Let’s talk about pageants. Not the glitzy, high-stakes Miss Universe spectacles, but the quieter, community-driven ones that still manage to spark debate. Take the California Mid-State Fair’s recent coronation of Gabby Bodenshot as its new queen. On the surface, it’s a feel-good story about young women competing in talent, interviews, and evening gowns. But dig deeper, and you’ll find a fascinating clash between tradition and modernity, between the pageant’s stated goals of building confidence and the unspoken critiques of such events in today’s world.
Personally, I think the most intriguing part of this story isn’t the winner herself, but the fact that the pageant still exists at all. In an age where self-confidence is often marketed as a product to be consumed through social media filters and influencer culture, what does it mean for a 17-year-old to step onto a stage and be judged on ‘public speaking experience’? It feels almost anachronistic, yet organizers insist it’s about empowerment. What makes this particularly fascinating is the tension between that claim and the reality that pageants have long been criticized for objectifying women. If the goal is leadership, why are contestants still required to wear evening gowns and walk in heels? It’s a contradiction that says more about our cultural hangups than the pageant itself.
Gabby Bodenshot’s double win—best interview and the title—raises another question. Winning an interview segment suggests a focus on articulation, poise, and intelligence. But in a world where viral TikTok videos can make or break a person’s public image, does this kind of structured, formal competition still have relevance? I find it interesting that the pageant prioritizes this over, say, digital literacy or STEM skills. It’s as if they’re clinging to a bygone era of femininity, even as the world around them shifts. What this really suggests is that pageants are not just about beauty—they’re about nostalgia, about holding onto a version of womanhood that feels increasingly out of sync with reality.
Then there’s the talent category, won by Jacqueline Woodland. Talent in pageants is often a performative act, a chance to showcase a skill that’s both impressive and marketable. But what happens when that talent is something like playing the piano or reciting poetry? It feels like a relic of a time when a woman’s worth was measured by her ability to entertain, not her ability to lead. From my perspective, this highlights a broader issue: pageants are still stuck in the 20th century, even as their participants are 21st-century young women navigating a world that values authenticity over artifice.
And let’s not forget the Miss Congeniality award, which JoDee Jones earned through peer votes. This is one of the few aspects of pageants that feels genuinely democratic. It’s a reminder that leadership isn’t just about charisma—it’s about being liked, about building relationships. But even here, the irony is that the same people who criticize pageants for promoting superficiality are often the ones who end up voting for the ‘nicest’ contestant. It’s a paradox that underscores how deeply ingrained these traditions are, even as we claim to move beyond them.
If you take a step back and think about it, the California Mid-State Fair pageant is a microcosm of a larger cultural struggle. On one hand, it’s a platform for young women to gain skills, confidence, and visibility. On the other, it’s a vestige of a system that still defines women’s value through performance, appearance, and charm. What many people don’t realize is that the pageant’s survival depends on this duality—it needs to be both progressive and traditional, both empowering and exclusionary. It’s a tightrope walk, and one that will only grow more precarious as society continues to demand more from its institutions.
This raises a deeper question: Can pageants evolve without losing their identity? Or are they doomed to be seen as relics, no matter how well-intentioned their organizers? A detail that I find especially interesting is how the pageant frames itself as a ‘competition’ while simultaneously emphasizing community and personal growth. It’s a marketing strategy, of course, but it also reflects a genuine desire to do good. Yet, the challenge remains: How do you reconcile the pageant’s past with its future? Will it adapt to include more diverse categories, like advocacy or innovation? Or will it cling to its roots, even as its relevance fades?
In the end, the California Mid-State Fair’s new queen is just one young woman in a long line of contestants. But her story—and the story of the pageant itself—says a lot about how we, as a society, still grapple with the idea of womanhood. Whether this is a step forward or a step backward depends on who you ask. And that, I think, is the most important takeaway of all.
