Not Afraid of Life Read online

  “You have big jadey eyes. I have pretty almond eyes.”

  “Well, you have big bushy eyebrows.”

  “What? I just got them waxed!”

  When I saw that part of the show, which was even more hilarious before it was edited, I laughed so hard. Another part that cracked me up—one that didn’t make the final edition of the show—was when Willow was looking into her phone like it was a mirror and Mom said, “Willow, quit being so vain!”

  That night, we sat around the fire before an early bedtime to prepare us for a big day of fishing. But before we called it a night, Mom said, “Bristol, here’s the lesson for you to think about tonight: there’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

  That comment caused me to emit a full-throated groan, but the fact that Mom was already joking around about one of our toughest family moments was a good sign. But even though things with my family were improving, I was still haunted by Levi’s ghost. We were in Homer, after all, which is where we drove together for his hockey game . . . the first time I wore his stupid camouflage coat. So, while I was staying out on the “spit,” clam digging, commercial halibut fishing, and fish tendering, I was really thinking about Levi.

  The TLC people billed this episode as “Todd and Sarah get a chance to bond with Bristol,” but I’m not sure anyone would ever appreciate the truth behind that bland description. While viewers may have enjoyed seeing Mom and I club that halibut, the real action was our reconnecting as a family.

  Though I was initially opposed to this series, it turned out to be a great deal of fun.

  And speaking of television opportunities, I said yes to the Dancing with the Stars offer. I printed the e-mail to show to my family, but they weren’t so sure. Dad was actually opposed to my going on the show and my aunt Heather was very worried that I’d already said yes. In fact, she sent me a long text message that began:

  You’ve never explained why you’ve done all of this public stuff.

  Since I love Aunt Heather so much—and always want to please her—I couldn’t even finish reading the text message.

  As a cast member, I’d be assigned a professional dancer with whom I’d compete against other pairs by dancing for the three judges, who each would score us on a one- to ten-point scale. Additionally, the at-home viewing audience would vote. We’d stay as long as we weren’t the couple who received the lowest combined total of judges’ points and audience votes.

  Season eleven would air September through November in 2010. That meant I’d have to move to Los Angeles at the beginning of September and live in an apartment ABC would provide. Then I’d rehearse with a professional partner for at least twenty hours a week. The show would air live on Monday and Tuesday nights.

  The only real exposure I’d had to live television consisted of Mom’s speeches and that one Saturday Night Live taping I’d attended. It’s enough to make anyone pause, but there was a reason I said yes to the offer so quickly.

  Since Tripp’s birth, I was the one who had to pay for his doctors’ appointments. When he grew out of his pants, I was the one who had to find the next size at Target or Old Navy . . . or better yet from hand-me-downs. And in the future when he needs braces in junior high or textbook money in college, I’ll be the one he relies on. It’s rare that opportunities such as Dancing with the Stars arise for anyone, especially a young single mom. The producers’ offer was pretty generous. Rather, it was really generous. And so, I took one look at my diaper budget and excitedly said yes.

  “Are you sure, Bristol?” my mom said. “This is what you want to do? Holy geez, there’s going to be a lot of scrutiny.”

  “Mom,” I said, thankful that she still wanted to protect me from the harsh light of the media, after all we’d been through, “they’re going to be talking about me anyway, so I might as well.”

  It was enough to convince her. In fact, my dad had been discussed as a possible participant on Dancing with the Stars after the election, but he turned it down because he didn’t have time. Not that he’d do it anyway. Having been married to my mom for so long, what kind of partner would suit him?

  Mid-August, I packed my bags, loaded my truck, and prepared to drive the thirty-six hundred miles down to Los Angeles from Alaska for an adventure. (I got questioned a great deal about that, but Alaska isn’t floating down there with Hawaii, contrary to how it appears on maps of the United States; you can drive from Alaska to the lower forty-eight.) I remember the day I left so vividly.

  The TLC producers had gathered our whole family to be photographed in our backyard for promos. We all trudged out to our dock, warned Track not to make the funny faces he’s known for in photos, and smiled.

  We smiled standing together and we smiled standing apart. We smiled in the backyard, and we smiled on the dock.

  While the producers and camera crew treated us like background furniture and herded us like cattle through all of the poses, I sat back and wondered what they would’ve thought had they known I’d be on America’s top show. Maybe if I performed well enough, they would wish they’d gotten more footage of me!

  My black Dodge Crew Cab was already loaded, gassed up, and ready to go. The TLC cameramen kept asking, “Where are you headed to in such a rush?”

  Of course, it was a huge secret, because the show’s producers reveal the participants all at once. As soon as the photo shoot was over, I kissed my parents good-bye, jumped in the truck, and headed to California.

  But before I drove off with a friend for this road trip through Canada to California, my mom sang, “So she loaded up the truck and she moved to Beverly . . . Hills, that is. Swimming pools. Movie stars.”

  Maybe if she doesn’t run for president, she could be a comedian.

  What a road trip this was! We drove eight hundred miles and made it to Whitehorse, where we spent the night in a cheap hotel. After all, I didn’t have that Dancing with the Stars money yet! The second day, we drove another eight hundred miles, where we slept in the truck! As we drove through Edmonton, I got pulled over for having tinted windows and taillights, which were illegal because they were too dark. The Canadian cop took my license and registration and looked at me squarely in the eyes. “Are you the Bristol Palin?”

  I laughed. Since I’m definitely not a celebrity, it always surprises me to be recognized. But thankfully, this time, it had a perk—the policeman let me out of my ticket! The third night, we stayed in Calgary, Canada, and we had fun walking around in a different country, in spite of the police stopping me. The fourth night, we stayed at “a friend of a friend’s” house in Bozeman, Montana. It was a total college hangout, and I felt a little awkward there. Having Tripp always made me feel so different from other people my age. Most college kids don’t have a set schedule, real bills, a job, or anyone depending on them. I should’ve had fun there! After all, Tripp was coming down to California later, so I was free to do whatever I wanted. However, strangely it made me feel sad. I was different from everyone else, and I missed my baby. I know that Tripp is the joy of my life, and he means more to me than any rave, any superficial event, and any teenage experience.

  After this stop, we headed through Idaho and then to Utah, where we stayed in a nicer hotel in a city called Cedar. When I went in to check for availability and prices, the man working the front desk asked for my information.

  “Name?” he asked as he entered it into his computer. It was late and we were all tired.

  “Bristol Palin,” I said.

  He looked up at me and tried to hide his surprise. When he asked my address, I laughed as I said, “Wasilla, Alaska.” Then he finally broke into laughter, too, as he looked at my ID and back at me.

  “Are you any relation to Sarah Palin?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He turned out to be a really cool guy. After we went up to our room and took a shower, he called up and asked if we could pose for a photo with him. After we went out fo
r fast food, we came back through the lobby to give him a chance at a photo, but there was also a young girl there waiting. She excitedly asked for a photo with me as well, and said, “This is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me!”

  Again, it was odd and humorous to me that anyone would want a photo with the daughter of a failed vice presidential nominee. I’m not a celebrity and in Wasilla anyone can see me just by driving up to the coffee shack and ordering a latte. But in the lower forty-eight, people treated me like I was a rock star. It cracked me up, and I fell asleep that night smiling over the silliness of it all.

  We finished the trip by getting up early in the morning and going through Utah, Arizona, Nevada, and then—finally—California. I was so glad to be out of that truck. And as much as I loved my friend, we were ready to get back to reality!

  Chapter Fifteen

  Shaking What My Momma Gave Me

  My small apartment in Los Angeles was in a building where many stars live, and I geared up for a real “Hollywood” experience, though I wasn’t necessarily looking forward to it. Alaskans are a very different breed of people, folks who don’t care as much about appearances, clothes, and image. Plus, there aren’t that many people in Alaska! Though it’s by far the largest state in America by size, it has fewer than 800,000 people. That’s a state that’s one-fifth the size of the continental United States, though it ranks forty-seventh in population. That means that we have plenty of elbow room, and have the space to do whatever we want with a certain degree of privacy.

  My L.A. apartment, however, was what real estate agents would call “cozy,” but most people would call “microscopic.” I’d brought a family friend to help me watch Tripp, which meant there were three of us living in that apartment. It was certainly a tight place to live!

  I was paired up with a professional dancer named Mark Ballas, a ballroom dancer who’d already won Dancing with the Stars twice—with Olympic figure skater Kristi Yamaguchi in Season 6 and Olympic gold medal gymnast Shawn Johnson in Season 8. No pressure. When I first met Mark, I feared he’d be upset at being paired with such a newbie.

  “I hope you have a lot of patience,” I said, “because I don’t know how to dance.”

  His arm was covered with Silly Bandz—little multicolored rubbery bracelets—not something you see much on the men in Alaska. Eleven-year-old girls? Yes. Men? Never. Anyway, he pulled up the Silly Bandz and showed me a tattoo on his wrist. It said, simply, “Patience,” written in cool cursive.

  Though I always felt like we weren’t matched up well in terms of size (one of my first thoughts was “Oh great! I’m taller than he is!”), I knew the producers had matched me with the right person in terms of personality. Mark was awesome!

  He wasn’t frustrated because I had no experience. Instead, he just took it from the top. I honestly think he could sit there all day and explain things to people, over and over again. He didn’t lose his temper, he didn’t make me feel stupid, and he really made it fun. If I ever got too overwhelmed at not “getting” a move, we’d take a break.

  (Wait! I can hear what you’re thinking. No, we didn’t date. We didn’t kiss, so get that out of your mind! I love him like a brother!)

  During a typical week, I’d go to the studio on Sunday for camera blocking and wardrobe fitting. Camera blocking means assigning movement of the dancers and the camera. On Dancing with the Stars, it meant we performed our routine onstage, and the cameramen determined where the camera should be at any particular moment in the dance. That’s how the viewing audience got to see every important foot move and twirl. The cameramen know exactly what’s coming, because we’re putting in the hours on the weekend before the show goes live.

  Believe it or not, all of the wardrobe is made specially for each contestant. Everyone was wondering how I’d be able to pull off the costumes, some of which barely cover your . . . assets. I’ve never been the type of girl who shows cleavage or stomach, so I told them from the get-go that I wasn’t going to be wearing anything sleazy.

  “I’m not going to show my stomach because I have a son at home,” I told them. “And I’m not going to show cleavage because that looks just like a butt crack.”

  Some of the stylists got frustrated with my restrictions, but they ended up making me some very pretty costumes, all of which were high necked and as modest as you can get on a dance show.

  After weeks of practice, the first night rapidly approached. You’re only allowed so many tickets for visitors each show. On the first night, all the contestants negotiate to get as many people in their families as possible in the audience there to support them. I worried about getting enough tickets for all the family who’d want to come. After all, through the ups and downs of the weird spotlights that we had found ourselves in—from middle school football to the GOP convention to numerous Iron Dog competitions to this—we were always there for one another. As we talked about how they were coming down, I begged my family not to drive our motor home down here. (Can you say Wasillibillies?) The producer kindly granted me tickets for all of my family except Track, who handles public appearances like Superman handles Kryptonite.

  To be honest, I was not looking forward to going out on that stage. My mom wasn’t too popular in Los Angeles, and I was worried the crowd wouldn’t necessarily be in my corner. After being away from Alaska for what seemed like so long, I couldn’t wait to look out in the audience and see the supporting faces of my family.

  On the Sunday after we did our blocking, however, Mom and I had a talk about them coming to the first night of performance.

  “Bristol, I thought you knew,” she said. “Remember, I had that previous commitment?”

  I was devastated. Though I understood how busy she was, she’s still Mom. And sometimes a girl just needs her momma, no matter how old you get. On Monday morning, I went into the studio for yet another camera blocking, dress rehearsal, and wardrobe fitting. And there, in the seats of the empty studio, I saw my family’s names attached to the chairs still reserved for them.

  Todd Palin, Sarah Palin, Willow Palin, and Piper Palin.

  I knew having my mom there would be good for the Dancing with the Stars’ ratings, because the press had already been buzzing about whether she’d show up for what some critics called a frivolous show.

  I had to break the news to my boss Deena that my parents weren’t coming and were instead having a Dancing with the Stars party in our Wasilla living room. However, she didn’t act disappointed at all. In fact, she comforted me. I think she could see my disappointment.

  “It’s okay,” she said, putting her arm around me. “I bet they’ll come soon.”

  Though her kindness showed how much she’d taken me under her wing, her words missed the mark. After all, I had no idea how long I’d last on that show. My main goal was to survive the first week. This was my moment—my big, nerve-racking moment—and I wasn’t sure how many more of these “moments” my two left feet would provide. Thankfully, however, I had Mark. He treated me like a princess and was an amazing instructor. Without Mark (and his mom and dad), I wouldn’t have had such an enjoyable experience and I’ll always be grateful for his friendship.

  On our first night of competition, I took a deep breath, steeled my nerves, and walked out on the stage with Mark. When the cameras went through the audience, the only people sitting in the seats formerly labeled “Palin” were Dr. Cusack’s kids, who came to fill the seats as a favor. (I was so thankful that my boss’s kids jumped on a plane Monday morning to be there with me.) I had to take this journey—at least the beginning dance steps of it—alone.

  Actually, I did have help. Back in Anchorage, when I got a full-time job, I hired a person who lives in Anchorage to help me take care of Tripp. This was the first time that I had help with him, and it was hard for me to leave him in the care of someone else. However, I found the most perfect caretaker who is so close to him that she now even consid
ers Tripp her own grandson. I couldn’t have worked at Dr. Cusack’s without her loving care of my son. And, especially, I couldn’t have done Dancing with the Stars without her.

  We were assigned “Momma Told Me (Not to Come)” as our song because it sadly summed up some of my rather embarrassing personal decisions. That night, I knew it was important to make a big splash. And so I wore a very conservative gray suit jacket and skirt. Oh, and, of course, I wore an American flag pin on my lapel. But just a few seconds into the dance, I ripped off the conservative costume to reveal a red-fringed minidress underneath. The judges gave me a combined score of 18, which wasn’t too bad for a girl from Wasilla who’d never danced in her life.

  Who needs the prom?

  Would it be enough for me to make it through the first episode? During the shows, the judges’ scores didn’t determine our fate alone. People watching at home could call, text, and vote in online polls to help get their favorite to the next round. The couple with the lowest combined score of all those factors gets voted off the island. Oops, that’s the wrong reality show. The one that gets the fewest votes gets stuck with a $90,000 bill for vice presidential “vetting.” Oops, that’s the wrong thing, too. The one with the lowest score is off the show, but the producers said we could stick around until the last episode, when all the contestants come back for the grand finale.

  I actually wanted to make it to the last episode, though it sounded overly ambitious to say so aloud. The show pays contestants increasingly more money each week, and I wanted to dance my way into getting enough money for real estate investments so I could provide a great college fund for Tripp.

  Amazingly, I made it through the first week! In a rather shocking twist, a nice guy named David Hasselhoff (whom I’d never heard of before this show but apparently drove a talking car in the 1980s and is still a hit in Europe) was sent packing. Though everyone was shocked at his departure, I lived to see another week and accomplished my meager goal.