Decades ago, when I was in college, campus organizations from clubs to residence halls to Greek houses each selected a young woman for the honor of representing them as a football homecoming queen candidate.
I had no business being one of the five coeds interviewed by a men’s residence hall to be their candidate. On the appointed night my presence was requested at their dorm, the guys assembled in the lobby. They sat on couches and chairs, leaned against the walls, and sprawled on the floor. We five gals, probably all except me nominated by boyfriends, gave short bios. The guys voted, and I was so thrilled they elected me as their candidate. It was a fun evening and pretty stress free.
But a week later when all the candidates representing the living groups and clubs, probably 25 of us, were sequestered in one room, I was sweating bullets. We awaited our time to be called for an interview in front of a panel of students and faculty who would chose the queen and her three attendants.
We would all be asked two questions. One would be specifically tailored for the candidate, and the second one would be the same question for everyone.
I was third to be called into the giant interview room, a.k.a. the Student Union ballroom. Seven judges sat at long white tables. Seated behind them was a large audience of interested students, mostly members of sororities and fraternities ready to whoop it up for their candidate.
I stepped up to the microphone. A student senator read from a 3×5 card, “Do you consider your height a detriment or an asset?” I’m four-foot-eight, so you can see why that was my personal question. I said something about not having to worry about dates being shorter than me, and that got a chuckle.
But the second question! “What was your reaction last week upon hearing about the theft of the statue of our college mascot?”
The statue was on The Oval, where wide sidewalks connected main campus buildings in an oval shape. The four-by-five-foot statue, a modern art impression of a sitting gorilla, was affixed on a four-foot-high concrete platform. I didn’t know how it was attached or what the statue was made of, but it had to be heavy.
Obviously, my reaction was curiosity, and I voiced my questions. How did they do it? It had to take several people, and I assumed they were males. I figured they needed a pickup to haul it. What was their motive? Where was campus security? Didn’t they hear a vehicle on The Oval?
I must have read too many Sherlock Holmes stories for that to be the first notion that popped into my mind. When I finished giving my totally honest reaction to the theft, there was a spattering of applause. Then I took my seat with the two candidates who had already been interviewed. We now could witness how the others were received.
The next coed gave an answer 180 degrees from mine.
“I was heartbroken to learn that our beloved mascot had been taken,” she said in a breathy voice. She held her hand over her heart for emphasis. “It’s just terrible. I’m devastated.” Her voice caught as if she was on the verge of tears. “The gorilla represents our pride in our school. We’re so fortunate to attend this fine college to further our educations.” Yada, yada, yada.
I felt my face flush. My humiliation grew as each candidate answered in a comparable vein to thunderous applause.
Every one of the other candidates gave a similar response.
I was not chosen queen nor selected for her court.
The statue was later found in the college lake.
No one was charged with the theft.
And I still have unanswered questions about the crime.
