On a warm October evening, many moons ago, I made my way to the 8th Avenue subway station alone, having left my friends at Hiro Ballroom, a now defunct music venue and bar in Chelsea. They wanted to see the next band play. I was tired from the week and parted ways with them, eager to collapse into the 5-square-foot bedroom in the East Village apartment I called home. It was a short walk to the train station and I fantasized about the clean sheets waiting for me.
I decided to take a side street. I loved to imagine what life might be like if it was contained within the walls of one of those historic brownstones. I took my time, enjoying the quiet. I planned to squeeze in a workout the next morning before reuniting with my friends at brunch. I wondered what ridiculous story they might have from the night.
Then I realized I wasn’t alone. Unmistakeable footsteps matched my own, hurrying and pausing. Rushing and slowing. I pulled my bag close to my body (laughable considering how little my checking account had) and gripped my phone.
After a block of playing walking footsie—a frustrating exchange where you’re pacing the same as another pedestrian who won’t pass or allow you to trudge ahead—with a man in a gorgeous Saint Laurent suit, I finally said something, as a New York lady is known to do.
I won’t go into the grisly details, but after slamming me with his briefcase, he began to attack me. The street was quiet, most of the brownstones dark and blank with the late hour. I probably hadn’t eaten dinner—or anything that day, let’s be real—and between the lightheadedness, numerous vodka sodas and confusion over what was happening (how was this happening?), I couldn’t fight him off, though I tried. I was squirming when the man’s weight was pulled off me, two drag queens glorious in dazzling makeup and stunning outfits peeled the jerk from me. They chased him down the block in terrifically high heels, returning breathless, defiant, and maternal.
I never forgot them. I can’t imagine what would have happened if they hadn’t come to my rescue. I can’t imagine where they might have been—where I might have been—had they not been able to live in a city where they could express themselves freely.
Today in Tennessee, where I currently live, the governor has passed a hateful bill to ban drag performances. He is trying to eliminate joy. The governor has also passed a swarm of anti-trans bills, feeding an already festering cesspool of bigotry that, of course, includes banning books from libraries and public schools, which celebrate everything from Black hair to LGTBQ+ representation.
The governor and other likeminded politicians are going so far as to promote the idea that drag queens are dangerous, and teachers who house these books in their classrooms are pedophiles and predators. I think back to my assailant, his polished shoes. The crisp shirt collar. The stain my mascara left on his pressed shirt. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Here is what I know. Without books, we will not learn about past historical moments: some shameful, others triumphant. We will fail to humanize issues that are steamrolling this country. I also know that without creating safe spaces and mediums for people to learn about different kinds of folks (I, for one, loved renting John Waters films from my local library growing up—my first introduction to the penultimate Divine), we cannot begin to build bridges to one another—a requirement as we continue to be confronted with real issues like climate change.
I also know that without expression of self, community, and the delight and wonder that comes with each of our uniquenesses—and the latitude to showcase them—we’re all dead in the water. Plus, if you’ve ever encountered one of the thousands of unhinged bachelorette parties that descend on Nashville, you know the real threat to society aren’t the queens lip syncing “Jolene.”
Anyway.
It starts with representation. It continues with books and art and performance. It persists with allyship, as demonstrated by those drag queens who didn’t hesitate to save me so many years ago. It endures with Pride.
Monthly Reading List
Here, a round-up of books that inform and entertain in honor of Pride, though these can (and should!) be enjoyed year round.
“Nevada” - Imogen Binnie
“Stonewall: The Definitive Story of the LGBTQ Rights Uprising That Changed America” - Martin Duberman
“Drag: The Complete Story” - Simon Doonan
“The One” - Julia Argy
“Quietly Hostile” - Samantha Irby
“The Late Americans” - Brandon Tyler
“Queer” - William Burroughs
“We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir” - Samra Habib
Other Literary Things
Right This Way for Your Summer Reading List
May Reading Pick: “Let Me Tell You What I Mean” - Joan Didion