“Was she beautiful?”
It was a question but also a response.
I turned to the man walking next to me on the crowded street. I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to. I had to express my gratitude. A simple thank you. You see, he was the father of a little girl walking a few paces in front of us that had exclaimed, “I just saw another drag queen!” with such excited gusto that one might think she was the winning contestant on Spot! That! Drag Queen!
It was the little girl's mother , however, who’d responded, “Was she beautiful?” The response heard round my brain.
I was touched. Beyond touched, maybe. I felt something spread through my chest. Expand inside me. This seemingly heteronormative nuclear family with two children—one boy, one girl—were in the gay mecca of Provincetown, Massachusetts, in big-gay July. Bear Week to be exact. So, I had to believe they knew where they were. But this response…this one, from a mother to her child, hit me hard in such a positive way.
I immediately thought of my own parents on a vacation with young Michael. First, they never would have taken me (or themselves) anywhere near a gay mecca, so let’s acknowledge that immediately. (Fifty-five years later, they still wouldn’t be caught there.) Second, I can’t quite imagine their response being anything near that positive.
What I can imagine is their fear of queer life leading them to pull me away from the “freaks.” I can imagine my confusion and curiosity instigating a question or two. I can imagine the sound of crickets riding on a wave of silence as they hoped I would let it go if they avoided answering me.
I was so moved in that moment by a mother’s response to her child that I had to say thank you to her also. I mouthed those words as I passed her. She smiled and said, “You’re welcome.” I kept walking, her smile burning its way into my memories. She didn’t make a man dressed as a woman a bad thing, a negative thing, or a we-have-to-protect-the-children thing. Her response immediately normalized, for her child, one of the most historic expressions in queer culture.
My brain churned this moment round and round the thought processor for hours. I was very aware of the sensation that flooded my body in that moment: my heart leapt. One might even say that it was Grinch-like and grew three sizes that day. I felt so much joy mixed with a dash of surprise. That’s why I had to say something to the father. I wanted to thank him for giving to his child something that young me recognizes that I didn’t get, something that I still long for.
Can I fault my parents for their, shall I say, innocence? Like me, they grew up in that same small southern county where I was raised. Can I fault them for passing their phobias on to me? I can’t really. But I do.
Drag queens are fierce, strong, and bold; loud and visible. I remember when I first started watching drag performances in the early 90s, how much I loved it. I was mesmerized. The work that went into it. The makeup. The over-the-top glamour. The humor. The precision. The fabulousness. The fear of finding myself in a drag queen’s sights then on the other side her quick-witted, vicious tongue but sitting close the stage anyway. Drag queens are necessary in queer culture, and with respect to the current fear mongering perpetrated by conservatives in the United States, they aren’t going to harm children. Drag is performance. It’s art. It’s theatre. It’s expression. It’s fearless. And if a parent can explain Robin Williams as Mrs. Doubtfire, then they should have no problem explaining Lil Miss Hot Mess reading a damn story to children in a library. But I digress.
I can only imagine how beautiful it might have been if my own mother hadn’t been afraid. How beautiful it still could be if she would only engage with me about my queer identity.
So, I return to that question: “Was she beautiful?”
Yes. She was. From my perspective, she was a beautiful woman, a beautiful mother, and a beautiful human being. I hope her daughter realizes how lucky she is.
1 comment:
This is beautiful my love!
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