Aselin

Back in 1986 I had a pretty big year. Among some of the oddities that befell my way, I was runner-up in a beauty pageant. (I can hear you laughing) (Stop it!)

Being runner up is a surreal event. Standing on stage holding hands in a best friend huddle with a girl you met a week ago. All eyes in the room watching, time seems to stop and both of you are holding your breath. Girls have been known to faint prior to the announcement, since for some reason every announcer has acted like Ryan Seacrest on American Idol: seemingly incapable of just netting out the information you need. Rather, the guy with the microphone and the envelope always gets caught up in the power play of suspense.

Then, the moment arrives, the envelope is unsealed, the calculations of Deloitte and Touche are revealed and...and...and...

Someone else’s name is called. Spotlight goes to her. People rush forward with flowers and crowns and there’s singing. I just stood there, out of the spotlight, clapping like I was ecstatically happy happy for her. Then I wandered around the back of the stage, not sure where to go. Soon I found myself back to the green room. Got someone to unzip my gown. Packed up, and went home.

The title of Miss Ventura County came with all sorts of perks: cash prizes, fame, groupies. As her dutiful runner-up I was poised to take over at any moment lest some misfortune befall her.

One of her duties was to preside over various activities at the County Fair. Having raised my share of competition lambs, I was well acquainted with the workings of the fair. Sort of like Templeton the Rat from Charlotte’s Web. For instance, I knew that if one had ‘duties’ at the fair one missed school. Somehow I convinced the pageant committee that the runner-up should accompany the winner on her duties. I can be quite persuasive, but I’m still not sure how I managed this one.

Attending concerts was one of the duties. As Fair Royalty, we were escorted back stage to meet the myriad of dignitaries who graced the stages of the fair and sanction their performances with our blessing. Billy Ocean, the Beach Boys, David Copperfield... just to name a few of the iconic performers who’s autographs I acquired.

1986 heralded the Ventura County Fair arrival of the chart topping group, “Flock of Seagulls”. All decked out in my crown and sash (from my city pageant) pageant officials brought me up to meet the wing-haired group.

Looking down his nose at me one of the Flock said derisively, “Who are you?”

With all my teenager poise I said “Um, uh, um, Aselin Spellman?”

He sneered, “No, who ARE you?”

Again, “Um, uh, um, Runner-up to her.” I motioned to my queen.

A third time, sporting a creepy lip curl, he repeated, “Who ARE you?”

Well at this point I was both confused and mad, so of course I said, in a tiny whisper of a voice, “I don’t know.”

He huffed and stomped off leaving me in a bundle of existential angst.

Later that night, staring at the ceiling in my room I thought about my inability to answer the question. I tried over and over to formulate what I should have said. I have perfected this skill - going over a conversation and coming up with better responses than my actual ones.

To this day, I don’t have a better answer. It’s not something that one can put into words. Us humans can’t be reduced to sound bites, no matter how much we’d like to simplify each other. Throughout my life I have run the gamut of dichotomies. Hero, coward, wise beyond my years, more stupid than one person should be allowed, lover, fighter - every possible contradiction has been a part of my continuing evolution.

My great satisfaction in all of this is that I, unlike the Flock of Seagulls, have not been a one-hit-wonder.