Imagine this: a pageant that prides itself on celebrating culture and heritage, yet finds itself in a maelstrom over sacred symbols worn as fashion statements. That’s the paradox unfolding in Canada’s Miss Universe competition, where a former winner’s public rebuke of cultural appropriation has sparked a reckoning. Personally, I think this moment is more than a PR crisis—it’s a mirror held up to the uncomfortable truth that even well-intentioned institutions can stumble into cultural insensitivity when they fail to listen deeply. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it exposes the gap between symbolic gestures of inclusivity and the lived realities of marginalized communities. In my view, the pageant’s response—introducing a ‘comprehensive costume guide’ and appointing a First Nations liaison—feels less like a genuine pivot and more like a damage control tactic. But let’s unpack this.
The controversy centers on two contestants who wore outfits steeped in Indigenous symbolism: a feather headdress and a fur-and-braid ensemble. To outsiders, these might seem like bold, creative choices. But to those who understand the weight of these symbols, they’re akin to wearing a religious relic as a party accessory. One contestant, Karisa Haverkamp, wore a red handprint—a symbol of solidarity with Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women (MMIW)—but paired it with a feather headdress. What many people don’t realize is that these items are not mere aesthetic choices; they’re deeply tied to spiritual and communal identity. A feather headdress, for instance, is traditionally reserved for leaders who have earned the right to wear it through acts of service and wisdom. To reduce it to a costume is to trivialize centuries of cultural meaning. This raises a deeper question: Can a pageant that thrives on spectacle ever truly honor the sacred?
Ashley Callingbull, the first Indigenous Miss Universe Canada winner, didn’t mince words when she interrupted the final to address the issue. Her frustration was palpable: ‘It’s 2026, we should know better.’ Her words cut through the performative platitudes of the pageant world, which often equates respect with token gestures. From my perspective, her intervention wasn’t just about calling out the costumes—it was about demanding accountability. The pageant’s statement, which avoided a direct apology, felt like a missed opportunity to acknowledge the harm done. Instead, they pivoted to a ‘comprehensive guide,’ which sounds more like a bureaucratic fix than a cultural reckoning. A detail that I find especially interesting is that Callingbull, who has long advocated for Indigenous representation, is now being asked to serve as a liaison. Does this mean the pageant is finally listening? Or is it another step in a cycle of superficial change?
This isn’t the first time Miss Universe Canada has faced this critique. In 2015, a contestant’s totem pole costume sparked similar outrage, with the pageant claiming it was meant to represent her Dominican heritage. Callingbull had previously urged them to hire cultural consultants, a suggestion that now seems prophetic. What this really suggests is that cultural sensitivity isn’t a one-time checkbox—it’s an ongoing process of learning, unlearning, and rethinking. Yet, the pageant’s response feels reactive rather than reflective. If you take a step back and think about it, the very premise of a ‘national costume segment’ is fraught. How do you encapsulate a nation’s heritage in a single outfit? It’s a Sisyphean task, especially when that heritage is as complex and sacred as Indigenous culture.
The broader implications here are staggering. This incident highlights a universal tension: the line between appreciation and appropriation is razor-thin, and often blurred by privilege. When non-Indigenous people wear sacred symbols, they’re not just misrepresenting a culture—they’re erasing the voices of those who hold that culture’s truths. The pageant’s move to create a ‘comprehensive guide’ is a start, but it’s not enough. Real change would require dismantling the power structures that allow such missteps to happen in the first place. It would mean centering Indigenous voices in decision-making, not just inviting them to consult on costumes.
What’s truly remarkable about this situation is the opportunity it presents. The pageant could become a case study in how institutions can evolve—not just by issuing statements, but by embedding accountability into their DNA. But I fear that without sustained commitment, this will devolve into another chapter of performative allyship. The real test isn’t the guidebook or the liaison role; it’s whether the pageant will listen when Indigenous communities say, ‘This isn’t okay.’ Until then, the question remains: Can a system built on spectacle ever truly honor the sacred?
