Three weeks ago, after manually constructing breasts, bruising myself with batons and adorning a blue crushed velvet leotard, I captured the title of Miss Harvard 2002. I successfully transformed myself from an awkward nerd to a voluptuous bombshell by applying a sharp razor to my hairy legs and a thick layer of concealer to my blemished face. Post-pageant, with my bouquet of roses dying and my breasts in the trash can, I assumed I would resume the mundane, insular life where I’m mildly anti-social and invariably celibate (the latter not by choice). But the rhinestone-studded tiara and the crimson-colored sash resting on my bookshelf haven’t started collecting dust just yet. Instead, they seem to pop up in every conversation I have, in newspapers and on the Internet. Sometimes I feel like my title is tattooed to my forehead as random passersby take shy peeks while whispering, “There she is. Miss Harvard.”

Not that I mind the temporary notoriety. In all honesty, I’ve always been a mild exhibitionist. There’s a thrill to knowing that girls envy your legs and that a few straight men fancy you over their current girlfriends (you know who you are). But as anyone who has endured plastic surgery—i.e., Michael, Janet or LaToya—knows, beauty is pain. As I prepared for the pageant, I had to ask myself, “What will it take to be Miss Harvard?” More importantly (as my preparations proceeded): “What injuries am I going to sustain?”

First, Miss Harvard could not be hairy. Due to the sheer length and volume of my leg hair, a lawn mower would have been easier to use than my Gillette Mach 3. The night before the pageant, as I stood naked in the bathtub, warm water running, I watched inch-long hairs peel off into a watery mélange of foamy white shaving cream and occasional drops of blood. I awkwardly maneuvered my body as I shaved the rear of my thighs, only breaking more skin in my futile attempt to be careful and precise. An analgesic layer of lotion, though, assuaged the dry areas and the numerous cuts. I had legs, but I didn’t know how to use them.

Miss Harvard should embody fitness. In order to accentuate my calf muscles, I decided to parade around in four-inch stiletto heels. As I practiced walking up and down Winthrop House’s F entry, I felt like an elephant on a tightrope—the diameter of the heel’s base was only one centimeter. Apparently, women walk on their tiptoes; if you put any weight on the heel it’s likely to crack under the pressure, especially if you have turkey-shaped thighs like me. As I grew more comfortable, I added sass to my walk. Hips, then thighs and, bam, a surprise—I could finally work it. There would be no twisted ankles after the pageant, just a sore lower body. The adrenaline pumping during the competition kept me from noticing immediately, but the morning after my victory I felt lactic acid saturating my quadriceps and calves. Climbing stairs became a difficult task and I was walking funny for a week.

Miss Harvard should also stick to her roots—culturally and in terms of hair. I’m half-Vietnamese and it was important I emphasize this. For so much of my life, Asians could only see me as white and whites thought I was Mexican. By selecting a black wig, I emphasized my Asian heritage rather than opting for a blonde wig that would scream Aryan beauty. Additionally, the wig would help dispel myths that blondes have more fun. Although I don’t have a Ken to call my own, I sported a Barbie look for the swimsuit competition; my pink zebra print bra complemented my skimpy pink sarong. While it was simple to select sleazy clothes from my favorite thrift stores, I was incapable of making my acne vanish and my lips shine. What to do? I enlisted the help of Brooke L. Chavez ’04. A veteran beauty queen, Brooke agreed to serve as my pageant coach and my makeup artist. She introduced me to the wonders of concealer: It could not only erase acne, but also awaken tired, bag-ridden eyes. She taught me to make my lips appear fuller by applying lipstick on the flesh surrounding the lips. “Girls do it all the time,” she whispered with a giggle. By revealing her secrets, Brooke made me beautiful. My exterior was now polished, but what about my insides?

Miss Harvard should carry herself with poise and confidence. During the pageant itself I found my greatest test. Prior to the talent competition, I stood outside Leverett Dining Hall in a dimly lit alley waiting for the stage door to open. Three local youths—two women and a guy—approached me with their bloodshot eyes and the stench of alcohol on their breath. The male pressed me to take off my wig. He wanted to run on stage, he explained, and shout expletives at the “faggots” in drag. I told him my wig was glued to my head. Then he pulled out a bottle of vodka from his oversized Starter jacket to help me “chill.” I told him I was an advocate of prohibition. He called me a bitch. Luckily, the flamenco dancer on stage completed her routine, and I eagerly passed through the door with my raincoat and umbrella to start twirling batons to “It’s Raining Men.”

I’d be lying if I said my victory hasn’t gone to my head. It sounds absurd, but the title does carry with it ambassadorial responsibilities. Attaching the word “Harvard” to anything suddenly makes it important to the outside world. After conducting a low-key interview with The Crimson, I found a link to the article on the Wall Street Journal’s Online Opinion Journal. The heading? “What does this say about Harvard Women?” Soon after, I got a call from the Chronicle of Higher Education. The reporter asked me pointed questions such as “Were any of the female contestants angry?” and requested exclusive photos from the swimsuit competition. Another online news site, entitled “Campus Nonsense: Exposing Left-Wing Lunacy,” featured the story as well. In the same segment where they criticize a Stanford protest against Condoleezza Rice’s selection as commencement speaker, the pageant rears its tiara-topped head. “I haven’t heard anyone mention the choice of a drag-queen as Miss Harvard,” the author writes. “Personally, I take the libertarian approach to these events, but suspect that some of you out there would be interested since the audience is conservative.” I’m not totally sure what he means, but it’s nice to feel important.

But amidst all the spectacle and publicity, the crown has reminded me of my innumerable character flaws. A good friend at MIT sent me a series of e-mails requesting photos from the pageant and ended with the following message: “I am probably annoying the shit out of you by now, but I don’t care because you are Miss Harvard. You have to pretend to be nice even though you’re a total bitch.” And it’s true. I’ve always had difficulty being completely honest with people who rub me the wrong way or complicate my life. It has taken mild forms like when an elementary school student from Mission Hill who attended the pageant approached me moments after my victory. “Miss Harvard, may I have a rose?” she asked. I begrudgingly gave her one—along with a superficial smile.

I’d be lying again if I said the crown has changed my life, but it has helped give me perspective. I’m trying to be more sincere; I’m trying to cultivate a more genuine sense of friendliness. Spring Break couldn’t have come at a better time. I spent my vacation with 12 other Harvard students in Decatur, Ala., on a Phillips Brooks House Association Spring Break. Among our varied volunteer activities, we painted houses for economically disadvantaged elderly residents. At one of the houses, a local high school student named Boone helped out. He was incredibly quiet and never talked; he just seemed to paint and to stare. But after someone in our group blurted out that I was Miss Harvard, he suddenly became more interested in speaking with me. Chewing on a piece of grass and talking in a southern drawl, he encouraged me as I twirled a broom like it was a baton. Later, when his brother came to pick him up and asked what the best part of his day was, Boone said it was meeting Miss Harvard. His brother, ignorant of who had actually won, wanted to stick around and meet her.

What I learned in Alabama is that I can take this crown—created to spoof beauty pageants, not to honor the winner for his or her actual beauty—and use it as a gateway to open people up. Beauty queens are supposedly ultra-caring and beautiful, and I don’t mind hiding behind that facade, even if it isn’t totally accurate. Throughout the trip I met amazing people, all of whom seemed to respond to talk of the tiara. From Miss Tunnicliff, who admired the whiskers finally growing back on my legs, to the other volunteers, who broke the ice by taking scandalous pictures of Miss Harvard in the hot tub, the crown facilitates relationship building. Apparently drag queens leave an impression.

And, hopefully, all of this will leave an impression on me too. Last Wednesday, as our group entertained mentally and physically handicapped children in an Alabama gymnasium, I played with an autistic 12-year-old named Ben. The whole week I realized I could depend on my title to entertain, but Ben was not going to care about that at all. He liked me, though—we played catch and he fell asleep on my lap.

Ben didn’t know about my tiara, nor did he know about my sash. There were no cameras for me to smile into and the trash can with my breasts was literally a thousand miles away. Still, I carried with me the silly notion that I am Miss Harvard. I know that the title has gone to my head and that I’ve exaggerated its importance. I know there is no Miss Ivy League pageant to prepare for, no events for me to speak at and no official duties to perform. But the crown has reminded me that it’s important how you carry yourself. I’ve been reminded that it’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice.