Miss America, Soy Yo (I Am Miss America)

"I am not pretty."

Those are the words I used to say to my reflection in my mother's vanity. I would sit with my chin on my hand and stare at my face from all angles. I'd look at my profile and push the tip of my nose up with my finger. "If only I could have a Morgan Fairchild nose," I would moan in my head.

I remember the first time I saw Whoopi Goldberg's standup act on HBO.

I don't remember it because it was funny (although I'm sure it was), but I remember it because of this one particular bit that she does.

She affects the tone of a little girl while placing a long-sleeved yellow shirt on over her dreadlocks. She flings the long sleeves and tail over her shoulder and tells the audience to look at her beautiful "long blonde hair."

I was stunned into silence.

I thought I was the only one that did that.

My "long blonde hair" was a golden bath towel wrapped Turban style around my 10-year-old head. I’d stand in front of our bathroom mirror and fling that towel around with all the vivacity of the most talented shampoo model.

Let me make one thing clear: I don't blame my childhood insecurities on Barbie.

I blame them on Christie Brinkley.

She was all the rave when I was growing up.

Her "All American" looks stared back at me from the racks at the grocery store. I coveted her naturally rosy cheeks and that shining cap of golden hair that tumbled over her shoulders.

I was not that lucky.

I am of Honduran descent so there is absolutely no escaping my dark looks.

As hard as I tried to fight them, they were the first things that people saw when they looked at me.

My closest childhood friend had blond hair and blue eyes. We did everything together and eventually came to think of each other as sisters. This delusion was swiftly shattered when I overheard her mother refer to us as Salt and Pepper. I, of course, was Pepper.

In fact, most of my friends were blonde-haired, blue-eyed.

I didn't purposely surround myself with Caucasian friends.

It just worked out that way.

It wasn't until I got to high school that I had Hispanic friends, and they were just as messed up as I was. Our parents spoke to us in Spanish and we responded to them in English, and we all struggled in the quest to find the right foundation that didn't make us look orange or ghostly. Some of them told me that I was lucky and had a name like Melissa, not Marietta or Margarita.

I was always secretly grateful that my parents had given me such an Anglo sounding name.

But, that was high school.

I'll never forget the first time a man said to me, "Your eyes are so dark and mysterious." It made me take another look at my reflection.

I learned to make peace with my dark, curly hair. My first day as a curly headed woman, someone asked where I got my fabulous perm, I smiled shyly and said, "Oh, my hair is naturally curly." I still engage in the occasional fight to iron out those curls, but I’ve learned to like my "wild woman" look.

I've even come to accept the fact that Kate Moss and I will never have the same figure.

Hispanic women, no matter how thin, always have hips. I can look at the women in my family, big and small, and see that genetics are something I can only fight to a certain point. So, now when I look at my body I don't just see "big" hips, I see the soft curves that made Marilyn Monroe such a sexy woman.

I’ve also realized that as much as I tried to deny my background, my parents never let me forget where I came from. They shipped me off to Honduras every summer where only one of my cousins spoke English. I never lost the ability to speak "their" language, and for that I am eternally grateful.

So, you know what, I'm not white, but I'm as American as the next person; I get misty when I hear the Star Spangled Banner and the United States is what I refer to when I say home.

I've been accused of not being "Hispanic enough," but what does that mean?

Does that mean that I should have an accent when I speak or that I should look like Hollywood's interpretation of a Hispanic woman.

You know the one, the one with the really bad dye job wearing tight jeans and red high heels and ruffled ankle socks.

Maybe I'm not Hispanic enough, and I know I'm not white. just don't define me by my race because that was always my biggest mistake.

I know what I am: Miss America, soy yo.