Just when I thought I’d never hear Burt Park’s version of “There she is…walking on air she is,” a new-aged, exploitative She has stepped into stilettos and left her prison cell to run for the coveted title, “Miss Jail.” My mind flutters with a fury of thoughts running the gamut from, “How does one acquire false lashes behind bars? Is there a Loreal make-up room and Tre’ Semme hair salon likened to Project Runway? And my final itchy inquiry, what viable social platform does an ex-con covet that will advance a humanitarian cause?
In my Billy Crystal voice, “Pageantry has been veddy veddy good to me,” so don’t get my post-reign, tiara-stained views twisted, I just thought I’d never see the day. I recall pageantry being loads of fun and a respectable venue to pursue higher education via scholarship acquisition, but if you’re convicted of running drugs or kill your pimp, I mean really, fun for you behind bars should be squinting in dim light to find jagged-edged, puzzle pieces rendered unidentifiable by a rat’s vicious gnaw. Fun for you should be the day Warden Big Bertha provides a random drawing for a pack of tampons with the hygiene string still attached. THAT, my dear, is a prison privilege.
Jail, prison, lock-down, lock-up, or the hole should be a place for conscious reflect and punishment by means of denying one access to life’s divine privileges and for the female gender, lack of fashion access should top the list. Jurors across the country would be riddled with shock and appall to know their well-reasoned convictions allowed a murderer to one day strip from her over-sized prison blues and don a sequin or beaded gown with a slit up to there. I’ll bet they are also provided Nair; the mere ridicule forces poetic rhyme.
In fairness to the country in which I reside and love, this millennium trend has taken place in apparently more liberal parts of the world like Brazil and Russia where murder is really code for mean. I can hear foreign judges across the globe now: “I hereby sentence you to 15 years behind bars for drug trafficking and carrying a concealed weapon, now sashay your buxom self to prison and be the beautiful winner you are.”
There may be good intent of reforming one’s character, in addition to providing social outlets for inmates, but allowing male guards and a prison populous the opportunity to applaud, cat-call, and whistle for their designate delight just don’t seem right. Who does one complain to when a fellow contestant wardrobe shreds or sneakily puts glue inside platform shoes? Nobody. She also tied a man to a tree and shot him at point blank rage, so feel lucky!
While it wasn’t reported, I imagine the previous year’s winner’s farewell speech including trite salutations like, “I’d like to thank the victim’s family for giving me this opportunity to mock his death by promoting glamour and glitz, and to the crew in cell block 152, thank you (sniff, sniff) thank you, for pooling your commissary funds to purchase bobby pins and endless cans of Aqua Net.”
I am stymied about the mind over this comical discovery, and ask employers around the globe to look closely at resumes that may not disclose exoneration and restoration of one’s civil rights, but under accomplishments – with silicone, breast-implanted pride – includes the title, “Miss Jail.”
Undoubtedly, it would be in a 16 pt. font, bold, italicized and comic sans serif appropriate.
Penny Dickerson 2011