) into a war room. Girls and their beauty products were\ spread out all over the benches, their mothers wielding curling\ irons with surgeon-like dexterity. A fog of hair spray, permanently\ depleting the ozone over northwestern Tennessee, engulfed me at the\ door. People looked up at me in surprise.\ "You look pretty," the girls all said, which of course made me feel\ ridiculous. They were all wearing underwear and T-shirts as their\ moms worked furiously on their long tresses. When I'd signed up for\ the pageant, the lady had told me to be there an hour and a half\ before showtime, which I figured was to make sure no one was late. I\ had no idea that all the work was done on the premises. "So you'll\ look fresh," they explained. These girls were pageant experts,\ having competed in the Fish Fry contests since the Baby Barnyard\ pageant.\ I felt like I'd showed up for the SATs without a pencil. The other\ contestants, moderately attractive girls I sat behind in math class,\ looked positively stunning-and they weren't even finished getting\ ready. Hair was piled high on their heads in large rollers, bobby\ pins sticking out in every direction like thorns on a rose. Their\ moms painted makeup on their faces with more care than the Sistine\ Chapel ever received from Michelangelo. They'd spent weeks attaining\ the perfect skin tone in the tanning beds so that everyone resembled\ carrots or incredibly enthusiastic Tennessee Volunteer fans. My skin\ was as pale as the bar of soap which was, in fact, my only beauty\ regimen. I didn't know about eyeliner or what "my colors" were, and\ my lipstick was from the bargain bin at Wal-Mart.\ I stood there, shuffling my feet as my freshness left me like a\ child abandoning a broken toy. As the clock ticked slowly toward\ seven o'clock, dresses were carefully lowered over Aqua- Netted\ hairdos. Potbellies were tamed with Lycra, cleavage was created with\ duct tape, and height was bolstered with three-inch heels.\ "Hey, Nancy!" my friend Olivia said. "My rollers are already hot if\ you want to do your hair." The stunned silence of the room indicated\ that everyone but Olivia realized my hair was already done. Her mom\ interrupted with the cheery suggestion, "Let's practice our walks!"\ Olivia's mom owned her own beauty shop, sold Mary Kay products, and\ possessed a huge case of makeup that could magically transform any\ ugly duckling into a swan, though Olivia was no duckling. Her rich\ chocolate hair, big brown eyes, and position as head cheerleader\ made her the most popular girl in the school. Her pink dress was\ covered in sequins except for the flared bottom that showcased her\ perfect calves as she sauntered across the locker room with\ confidence and poise. Wait a minute, I thought. That's walking? She\ looked like a dust bunny being blown gracefully from underneath the\ bed, and I knew I was in trouble. Just as it never occurred to me to\ practice my breathing until I took Lamaze classes many years later,\ I had definitely not practiced walking. I tried a crash course,\ awkwardly following Olivia across the locker room as the mothers\ looked away in embarrassment.\ "Honey, just stick your boobs out, suck in your stomach, and pretend\ you've got a book on your head."\ As I waited in line behind the curtains of the stage, I was\ horrified. Boobs, stomach, book. Everyone looked better than I did,\ even the members of the marching band. And they knew how to walk.\ When the announcer called my name, I came out onstage and walked\ from one piece of tape on the floor to the next, forming a triangle\ of humiliation. "Nancy is the daughter of Bob and Betty, enjoys\ playing basketball, and likes to hang out with friends." At each\ piece of tape on the floor, I stopped and smiled at the judges\ behind a table at the foot of the stage. The announcer ran out of\ material before I reached the second mark. I mentally kicked myself\ for not putting more effort into filling out the autobiography\ paragraph on the application sheet. I could've at least mentioned\ that I was the school spelling bee champ and enjoyed making fruit\ baskets for the elderly.\ Miraculously, I made it all the way to the second round-beating out\ the girls who frankly should've stayed home-to the casual-wear\ portion of the program. Other girls wore polkadotted sweaters with\ pleated skirts or matching shorts sets, going for the\ lunch-at-the-country-club look. My casual ensemble, however, was a\ striped silk jacket in bold primary colors with gold buttons that,\ frankly, fit in best under the big top. Although it didn't have a\ bow tie that squirted water in people's faces, it did have a tie-a\ long silk one that my dad had to teach me to knot.\ It never occurred to me that being prodded onstage like a cow at the\ state fair was anything less than empowering. I hadn't yet been\ exposed to a proper women's studies program. A few months later, I'd\ hear the term "sexual harassment" for the first time in my life,\ when an incident involving a few girls on the bus and guys with\ roving hands caused our health teacher to give a stern speech in\ assembly. (Afterward, the guys joked that they were unaware "harass"\ was just one word.) Nonetheless, on that night, under the hot lights\ on the wooden stage, I wanted more than anything to complete my\ silk-jacket-and-man's-tie ensemble with a fake diamond Fish Fry\ crown.\ After another strut on the stage, we waited nervously in the gym for\ the top ten to be announced. I could tell by the hooting and\ hollering that the crowd was getting more excited as the field of\ competitors was being narrowed. Boyfriends of the participants\ placed bets on whether their girlfriend would win and sat in the\ front row like the owners of roosters in a cockfight. The rest of\ the auditorium was packed, of course, as is always the case-the\ community attended the pageants as faithfully as the high school\ football games.\ All this goes to show that the Catfish Queen was different from any\ princess we read about in fairy tales. She wasn't just a pretty face\ with a hard luck story, rodents turned coachmen, or an inflexible\ curfew. Rather, she was a carefully chosen symbol of the city of\ Paris, one with many important responsibilities. Namely, she had the\ honor of starting the festivities at the Fish Tent by tossing the\ first hush puppy.\ The Fish Tent, of course, was the reason the World's Biggest Fish\ Fry was in fact so big. In one week, twelve thousand pounds of\ catfish were fried to golden perfection and served with French\ fries, white beans, coleslaw, and, of course, hush puppies. For\ those of you who aren't familiar with fine Southern cuisine, hush\ puppies are balls of deep-fried cornmeal usually served with\ catfish. Mark Twain spoke of them in Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,\ writing, "There ain't nothing in the world so good when it's cooked\ right." According to tradition, they were so named because Southern\ Civil War cooks tossed them to their dogs to keep them quiet when\ Union troops were near, saying, "Hush, puppy!"\ People lined up outside the Fish Tent hours in advance to jockey for\ the first plate of food-guaranteeing not only hot catfish but also a\ photo in the hometown newspaper, the Paris Post-Intelligencer.\ However, the most important photo of the day was that of the Catfish\ Queen tossing the first hush puppy to a family member, usually her\ father, to officially begin the celebration. This tradition became\ so famous that major-league baseball patterned their season opener\ after the Fish Fry-but it never was as exciting.\ It might seem improbable that the world's biggest anything would\ occur in Paris, which is well over a hundred miles northwest of\ Nashville and even further northeast of Memphis. But to me, Paris\ was America at its best. I had moved to Paris as a child from an\ even smaller town in Kentucky, so I felt like George Jefferson when\ he moved on up to the East Side. Paris not only had a Wal-Mart,\ McDonald's, and Dollar General store, but an Arby's-a sure sign of\ civic taste and sophistication. More important, however, Paris had\ Kentucky Lake-one of the largest man-made lakes in the world, with\ 2,300 miles of shoreline and year-round boating, hunting, and\ hiking. But it was the fishing that drew a hundred thousand people\ every April to our little city of nine thousand residents.\ The lowly catfish, a bottom feeder that has the misfortune of\ tasting good fried, was king that week. Vendors sold Styrofoam fish\ hats, fish toys, and T-shirts emblazoned with "Paris, Tennessee-Home\ of Beautiful Catfish and Delicious Women." I felt that\ particular pride of living in a place that at least some people\ considered a vacation spot. For absolutely no reason, it made me\ feel smart. After all, I didn't have to stay at the Best Western to\ see the catfish races and knew the best location for the premier\ views of the parade. (Catfish races, by the way, are like any other\ race, except that they are staged in specially made Plexiglas canals\ while the townspeople stand around cheering for their specific\ fish.) I guess the feeling is a little like how sophomores feel upon\ seeing wide-eyed freshmen walking through the halls holding\ maps-excited to see fresh faces, invigorated to show them around,\ and somehow gratified to realize that other people were interested\ in the place you call home. Many years later, the tourists walking\ by my apartment near the Liberty Bell would elicit in me the same\ sensation I felt back then when giving people directions to the Fish\ Tent.\ Paris had a rodeo, several dances, and a carnival that defied all\ safety and health regulations. Apparently the only job requirement\ for running the Tilt-A-Whirl was a blood alcohol content above .3\ percent, while selling corn dogs simply required an aversion to\ deodorant. The Catfish Queen made an appearance at each of these\ events, showing dignitaries around, wearing new outfits, and posing\ for photos.\ In fact, a special section of the Paris Post-Intelligencer was\ dedicated to the winners of the pageants, called "Paris in the\ Spring." Winners were featured on entire pages with huge photographs\ and exhaustive biographical sketches. They even posed for\ advertisements paid for by local businesses, so that they appeared\ all week in various shots-eating hush puppies at Cindy's Catfish\ Kitchen, sitting behind the wheel at Carter's Used Cars, and posing\ with kids on the playground of Miss Betty's Kinder Garden.\ "Two, seven, nine, thirteen ..." As the pageant sponsor read the\ numbers slowly and sequentially from her perch on the bleachers,\ contestants and spectators alike crumpled over in tears or jumped\ out of their heels in joy. I glanced down at the number sixteen\ written in glitter on a paper plate pinned to my dress and swallowed\ hard when she jumped from fourteen to twenty-two.\ Turns out the only way I could've worn the crown was if I pried it\ off Olivia's perfectly coiffed head in the parking lot on the way\ home. I never got to be a Catfish Queen, and Olivia won so many\ pageants over the years that her dad had to build an addition to the\ house to showcase her crowns. Our senior year in high school,\ however, I somehow beat her in our mutual bid for homecoming queen.\ Not that a liberated gal like me cares about such things.\ (Continues...)\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ Excerpted from A Red State Of Mind\ by Nancy French\ Copyright © 2006 by Nancy French.\ Excerpted by permission.\ All rights reserved. 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