I can’t explain why I signed up for the local Young Woman of the Year contest in 1991. An ordinary 16-year-old with a messy backpack and limited fashion sense, I was going to compete with other girls–sing, dance, wear glittering evening attire. Perhaps I and three other average girls from my small school participated because a popular teacher had announced it and persuaded us to participate. He made it seem like the right thing to do.

But we were made to understand that this contest wasn’t about looks–oh, no. It was about recognizing and cultivating poise, confidence, grace–the strong inner girl young woman striding into the new decade to make her mark. That mission explained the recent name change. Previously, the contest had been referred to as “Junior Miss,” whose past winners included Kathy Lee Gifford and Diane Sawyer. However, a truism missed by the minds behind Young Woman of the Year was perhaps not overlooked by Junior Miss: the nature-nurture team distributes its gifts unevenly and had already awarded poise to the brainy, beautiful teens before the contest began.

None of us four really knew what we were getting ourselves into. We knew there was something about fitness, elegance, and poise in evening wear, an interview with judges to show our genuine selves, and a talent portion. If I hadn’t been young and impractical, with short time horizons, just the thought of all the preparation and guts involved in following through would have intimidated me. I was acquainted from afar with the concepts of “elegance,” “evening wear,” and “dancing;” however, I had rarely crossed paths with them and if it hadn’t been for this contest, our meetings would have been rare and brief.

Rehearsal was two or three times a week beginning at 6 pm, downtown. Looking back, I love my dad for dropping me off at the stolid, multistoried building and picking me up when I was done. I think I was late for the first practice. I had workout clothes as directed and came through the doors into a large room with a stage. On the open floor where chairs where the audience would be, a few dozen girls were working out to a catchy, energetic song demanding that “everybody dance now!” A bit more raucous than what I was used to, but I got down and joined them–aerobic workouts were nothing new to me. We were led by a pretty, smiling lady in her 20s who coordinated the local contest along with her parents.

The aerobics leader, Joy, had choreographed all the moves we were to learn. I took it that she was our example of a confident young woman of the ’90s, in that she always wore a lovely smile and was even and courteous in her interactions with us. Her parents, whom I knew from church, managed paperwork and details such as photography and event coordination. I remember Mrs. G. sat behind a table as we signed up for various activities, encouraging us to speak clearly, avoiding slang, never saying “Yeah.” Mr. G., tall and impressive with an unusual accent, stood and engaged us, laughing and being kind.

Despite the strong aerobics performance, problems started soon for me. I was lounging on the stage steps with my school friend Andrea when we “she” came through the doors. The new arrival, Jessica, was tall and Breck-haired, with a pretty face under the tumbling blond waves. Later I heard that she was dropped off by a boyfriend in a nice car. Andrea leaned over and whispered, “There’s the winner. Yep. She’s gonna win. You and I may as well go home now.” I didn’t think we needed to give up that easily. If we didn’t have Jessica’s hair, we had competitive smarts and talent, didn’t we? And Joy was going to teach us poise in our evening gowns.

My next problem began with the dance routine that would show how fit we were. Before I even realized we were learning a dance routine, the other girls had memorized several steps. Worse, I learned that Joy had choreographed nine long minutes of this fitness exhibition. Andrea had to tutor me at home on it; I was hopeless trying to pick it up at practice. I was really stuck on a move called “the snake.” Volleyball and aerobics had never required me to move sinuously and work so hard to remember my right from my left.

We all sat for photos with an ostensibly professional photographer; the result was a collection of unflattering black and white photos for the program and colored prints that looked even worse. The lighting did nothing to hide difficult complexions or shiny spots. I looked like I was hunching and the outfit with big florals did nothing for me. The photos effectively documented the organization’s mission to promote the young woman’s inner self, as it was all we had if we faced the world looking like that.

Soon it was time to sign up for a talent. The talent portion was its own special challenge, due not only to the time I had to invest, but also to the talents of the other girls. A good 60 percent of the group felt their talent was singing; the weeks of practice in the auditorium would prove otherwise. One, maybe two of the girls could sing enough to put their voices on display. The rest seemed to lack gentle adult guidance that would steer them in a different direction. Sometimes I wondered at Mr. and Mrs. G. coolly going about their tasks with the noise of a girl’s talent show in the background. Didn’t they hear that? Did they realize Whitney Houston was perhaps not the best selection for that individual, and if so, wouldn’t they be doing her a favor to tell her so, and soon?

Perhaps I had no right to judge. After racking my brain for a talent, I settled on recitation. I would spellbind the audience with my performance of James Weldon Johnson’s “The Creation.” I looked and presumably sounded nothing like the author. However, I could memorize. And I’d been in a few plays. At least I wasn’t singing. Andrea had gone through a similar process, and a veteran of piano lessons, she would be playing “Open Arms.” We were ready to face this thing.

Or perhaps not. Practice after practice, we worked on perfecting our nine-minute routine. I was instructed to replace my tennis shoes before the big date so I wouldn’t detract from the look of blue T-shirts, white shorts, and white shoes. New shoes notwithstanding, I couldn’t keep from stumping on that stage; in the video of the show, there I am doing all the moves–the circling, the fist rotating, the kicks, and even the snake–but I am still stumping.

There was the matter of the evening wear portion, where more dancing was required. A few girls would be on stage performing subtle steps to soft jazz music; once one got to the front, there were more showy moves for the audience. Thus each contestant would rotate to the microphone one at a time to describe her vision of the woman of the ’90s. (My vision included career, but prioritized home and family–no barriers busted there.)

Something else I hadn’t bargained for was the opening number. I learned there was to be an exciting opening number with all the young women pouring into the auditorium from different directions and making their way up the aisles to the front. We were to sing along with the recording, something about “the city,” and move our hands and selves in coordination with the music. The true me had yet to emerge under all this choreography, but perhaps I would have more luck with my judges’ interview.

My session with the judges was a disaster. Mrs. G. had expressly said that judges started out with “easy” questions. Later on, they might work in trickier items. But they were interested in you, in your dreams and aspirations, and so on. The first thing the judges wanted to know: my paperwork said I wanted to be a missionary. Why was that? Why did I want to be a missionary? Having little time to collect my thoughts, I gave an answer that came out of the colonialist’s playbook, at least for this audience. After explaining that I had been born overseas, I said something about bringing light in darkness. I knew immediately that my response hadn’t gone over well.

They tried again. “This says you’re a Star Trek fan,” said another one, his face open and ready to engage. I acknowledged that I really liked the reruns of the ’60s show on Saturday afternoons. “Because I like to make fun of it.” I added. “What cheesy sets and bizarre storylines.” The panel looked uncomfortable. I hoped I hadn’t hurt anyone’s feelings.

Despite the difficulties, my mom and I went dress shopping for the show. I didn’t like any of the formal dress styles in the stores, and finally settled for a royal blue one with fitted, sequined bodice and skirt to the knees. For the opening number, I had a soft peach coat dress–pretty, a bit too big, and not really evocative of the big city. For the resonant poetry recitation, I would be appearing in an aqua dress with cascading collar edged in off-white lace.

My parents were troopers the whole contest period. Perhaps they were a little surprised that I was taking part in this, but there was no sighing or eye rolls. They gave me rides downtown and purchased the new wardrobe without complaint. At one point, I remember walking with them all dressed up for a contest event in a blue dress with wide, pointed belt I had bought with babysitting money. “You know what?” my dad said to my mom. “Our Angie looks really grown up, doesn’t she?” “Yes, she does,” said my mom. “Honey, you look so nice–you’re really growing up,” he went on. “Look how you’re walking so tall and wearing that pretty dress.”

The day of the show, Andrea and I noticed our popular teacher in the audience along with a group of boys he had persuaded to join him, including the boy we liked. Oh, great. We still had to go ahead with it. The music started, and we made our way up the aisle with our bright show faces singing about the city. Mr. and Mrs. G.’s two sons officiated. I stumped through the exercise routine, swayed to jazz in my blue sequins, gave my un-PC assessment of the woman of the ’90s, and said my poem with the microphone off, due to error or misunderstanding. Another girl did a stunning tap dance and an trim, petite competitor did a trim, petite Latin dance around a hat.

However, time and cute costume choices had done nothing to enhance the string of song numbers the audience sat through. Then Jessica sat at a piano with her golden hair tumbling around her shoulders, singing a song she had composed while displaying a drawing illustrating her piece. No wonder the judges were so interested in whether I had written my poetry selection.

Finally it was time to announce the winners. The two winners of this round would go on to Santa Rosa to compete for the next title. Did I want to go to Santa Rosa? I had never heard of Santa Rosa before this contest, but Mrs. G. always made it sound exciting. Yet I imagined another dusty California desert town and dark, air-conditioned auditoriums. Did I want to go on “to the next round”? No, I did not.

I had nothing to worry about. Jessica won. Jessica and another tall, self-assured girl with hair in ringlets and probably a bold, creative vision for women of the ’90s. There were other awards, though. Recognition for talent went to the tap dancer in her glittering red hat, of course. I can just hear Andrea saying psshhh under her breath. Would I get an award for academic merit? The time I didn’t spend perfecting tap dancing I spent studying (or watching Star Trek, babysitting, and shopping.) But in my small-school context, I had never heard of honors classes or AP. That award went to a girl named Marilyn, I’m sure deservedly so.

I could now go home and back to a schedule free of long dance sequences or speeches. A yellow program book and a video reminded me that I really had gone through with this whole thing. I wouldn’t have chosen to dance and talk and recite in front of an audience, but there I was. I decided after reviewing the video that the poem performance wasn’t so bad. My voice didn’t fill the auditorium, but I could hear intensity in my words. When I got to “This great God / Like a mammy bending over her baby,” my face and voice communicated a great tenderness the poem’s author had imagined when God molded the capstone of His creation.

My two younger siblings had a blast watching the video repeatedly. It had nothing to do with appreciating their older sister. There were certain musical episodes from the talent section that drew them in, especially a Whitney Houston performance and a song from The Little Mermaid. Today, the video sits in the basement coated with dust. I’d love to watch it with my girls, but the sound no longer works. I blame my brother and sister, who wore it out when they repeatedly rewound it to their favorite parts. But in the spirit of the contest, the ’90s saw me finishing school and beginning a career I loved. The arrival of a tiny daughter capped the last few days of the decade and started a new phase that would prioritize home and children. I call that winning.