I am a straight, heteronormative, cisgender woman. I come from a middle-class family. I was raised in Arkansas. I go to church—sometimes (okay, not really). On paper, I might not be the person you would expect to go to a drag show on a Sunday evening.
But I did.
And I loved it.
This past Sunday, at 5:00 p.m., I went to my first drag show in my college town’s downtown, and I absolutely can’t wait to go again.
The whole experience was incredibly empowering and rewarding. The amount of confidence the queens demonstrated was truly inspiring. Even if I adopted an entire other persona, I would never have enough confidence to perform in front of a large group of people in a somewhat provocative way. The fact that these ladies were able to do so was truly impressive.
But in addition to the concept itself being remarkable, what truly stood out to me was our hostess. Every time she introduced another queen, she was so excited. She called them “talented,” “funny,” “kind,” and “beautiful.” She didn’t see her success as being dependent on their failure. Instead, the overall atmosphere was one of support and encouragement.
Where I come from, there is a huge stigma surrounding drag shows, drag queens, and the overall concept of drag. If you asked most of the people in my hometown, they would ramble on about how drag is ruining their children and morally corrupting society. It’s a danger. Something to be afraid of. Something to attack. Something to eradicate.
But that’s the value of putting yourself in someone else’s shoes. I’ve never felt insecure about drag—maybe it’s because Klinger was my favorite character in the show “M*A*S*H”—but I still expected to feel a little uncomfortable and out of my element. After all, as the hostess put it, I was a “gay performance show virgin.”
I have to admit, losing my virginity was pretty fun.
At the beginning of the show, I was trying to make myself as small as possible. I didn’t want anyone to see me because I assumed that the second they saw me they would know that I did not belong. Some people in the audience were outgoing from the start—shoutout to the grandma with the singles readily available—but the majority of the audience was also a little unsure of how to act. It was like the first day of school, where everyone feels somewhat out of place.
But at the end of the show, everyone, including me, was happily handing out Washingtons, dancing along and cheering loudly. My friend FaceTimed her mom so she could see the show. My other friend spent the entire time grinning. Two of my friends already made plans to see the next show. I learned that something about drag seems to unite people; Here we are in a room full of people who are excited to support “gay art,” as the hostess called it. All of us had one commonality: empathy and a lack of fear.
Because at the end of the day, hate is simply just really scared fear.
While I immensely enjoyed the fabulous show, it was bittersweet. Our hostess ended by thanking us for coming. Not just because that’s what hostesses normally do, but because it showed her and the other queen that even in these uncertain times, there were still people out there who supported them. She talked about how unsafe she felt. How it was hard to feel comfortable with herself when she didn’t know who she could trust. This was her first show since the election, and you could tell that emotions were heightened.
I left the drag show not feeling threatened by such an overt show of flamboyance and disregard for traditional masculinity. I didn’t feel insecure or corrupted. I felt tired. Tired of watching people feel unsafe in this country. Tired of letting hate win. Tired of people passing judgment on others.
Amidst all that tired though, I felt exuberance, because wow was that show so much fun, but also pride. I was proud that even though the future was dark and uncertain, at least I could say that I was not afraid of people different from myself. Instead, I am a proud ally of all communities, of all people, of all love, and all queens.