Let’s talk about the messy intersection of pageantry, culture, and accountability. Here’s a scenario that feels both familiar and infuriating: a high-profile event celebrating beauty and tradition, yet somehow managing to stumble into a minefield of cultural insensitivity. The recent Miss Universe Canada controversy—where two contestants faced backlash for their indigenous-themed costumes—has sparked a much-needed conversation about who gets to define ‘celebration’ and who bears the burden of explaining why certain symbols are off-limits. Personally, I think this isn’t just about costumes. It’s about power, respect, and the uncomfortable truth that some traditions are sacred, not sartorial.
The pageant’s national costume segment, meant to honor Canada’s heritage, became a stage for missteps. One contestant wore a feather headdress, a symbol reserved for Indigenous leaders, while another donned a fur dress and braids tied to First Nations identity. Both apologised, but the damage wasn’t in the apologies—it was in the fact that these choices were even made in the first place. What makes this particularly fascinating is the contrast between the pageant’s stated mission to ‘celebrate Canadian culture’ and the reality of how that culture is often weaponized or misunderstood. Why do we still see non-Indigenous people appropriating sacred symbols while Indigenous communities fight for basic recognition? It’s a question that cuts deeper than fashion; it’s about whose stories are told and who gets to tell them.
Ashley Callingbull, a former Miss Universe Canada winner and Plains Cree woman, didn’t mince words when she interrupted the final to call out the pageant. Her frustration was palpable. ‘It’s 2026, we should know better,’ she said. And she’s right. But here’s the thing: this isn’t just about ignorance. It’s about systemic neglect. Callingbull’s presence as a co-presenter was symbolic, yet the pageant’s initial response—a vague statement lacking a direct apology—revealed a pattern. Organizations often claim to ‘learn from their mistakes’ without ever confronting the root issue: the absence of Indigenous voices in decision-making. If you take a step back and think about it, how many times have we seen non-Indigenous entities ‘consult’ Indigenous communities only when they’re caught in a scandal? This isn’t reconciliation; it’s performative optics.
The pageant’s new ‘comprehensive costume guide’ is a start, but it’s easy to dismiss such measures as superficial. A guideline that says ‘be respectful’ without mandating Indigenous consultation is just a Band-Aid. What this really suggests is that the pageant industry has a long way to go in understanding that cultural representation isn’t a checklist—it’s a responsibility. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the contestants themselves took accountability, which is rare in such spaces. Yet their apologies feel hollow without structural change. If a pageant wants to honor culture, it needs to invest in education, not just post-hoc corrections.
This isn’t the first time Miss Universe Canada has faced this criticism. In 2015, a contestant wore a totem pole costume, which was later rebranded as a nod to her Dominican heritage. The pageant’s ‘misunderstanding’ excuse then feels eerily similar to its current response. What many people don’t realize is that these incidents aren’t isolated—they’re part of a larger trend where cultural symbols are treated as interchangeable decorations. The pageant’s invitation to Callingbull as a ‘costume liaison’ is a step forward, but it’s only meaningful if she has real authority, not just symbolic clout. Otherwise, it’s another example of tokenism.
At its core, this controversy is a microcosm of a broader issue: the tension between celebration and appropriation. When a pageant claims to honor culture, it must ask itself whether it’s truly listening to the communities it’s supposed to represent. The feather headdress, the red handprint, the braided hair—these aren’t just aesthetic choices. They’re loaded with meaning, history, and pain. What this incident raises is a deeper question: Can beauty pageants ever be spaces of genuine cultural exchange, or are they inherently exploitative? I’d argue the latter, unless they fundamentally restructure their approach. Until then, every costume segment will be a gamble with someone’s dignity.
In the end, the pageant’s response—acknowledging fault, offering fixes, and inviting Indigenous leadership—shows that change is possible. But it also highlights how far we still have to go. The real test isn’t in the guidelines or the apologies. It’s in the sustained commitment to centering Indigenous voices, not just in moments of crisis, but in every decision. Otherwise, we’ll keep repeating the same mistakes, dressed up in fancy outfits.
