Not Afraid of Life Read online

  The ironic thing about this whole thing is that my critic was a self-described public activist against bullying . . . as long as she agrees with the victims’ politics, I guess. After a prominent gay suicide, she went to the airwaves and criticized bullies . . . while at the same time publicly stating that a 135-pound young girl like me was obese. But because I was already active and fit, the show’s schedule wasn’t new to me. I did gain five pounds over the course of the show, but I was still thinner than a lot of girls my age. I’m not saying this because I’m somehow proud of how I look. Rather, I’m trying to give perspective on this fifty-year-old woman’s criticism of me. When the public didn’t think her gibes were funny, she defended herself by pointing out that there was a big difference between being a bully and a comedienne. Apparently, it’s okay to make fun of impressionable teenagers—and to spread the lie that a healthy weight should be mocked—as long as it’s profitable. (I was in good company, however. She also called another prominent Republican’s daughters “prostitutes.” Why aren’t you laughing? Don’t you get the joke? They’re Republicans and they’re young girls. Isn’t that funny? Apparently, you don’t have a good sense of humor.)

  So let me address this issue head-on. I’m not skinny and I’m not fat. I’m a girl like everyone else who lives in this era of airbrushed photos who’s trying to maintain a healthy lifestyle. And do you know what? I’m succeeding. Everyone talks about how strenuous the Dancing with the Stars workouts are, but they’re nothing compared to any high school basketball practice. Though one contestant famously lost forty-one pounds, I have to assume it was because she was not too active beforehand. Because I was an active kid before I started, this show actually took my activity level down a notch. That meant I was not going to be seeing rapid weight loss. Which was fine. After all, The Biggest Loser is on a different network altogether. We were doing a dance competition, which meant tights and stretchy pants every day. Like most women, I can tell how much my weight has fluctuated by which jeans are too snug in the waist. Since I wasn’t wearing many jeans, I didn’t realize I’d gained five pounds. But the rest of America sure did. When I realized people were criticizing my weight, I made a vow. I decided I was going to go to the end in Dancing with the Stars, even if I wasn’t the skinniest or the hottest girl on the stage. Also, I threw down a little trash talk to make it interesting. “Going out there and winning this would mean a lot,” I said in one preshow interview. “It would be like a big middle finger to all the people out there who hate my mom and hate me.”

  And speaking of my mom, she ended up coming to several shows. In one memorable moment, I told her I had to dance the paso doble, and I could tell she was impressed at how easily the words rolled off my lips.

  “How on earth can you dance the paso doble when it’s going to be hard to even pronounce it?”

  That’s when Piper said, without missing a beat, “I know how she can learn the steps, Mom.” Then she turned to me. “Bristol, just write it on your hand.”

  Believe it or not, Mark and I got a standing ovation! My mom, my dad, and Willow were in the audience, and they clapped excitedly as I got my highest scores of the season. The judges were very kind to me.

  Judge Carrie Ann gushed, “This is what we’ve been asking for all season long, for you to come out and nail it!” (Even before I went out onstage, Maks came up to me and whispered quietly, “I know you don’t like me, but good luck.”)

  For our second dance, Mark and I discussed what song would really blow them away. I wanted to dance to Gretchen Wilson’s “Redneck Woman.” It would’ve been hilarious, and the crowd would’ve eaten it up.

  Mark, wisely, wouldn’t let me do it. “We aren’t doing any of that awful country two-step stuff.” (And think about Mom’s reaction? It almost would’ve been worth doing just to see her melt into her seat!)

  So we discussed it and tried to find something that really—that actually!—captured my essence instead of the stereotype people think I am. That’s when we decided to do a waltz to a classical piece from Mel Gibson’s film The Passion of the Christ. I wore a black dress and came out onto the dance floor in a hood. The music was dramatic, and the performance felt very emotional to me. Mark (who’s Catholic) and I thought it was kind of fun to sneak in that song since the show usually showcases songs that are . . . well, a little less inspired.

  In the trailer on Mark’s iPhone before we went out, we watched the scene from the movie where Jesus is carrying the cross and Mary is watching him do it, and she has flashbacks about him as a kid. The dance came together so easily. The slow waltz . . . it should’ve been the hardest one. . . .

  Making it to the end of the show was implausible, of course, since I didn’t know the cha-cha-cha from the rumba. Yet, on November 16, I was backstage, awaiting my fate. Would we get voted off, propelling pop sensation Brandy and her partner, Maksim, into the final week? Or would we make it to the finals?

  Right before we went out onstage, Brandy grabbed my hand and said, “You know, this has been so fun with you.” I could tell she (along with everyone else) believed I was going home and was trying to make me feel better about the end of my journey. However, for some reason, I believed in my gut we were safe.

  “You know what,” I said. “This is in God’s hands. Whatever happens, happens.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It’s in God’s hands. We better stay in touch, BP.”

  When we were finally standing onstage, the lights were dimmed in the studio as we stood there awaiting our fate. The anxiety-producing music—which sounds like a beating heart—began playing.

  Host Tom Bergeron drew out the announcement as long as possible.

  “Brandy and Maks,” he began. “Bristol and Mark. On this ninth week of competition, I can now reveal that the couple who received the lowest number of votes was . . .”

  At this point, the host apparently decided to give his voice a rest. He may have jumped backstage to read War and Peace. Or maybe he decided to take a nap. But when he finally got around to announcing who won, all chaos broke loose.

  “Brandy and Maks,” he finally said.

  Immediately, the cameraman took shots of obviously shocked contestants who assumed we’d be the ones going home. At home you may have seen Brandy’s shocked expression and heard the audience gasp in horror. However, you didn’t have the privilege of hearing Brandy’s mom jump up and start yelling at the perceived injustice, right in the same area of the crowd as my mother. “This is rigged!” she yelled. “This is rigged!” Several of her friends and family stood up and started yelling, causing a miniuproar in the crowd. Immediately, when I saw the obvious consternation of the people in the room, I started crying. Mark attempted to comfort me, but it was hard to shake the feeling that this competition was honestly not worth it and that people had their priorities so screwed up.

  Right then, I was ready to go back to Alaska, where the weather’s cold, but most people aren’t. However, after calming the audience down, the show’s casting director, Deena; Mark’s mom; and my mom pulled Mark and me aside and gave us a pep talk.

  “Don’t let this ruin your moment,” Mark’s mom said.

  Jennifer Grey and Lacey Schwimmer calmed me down enough so that I actually wanted to go to the finals.

  My mom chimed in, “You guys just made it to the finals, when no one said you could!”

  It took us a while to shake it off. The last week of rehearsals—which should’ve been a great deal of fun—was tainted by all of the controversies of the season. It was also weird to do camera blockings, rehearsals, and wardrobe fittings with only three couples left.

  Before the show, Mark’s managers, my parents, my cousins Brandy and Greg, and I went to Mark’s trailer to chat and try to calm our nerves. There was something about being there just relaxing and laughing about the highs and lows of the season that felt rejuvenating. When it was time to take the stage, however, the pressure
returned with a vengeance. For the finale, we had—count ’em—four dances! That meant we had to choreograph and rehearse four times as much as we did in the beginning . . . and in only five days!

  “Whatever the outcome is,” I told Mark, “I’m just excited we got this far.”

  Our first challenge was to re-dance our most favorite ballroom dance of the season, and we chose the tango. I realized how far I’d come as I felt so much more confident this time than when I’d performed it last time. However, when the judges revealed their scores, we were still on the bottom.

  Kyle Massey and Lacey Schwimmer got 26, Jennifer Grey and Derek Hough got 30, and Mark and I got 25. No matter. I felt the score was expected and was happy at my improvement.

  The last dance of the season was really challenging. The judges wanted us to dance the cha-cha. I was so glad this journey was about to come to an end, and I decided to have as much fun as possible out there onstage.

  Right before we went out onstage, Tony Dovolani, a professional dancer, helped me a lot and was very encouraging. At the end of my dance, I looked at him in the audience and stuck my tongue out at him. He looked back at me and said, “That was awesome!” The judges even said it was my best performance of the season! Kyle and I laughed that we could easily predict the order of placement before we even performed. And when the scores were read, we were—say it with me—at the bottom. Kyle and Lacy got 28, Jennifer and Derek got 28, and we got 27.

  “We’ll now reveal that the couple in third place is . . .” When it was time for America to find out the finalists, I was completely relaxed. And even when he announced our names, I was fine with the outcome.

  It had been a difficult three months, but we ended it with such fun and joy!

  Mark immediately hugged me, and the audience rose to its feet as we went down to talk to the judges. The host, Tom, came up to us, and I realized then just how much I appreciated him. He’d told me previously that he was the most liberal of Democrats, but that he could tell I was putting my all into this competition. Right after we received the news, he summed up how I felt pretty well, when he kindly said, “All the other nonsense aside, this is a girl who got in her truck, drove five days, and made it until the last night of Dancing with the Stars.”

  That’s when the producers did a montage of my experience on the show. They took us all the way to the beginning—when I’d just met Mark—and then showed all the highlights of the season—including my rather embarrassing first attempt at “shimmying.” (At least they didn’t show my mom’s attempt!) When I looked over and saw Mark cry, I teared up, too!

  Even though we came in third, I’d managed to accomplish both my spoken—and unspoken—goals. I lasted through the first week, and I lasted as long as anyone else. That meant, I collected as much money as the winners (though Jennifer did get the mirrored ball), and I was able to buy that investment home in Arizona!

  But do you know who else won? The controversy surrounding our survival brought more than twenty-four million viewers to the results show. It was DWTS’s biggest audience in six seasons.

  “Wow!” my mom said. “Keith Olbermann had 200,000 viewers and you had 24 million. Not bad!”

  After my Dancing with the Stars appearance, I got a taste of the leftist media’s treatment of people they are intolerant of when MSNBC named me one of the “Worst Persons in the World” on Olbermann’s show. Since then he’s been axed, has seemed to disappear, and is more irrelevant than ever.

  But it wasn’t over quite yet. The show ended on Tuesday, so we flew through the night on a private jet. On Wednesday morning, the final three couples made our final appearances on Good Morning America. On the show, I danced one more time with Mark, and then the producers surprised us with personal video messages from our families.

  “You overcame a whole lot of challenges starting from ground zero to come so far,” my mom said on my video. “All of Alaska, we’re proud of you. Way to go, Bristol the Pistol! We’re proud of you.”

  I teared up. There was something about seeing Mom’s face that made me feel unusually emotional. We’d been through a lot over the past few years, and we’d managed to end up stronger than when we started—through repentance, forgiveness, and the unconditional love of family.

  The privilege of seeing this play out over the course of twelve weeks was what I really won on Dancing with the Stars.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Seeing Things Clearly

  After Dancing with the Stars, I knew more about “body makeup,” paso doble, and David Hasselhoff than I ever wanted to know. I left with great friends, newfound confidence, and a hefty check that I used to invest in real estate to help secure my future with Tripp.

  But none of it was “real.” Though emotions sometimes got carried away, they were the kind of emotions that spring from unusually cool circumstances, glimmery disco balls, and lots of television cameras. The producers made some pretty poignant “backstory” segments to add emotional interest while the contestants rehearsed. That’s where viewers learned that Kyle Massey’s family was just about to move back to Georgia when he finally got work on That’s So Raven, about Jennifer Grey’s automobile accident, and about Florence Henderson’s grief over her husband’s death. Though the segments were sleekly produced tearjerkers, they at least hinted at the “reality” that this “reality television show” had taken us away from. The backstories, were, of course, the real stories.

  When the show was over, we all faded back into life and Dancing with the Stars became just a chapter in our lives. (In my case, quite literally!) I was happy to return to my normal life, to help forge a new “backstory” for myself into something better than being a “teen mom” or “teen activist.” After all, I’m twenty years old now!

  I relaxed in Arizona, where I had just purchased my new home with my earnings from Dancing with the Stars, after the show before I returned to Alaska for Christmas. I was thankful to get back to a simpler life—the kind that consisted of just Tripp and me and snowmachines and absolutely no spinning around in heels and sequins.

  One of the cool things about my “backstory life” is that sometimes I get wonderful opportunities to have eye-opening adventures. Dancing with the Stars was one of those experiences, but I had a chance at another when Mom invited me to tag along with her, Dad, Greta van Susteren and her husband, John, and the Reverend Franklin Graham on a humanitarian trip to Haiti. Reverend Graham’s organization is called Samaritan’s Purse, and they were going to help provide relief for the country that had been ravaged by a terrible earthquake at the beginning of the previous year and ravaged by a cholera epidemic at the end of it. When Mom, Dad, and I had the opportunity to see this horrible epidemic up close, I wasn’t sure how I’d handle it.

  However, I packed my bag and got on a plane. I definitely couldn’t pack my truck and drive there!

  By the time we arrived, thousands of people had already died. Millions of Haitians were living in tents and huts along the streets and in the rubble in unbelievable conditions. At the cholera treatment center, I saw an eight-month-old boy whose mother had just passed away. The baby’s father was caring for him and six other children. He’d walked nine hours through the night from his hut up in the mountains to get the little baby boy to the treatment center. He had nowhere else to go, no other hope, and he barely made it. The baby had so many IVs in his tiny hands his whole body was beginning to swell, and his baby feet—so full of the IV solution—were rock solid. The father was talking to the translator. Though I couldn’t understand what he was saying, I could tell by his emotion and urgency that he was trying to give the baby up for a chance at life.

  Though they didn’t think he’d live through the night, God gave him life.

  I actually offered to take the baby home, but you obviously can’t just pick up a child and take him out of the country! (It felt wrong to leave him there, though, whatever “the system.”) I don’t k
now what will happen to that innocent baby boy, but I will never forget him—or the look of desperation on his father’s face.

  On our second day of the trip we went to another treatment center filled with cots. Staff had cut holes in the middle of the cots to use as toilets because patients couldn’t control their bowel movements. Also, they continuously vomited so that everything in their system was depleted. That’s what cholera does; it just dehydrates you to the point of death. There was no dignity to be found anywhere in the tent and very little hope. We couldn’t do anything at all but pray.

  After we walked back to the children’s ward, I met identical twin boys who weighed about five pounds each, were dressed in girls’ dresses because they had nothing else, and looked to be only a week or two old. I was astonished to find out they were six months old. Their mother died right after their birth, so their grandmother had walked with them to the treatment center, but she could no longer care for them. She walked around and asked everyone if they could take them. I would’ve taken them. I should’ve.

  Next we got to pass out the Christmas shoeboxes that Samaritan’s Purse collects from people all across America. If you’re one of those angels who pack a shoebox for that organization, please know that the boxes are appreciated. When I handed the inexpensive boxes to the children, their eyes lit up like an Alaskan kid’s eyes might if he’d received a new snowmachine.

  It really gave me perspective.

  All of the frustration I felt over the rude speculation about my Dancing with the Stars weight disappeared as I watched people without food. “Body image” problems only exist because of our country’s wealth, our prosperity, our laptops connecting us with blog accounts, those pesky cameras that add fifteen pounds, and those airbrushed magazines that take off thirty.