I really have nothing to say about this, except "whoa."
Friday, July 17, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
city girl
Moving to a new place is always a little intimidating. I grew up in Flagstaff, a small town in Arizona, and when I moved to Tucson I remember being terrified of the "big city" for a little while until I got used to a pace and atmosphere of my new environment. The same thing happened when I moved from Tucson to Chicago; I was so overwhelmed by the sheer size and diversity of my new home, and it took some adjusting before I felt comfortable again. Luckily it's hard for me to feel uncomfortable for very long, because familiarity breeds not only contempt but a sort of forced acceptance of new situations.
I've lived in my apartment in Chicago's Uptown for a year now. Chicago is a city of neighborhoods, where the difference between one street and the next can be palpable and sometimes alarming; one space can seem safe and comfortable, but a short block later it might feel highly uncomfortable and rather threatening. I moved into my current space after spending more than a year living in extremely gentrified neighborhoods, the kind where when I went outside I sometimes felt engulfed by hordes of soccer moms with strollers and golden retrievers in tow, and it was admittedly a bit of a shock. My neighborhood is actually somewhere I told myself I would never live; my first experience here (albeit a bit south, and in an area where I still don't feel entirely comfortable walking alone--I went to a concert there recently and passed a police barricade because somebody had just been shot and killed blocks from the venue) involved sitting in a Baskin Robbins waiting out the hour before an appointment and watching a homeless man compulsively scrape gum off the seats and ask the staff for free ice cream cones. On one of my first nights here, as I walked a friend to the closest train stop, a young guy smacked me on the arm as we passed him on the street and I didn't go to that station again for months, instead opting for one five minutes farther away but on a less intimidating street.
I go to that station all the time now, partially because nobody wants to spend five extra minutes outside during a Chicago winter, and partially because I've made peace with my surroundings. Not only that, but frankly, I love where I live. I remember the exact moment when it happened, or at least when I realized it was happening; I was walking to a friend's nearby house, and suddenly I noticed that there were so many different people all around me and that the way they were interacting formed a greater whole than those soccer moms ever could.
Uptown, at least where I live, is a heavily asian and black area, boasting some of the best Vietnamese food in the city and more tiny little markets filled with produce I've never heard of than you could shake a stick at. As I walked down Argyl that night, I saw small Vietnamese children with their parents waving at young black men hanging out at street corners, Indian families walking together, people coming through the door of the seafood restaurant that seems to host late night dance parties accompanied by wafts of loud music, homeless people (mostly white, interestingly) smoking together. It was dirty and smelled like grilling meat (many restaurants have windows filled with roasted ducks, their necks twisted around the metal poles that suspend them above their drip pans), gritty in that big-city way that had always put me slightly on edge, but everybody seemed to be co-existing peaceably enough. Nothing had changed, but the way I saw it was entirely different: community instead of threat.
Shortly after this small revelation I was walking to work when I passed by a house where a middle-aged black man was ringing the bell, a wooden bench resting on the porch beside him. An elderly white woman opened the door with a cry of familiarity and happiness, and I heard the man say that he had seen the bench sitting in an alley and knew that she would put it to use. She thanked him profusely, and together they moved the bench into place next to the door. I pass that bench nearly every day as I walk to work, and the memory nearly always makes me smile.
Today, I paid back a little of that community. A man living down the street from me who always smiles and wishes me a good day when I pass by was standing outside smoking when I came by on my way home from work, backpack bristling with lilies that I had taken with me from our trash flower bucket. He told me they were beautiful, and I walked over so that he could smell them. He seemed so happy that I spontaneously asked if he wanted them. He looked at me and I could see how happy the thought made him, and I pulled them from my pack and handed them to him. He stubbed out his cigarette, exclaiming "I'm going to go give these to somebody right now!" and I continued on my way home, happy and lighter in more ways than one.
I've lived in my apartment in Chicago's Uptown for a year now. Chicago is a city of neighborhoods, where the difference between one street and the next can be palpable and sometimes alarming; one space can seem safe and comfortable, but a short block later it might feel highly uncomfortable and rather threatening. I moved into my current space after spending more than a year living in extremely gentrified neighborhoods, the kind where when I went outside I sometimes felt engulfed by hordes of soccer moms with strollers and golden retrievers in tow, and it was admittedly a bit of a shock. My neighborhood is actually somewhere I told myself I would never live; my first experience here (albeit a bit south, and in an area where I still don't feel entirely comfortable walking alone--I went to a concert there recently and passed a police barricade because somebody had just been shot and killed blocks from the venue) involved sitting in a Baskin Robbins waiting out the hour before an appointment and watching a homeless man compulsively scrape gum off the seats and ask the staff for free ice cream cones. On one of my first nights here, as I walked a friend to the closest train stop, a young guy smacked me on the arm as we passed him on the street and I didn't go to that station again for months, instead opting for one five minutes farther away but on a less intimidating street.
I go to that station all the time now, partially because nobody wants to spend five extra minutes outside during a Chicago winter, and partially because I've made peace with my surroundings. Not only that, but frankly, I love where I live. I remember the exact moment when it happened, or at least when I realized it was happening; I was walking to a friend's nearby house, and suddenly I noticed that there were so many different people all around me and that the way they were interacting formed a greater whole than those soccer moms ever could.
Uptown, at least where I live, is a heavily asian and black area, boasting some of the best Vietnamese food in the city and more tiny little markets filled with produce I've never heard of than you could shake a stick at. As I walked down Argyl that night, I saw small Vietnamese children with their parents waving at young black men hanging out at street corners, Indian families walking together, people coming through the door of the seafood restaurant that seems to host late night dance parties accompanied by wafts of loud music, homeless people (mostly white, interestingly) smoking together. It was dirty and smelled like grilling meat (many restaurants have windows filled with roasted ducks, their necks twisted around the metal poles that suspend them above their drip pans), gritty in that big-city way that had always put me slightly on edge, but everybody seemed to be co-existing peaceably enough. Nothing had changed, but the way I saw it was entirely different: community instead of threat.
Shortly after this small revelation I was walking to work when I passed by a house where a middle-aged black man was ringing the bell, a wooden bench resting on the porch beside him. An elderly white woman opened the door with a cry of familiarity and happiness, and I heard the man say that he had seen the bench sitting in an alley and knew that she would put it to use. She thanked him profusely, and together they moved the bench into place next to the door. I pass that bench nearly every day as I walk to work, and the memory nearly always makes me smile.
Today, I paid back a little of that community. A man living down the street from me who always smiles and wishes me a good day when I pass by was standing outside smoking when I came by on my way home from work, backpack bristling with lilies that I had taken with me from our trash flower bucket. He told me they were beautiful, and I walked over so that he could smell them. He seemed so happy that I spontaneously asked if he wanted them. He looked at me and I could see how happy the thought made him, and I pulled them from my pack and handed them to him. He stubbed out his cigarette, exclaiming "I'm going to go give these to somebody right now!" and I continued on my way home, happy and lighter in more ways than one.
Friday, July 10, 2009
stories from the city, stories from the lake
Erica and I have spent a good bit of time over the years debating the worthiness of actions that lead to stories, whether a good story is a reason for doing something and what is more important, the happening or the telling. I don't know the answer but I do know that life lately has seemed somewhat ridiculously overfull of metaphors, where I see the world through stranger's glasses on a day where I desperately need larger vision or where I hear somebody's joy in personal independence only days before the holiday when the country celebrates its own freedom. I'm in this more-or-less perpetual state of wonder, watching stories unfold around me rather perfectly and seeing how they lead me to new insights about myself, and figuring out how those insights translate into words and more stories that I can tell to others and perhaps show them a little bit of who I am. I've always been a fairly interior person, and lately all I can seem to do is talk about myself and all of the amazingly beautiful things that my life is filled with.
When did this happen? Not all at once. It's been just over a year since I moved into my own apartment, began a life that was truly my own, and that has had a great deal to do with it. But I think that there's something much more indefinable, some massive interior shift that has brought me to this place where nearly everything seems to be a story and also some sort of radical truth. I don't know what that change could be, except that I finally have a clearer vision of who I am and who I want to be, and the stories seem to flow from that. But it might also be that I'm starting to think more like a writer, and that these stories and perfect moments and metaphors have been here all along and I was too tied up in other things to notice. All I know is that I'm grateful for them now.
The writer thing, I have to admit, is a little terrifying. I don't consider myself a writer, really, but I have to recognize that words and the writing and telling of them has gained considerable prominence in the last few months. Not a week goes by where somebody doesn't tell me that I should write more, be a writer, do this somehow in a way that goes beyond this simple blog and the group of friends and acquaintances that read it. I don't know how to do that. I don't know if doing this in a more high-pressure way would ruin it for me, as "work" and its related anxieties ruined music for me for a while. I don't know what I could write that more people than you all, my regular readers, would want to listen to. I don't know so many things, but if I sit tight I think the stories will keep happening and whatever change I'm going through will reach some sort of logical-but-unforeseen conclusion that I would never have imagined. It will make a great story later, no matter how it turns out.
When did this happen? Not all at once. It's been just over a year since I moved into my own apartment, began a life that was truly my own, and that has had a great deal to do with it. But I think that there's something much more indefinable, some massive interior shift that has brought me to this place where nearly everything seems to be a story and also some sort of radical truth. I don't know what that change could be, except that I finally have a clearer vision of who I am and who I want to be, and the stories seem to flow from that. But it might also be that I'm starting to think more like a writer, and that these stories and perfect moments and metaphors have been here all along and I was too tied up in other things to notice. All I know is that I'm grateful for them now.
The writer thing, I have to admit, is a little terrifying. I don't consider myself a writer, really, but I have to recognize that words and the writing and telling of them has gained considerable prominence in the last few months. Not a week goes by where somebody doesn't tell me that I should write more, be a writer, do this somehow in a way that goes beyond this simple blog and the group of friends and acquaintances that read it. I don't know how to do that. I don't know if doing this in a more high-pressure way would ruin it for me, as "work" and its related anxieties ruined music for me for a while. I don't know what I could write that more people than you all, my regular readers, would want to listen to. I don't know so many things, but if I sit tight I think the stories will keep happening and whatever change I'm going through will reach some sort of logical-but-unforeseen conclusion that I would never have imagined. It will make a great story later, no matter how it turns out.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
the low road
I'm not feeling terribly well today. It shouldn't be a huge surprise; I've been playing hard lately, going out and running around and generally not sitting still for long enough to even let the tiredness hit me. I've been enjoying myself greatly but I've finally hit the point where, when I do let myself relax for more than a few minutes, I feel the exhaustion wash over me like a wave and I think to myself: Maybe I should try and sleep more than five hours a night. Maybe I should stay home, not make plans at 10 PM, opt out of the party, stop obsessively baking cookies and pies and tarts (but not cooking any "real" food, god no) and traversing the city at every opportunity, and just let myself sit still and quiet.
It's hard for me. Mania seems to be my fallback mode right now, as it has been for much of the past year. But if nothing else, I absolutely hate being sick while living by myself. Being sick is never fun, and while I lived with other people I always tried to take as much care of myself as I could when I was ailing. But in all honesty, now that's when I most wish there was somebody around to be there for me. Somebody to go to the store and buy me orange juice and saltines. Somebody to hand me a cool wet washcloth, rub my shoulders, pop in a movie, turn the lights low, kiss my cheek and tell me I'll be better soon. I feel needy and alone, more tired and ill than I would probably be if there were actually somebody here. It erodes my resolve to be who I am by myself, and I resent my illness for that.
I'm not sick yet. But because of the threat of that loneliness, I'm staying home tonight and treating myself well. Putting in that movie or cracking that book myself before I wish there was somebody else here to help me do it. In a day or two there will be time for cookies and bike rides and friend nights and all of those other good things that I'm so lucky to have filled my life with, but tonight it's just me. And a lot of Emergen-C.
It's hard for me. Mania seems to be my fallback mode right now, as it has been for much of the past year. But if nothing else, I absolutely hate being sick while living by myself. Being sick is never fun, and while I lived with other people I always tried to take as much care of myself as I could when I was ailing. But in all honesty, now that's when I most wish there was somebody around to be there for me. Somebody to go to the store and buy me orange juice and saltines. Somebody to hand me a cool wet washcloth, rub my shoulders, pop in a movie, turn the lights low, kiss my cheek and tell me I'll be better soon. I feel needy and alone, more tired and ill than I would probably be if there were actually somebody here. It erodes my resolve to be who I am by myself, and I resent my illness for that.
I'm not sick yet. But because of the threat of that loneliness, I'm staying home tonight and treating myself well. Putting in that movie or cracking that book myself before I wish there was somebody else here to help me do it. In a day or two there will be time for cookies and bike rides and friend nights and all of those other good things that I'm so lucky to have filled my life with, but tonight it's just me. And a lot of Emergen-C.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
independence
I'm not much of a patriot in the traditional sense of the word, but I'm a strong believer in independence. I believe in strength and freedom and self-love and beauty, in self-actualization and figuring out how to be whole instead of fragmented. In an ideal world, I'd be able to apply all of these hopes and dreams to the country as a whole, but for now I take my independence in the forms I can get it and those are generally personal.
I was at work a few days ago, very near to closing time after a long tiring seven hours, and a regular customer walked in. I went to greet her; she's a very sweet person, always has a smile for me, but she also usually takes forever to pick something out so I was both happy and full of dread when I saw her. Sad but true: no matter how nice you are, sometimes I wish you'd just pick a flower out already and call it a day. She was getting three flowers for her girlfriend; I believe it was their anniversary. (Another rant: my gay male co-worker gets hit on constantly and I almost never do. The queer men flirt, the queer ladies buy flowers for their girlfriends. Frustrating.) My co-worker and I helped her pick out her blooms, wrapped them in paper, and walked back towards the door with her as we chatted.
Suddenly she turned around and, with a preface I can't recall, told us that she had just come out to her mother. I realized suddenly that she was practically glowing, so happy and excited and relieved that she was finally no longer living with the threat of this moment of self-actualization that the vast majority of queer people go through eventually. She had told her mother, and her mother had been gracious and happy for her, and so we rejoiced with her. My co-worker told his story (his mother broke out in hives) and I did not because I wasn't asked. (I don't code as gay, it seems; I've been asked such an unimaginable number of times if I am queer, which is a source of irritation. Perhaps I need to shave my head and get a tattoo? No? Ah well.) But we celebrated with her for a minute or two, this stranger who had just revealed a deeply personal moment to us standing in the door of the shop.
My own coming out was both less and more dramatic than I had anticipated. I was twenty-three, and it was the day before I moved to Chicago for grad school. My girlfriend and I had been dating for about eight months at that point, but I had been chickening out of telling my parents; my mom grew up Mormon and is also prone to random bouts of freak-out-edness when I least expect it, so I wasn't sure what kind of reaction she would have. But on this day, the day before I left, we were standing in the kitchen crying and yelling at each other for some reason that I can't remember in the slightest now when she suddenly turned to me and said "Your friend A is really nice." It was such a complete non-sequitor that it stopped me in my tracks and left me with no idea how to respond. I stopped crying, and after a moment said that she was not my friend, she was my girlfriend, and my mother looked at me scornfully to let me know that of course she knew that. We hugged, and the fight wound down into a rare moment of intimacy between us.
The next day, I moved to Chicago. I told my father immediately before getting out of the car at the airport (because how awkward would a two-hour car ride be after a revelation like that?) and he told me he just wanted me to be happy. I flew away on wings, relieved that things had gone as relatively well as they had, and we rarely spoke of it until a much more traumatic fight a few years later. But that plane ride, heading towards a new place and a new life where I could start over and be who I really was, felt like freedom.
I was at work a few days ago, very near to closing time after a long tiring seven hours, and a regular customer walked in. I went to greet her; she's a very sweet person, always has a smile for me, but she also usually takes forever to pick something out so I was both happy and full of dread when I saw her. Sad but true: no matter how nice you are, sometimes I wish you'd just pick a flower out already and call it a day. She was getting three flowers for her girlfriend; I believe it was their anniversary. (Another rant: my gay male co-worker gets hit on constantly and I almost never do. The queer men flirt, the queer ladies buy flowers for their girlfriends. Frustrating.) My co-worker and I helped her pick out her blooms, wrapped them in paper, and walked back towards the door with her as we chatted.
Suddenly she turned around and, with a preface I can't recall, told us that she had just come out to her mother. I realized suddenly that she was practically glowing, so happy and excited and relieved that she was finally no longer living with the threat of this moment of self-actualization that the vast majority of queer people go through eventually. She had told her mother, and her mother had been gracious and happy for her, and so we rejoiced with her. My co-worker told his story (his mother broke out in hives) and I did not because I wasn't asked. (I don't code as gay, it seems; I've been asked such an unimaginable number of times if I am queer, which is a source of irritation. Perhaps I need to shave my head and get a tattoo? No? Ah well.) But we celebrated with her for a minute or two, this stranger who had just revealed a deeply personal moment to us standing in the door of the shop.
My own coming out was both less and more dramatic than I had anticipated. I was twenty-three, and it was the day before I moved to Chicago for grad school. My girlfriend and I had been dating for about eight months at that point, but I had been chickening out of telling my parents; my mom grew up Mormon and is also prone to random bouts of freak-out-edness when I least expect it, so I wasn't sure what kind of reaction she would have. But on this day, the day before I left, we were standing in the kitchen crying and yelling at each other for some reason that I can't remember in the slightest now when she suddenly turned to me and said "Your friend A is really nice." It was such a complete non-sequitor that it stopped me in my tracks and left me with no idea how to respond. I stopped crying, and after a moment said that she was not my friend, she was my girlfriend, and my mother looked at me scornfully to let me know that of course she knew that. We hugged, and the fight wound down into a rare moment of intimacy between us.
The next day, I moved to Chicago. I told my father immediately before getting out of the car at the airport (because how awkward would a two-hour car ride be after a revelation like that?) and he told me he just wanted me to be happy. I flew away on wings, relieved that things had gone as relatively well as they had, and we rarely spoke of it until a much more traumatic fight a few years later. But that plane ride, heading towards a new place and a new life where I could start over and be who I really was, felt like freedom.
Friday, July 03, 2009
seasonal berry disorder
So it's strawberry season, which means that the farmers markets and grocery stores are flooded with fresh ripe berries; I can smell them as soon as I walk into my local Jewel, which is not much of a bastion of fresh affordable garden-y goodness most of the time. It also means that, in a veritable orgy of berry excess, I've been through nearly seven quarts in the last week and a half. There have been drinks, pies, more drinks, and even dumplings, although I still haven't made the vegan strawberry shortcake I dreamed of earlier this summer (there have been issues with my attempts at vegan whipped cream). Every time I think I'm done, I walk past the produce section and somehow end up with another quart in my bag.
It started last week when I ended up with four quarts all at the same time. (Because I'm awesome like that.) My fridge was overflowing, and so I invited some friends over and started chopping. First up was a less sweet and less drink-like version of the red wine recipe at the end of this post, and these dumplings from Smitten Kitchen. A "baked" summertime good without the baking? Hell yes. It helps that they were delicious. The next night I tried my hand a little more earnestly (results shortly) with a red wine drink that was like strawberry sangria and strawberry gin and tonics, which I brought to a girls' night party and which we demolished. And finally, there was what was to be my crowning glory: a strawberry rhubarb pie, also from Smitten Kitchen.
I don't make pies all that often, but there's just something about them. A pile of cookies might taste just as good or better, but to me a pie just looks so much more impressive. I think, wow, that person made pie crust! Assembled things! Perhaps beat some meringue! I usually avoid them because they're harder to transport, but this week I was overloaded with strawberries and rhubarb from the farmer's market and I just had to give it a shot. I also had received a surprise package in the mail a few weeks ago from my friend Shawn: two large nested cardboard boxes that ended up holding a very nice maple rolling pin. Until now, I've dealt with pie crust by either rolling it out with a glass or simply smushing it around the pie plate until it covered everything it was supposed to cover. But this time, I whipped out my rolling pin and had that plate covered in next to no time. I added the gooey filling and then made a lattice top over it (My first lattice top! I took a cell phone picture, because I'm a dork) and baked it until it was brown and bubbly. Then it was nearly 2 AM (summer heat means using my insomnia for late-night cooking), and so I went to bed.
The results, when I tried it the next day, were much more disappointing than my clumsy-but-still-exciting lattice. My rhubarb was crunchy, not to the point of inedibility, but certainly not the warm gooey texture I'd been dreaming of. So I made myself another gin and tonic and vowed to try again next year.
Strawberry Sangria
1 bottle (at least) red wine
1 quart strawberries, sliced
1/4 cup sugar
1 bunch fresh mint, finely chopped
Er, basically just mix everything together and chill. My boss (who gave me this recipe; I love my job sometimes) recommended 1/2 cup of sugar per quart of berries but that was waaaaaay too sweet for my taste. I'd actually recommend, if you're with a few people, mixing a few spoonfuls of the wine-and-berry mixture with a glass of non-strawberried wine; we did that at the party I was at last week and it was just enough sweetness to add a new dimension without being overwhelming. You can smash the strawberries with a potato masher or other blunt object to make the drink a little smoother.
Strawberry Gin and Tonic
1 quart strawberries, sliced
3 tbs sugar
juice of one lime
splash of gin
Once again, just mix it all together and smash the berries if desired. Let the above ingredients chill together for at least fifteen minutes to let the strawberries macerate, and then mix a few spoonfuls into your gin and tonic.
It started last week when I ended up with four quarts all at the same time. (Because I'm awesome like that.) My fridge was overflowing, and so I invited some friends over and started chopping. First up was a less sweet and less drink-like version of the red wine recipe at the end of this post, and these dumplings from Smitten Kitchen. A "baked" summertime good without the baking? Hell yes. It helps that they were delicious. The next night I tried my hand a little more earnestly (results shortly) with a red wine drink that was like strawberry sangria and strawberry gin and tonics, which I brought to a girls' night party and which we demolished. And finally, there was what was to be my crowning glory: a strawberry rhubarb pie, also from Smitten Kitchen.
I don't make pies all that often, but there's just something about them. A pile of cookies might taste just as good or better, but to me a pie just looks so much more impressive. I think, wow, that person made pie crust! Assembled things! Perhaps beat some meringue! I usually avoid them because they're harder to transport, but this week I was overloaded with strawberries and rhubarb from the farmer's market and I just had to give it a shot. I also had received a surprise package in the mail a few weeks ago from my friend Shawn: two large nested cardboard boxes that ended up holding a very nice maple rolling pin. Until now, I've dealt with pie crust by either rolling it out with a glass or simply smushing it around the pie plate until it covered everything it was supposed to cover. But this time, I whipped out my rolling pin and had that plate covered in next to no time. I added the gooey filling and then made a lattice top over it (My first lattice top! I took a cell phone picture, because I'm a dork) and baked it until it was brown and bubbly. Then it was nearly 2 AM (summer heat means using my insomnia for late-night cooking), and so I went to bed.
The results, when I tried it the next day, were much more disappointing than my clumsy-but-still-exciting lattice. My rhubarb was crunchy, not to the point of inedibility, but certainly not the warm gooey texture I'd been dreaming of. So I made myself another gin and tonic and vowed to try again next year.
Strawberry Sangria
1 bottle (at least) red wine
1 quart strawberries, sliced
1/4 cup sugar
1 bunch fresh mint, finely chopped
Er, basically just mix everything together and chill. My boss (who gave me this recipe; I love my job sometimes) recommended 1/2 cup of sugar per quart of berries but that was waaaaaay too sweet for my taste. I'd actually recommend, if you're with a few people, mixing a few spoonfuls of the wine-and-berry mixture with a glass of non-strawberried wine; we did that at the party I was at last week and it was just enough sweetness to add a new dimension without being overwhelming. You can smash the strawberries with a potato masher or other blunt object to make the drink a little smoother.
Strawberry Gin and Tonic
1 quart strawberries, sliced
3 tbs sugar
juice of one lime
splash of gin
Once again, just mix it all together and smash the berries if desired. Let the above ingredients chill together for at least fifteen minutes to let the strawberries macerate, and then mix a few spoonfuls into your gin and tonic.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
clothes minded
When I was a little girl, I was all about the dress-up. I would run around my apartment complex in a pink ballerina costume asking people if they thought I was pretty, and I frequently put on a frilly dress, white gloves, large hat, and lace-trimmed socks and demand to go to the grocery store with my mother. (She loved that, as you can imagine.) But as I got older and more self-conscious, as girls tend to do, dress-up became a far smaller part of my life.
It wasn't until I started reading and thinking about gender that dress-up made a reappearance in my life. Ru-Paul's words, that we're all born naked and the rest is drag, resonated with me and freed me up to experiment just a little bit with my presentation. I've written this summer about feeling fairly androgynous but there have also been other phases, most notably a resurgence of my femmey self a few summers ago. I haven't been feeling particularly girly lately, but when I heard that Genderqueer Chicago was going to be having a drag 1920's party I knew I was going to have to femme myself up in some sort of outrageous fashion. For one thing, I look like a total dweeb in boy drag--think bible salesman--and for another I have a very flapper-esque body type. When else was my lack of boobage going to count in my favor for girl drag? But also, I just kind of wanted to, and for me being an excessively feminine girl is pretty damn subversive feeling.
And so I showed up in perhaps the shortest black dress I've ever owned, my hair curled and pinned on top of my head and sporting heels, two pearl necklaces, and a peacock feather. My friends were all looking incredibly dapper in their suits, fedoras, knickers, and mustaches, and much to my relief and surprise the vast majority of people walking into the rather swanky pretentious under-lit gay bar we were at were decked out in similar fashion. Dress parties are only fun if people really go for it, and I've been to more than my fair share where I did and other people did not; it's gotten to the point where, if I'm invited to a theme event, I often show up in normal clothes with my costume in tow just in case. I will never forget showing up to my first Ugly Christmas Sweater party (in another town, which pretty much obliterated my chances of a change of clothing) wearing a christmas tree turtleneck, red pants, and a vest embroidered with huge Santa faces only to find out that no one else had dressed up. And then there was the early nineties party where I showed up in neon Blossom shorts and a midriff-baring orange plaid halter top tied in front, only to discover that the host had forgotten to inform most of the other guests that it was a theme party at all. I believe both events ended with excessive drunkenness on my part, largely due to embarrassment and the massive discomfort of looking like a total weirdo.
But last night? It was classy. Fedoras abounded, as did vests and ties. I felt like a million dollars, and even though I was nearly the only person there in girl drag I was completely comfortable with that. It felt good to see so many happy costumed queer folk chatting and making new connections and generally taking over the bar we'd booked; all these queers in this blowdried gay male space! It made me so happy. And even though we didn't talk formally about Genderqueer Chicago, it still felt like one of the major underlying layers to the evening. I talked with people about queer barbecues, pronoun choice--I was asked multiple times which pronouns I preferred, and there was a group lean towards y'all as a neutral option--and yes, sometimes even what the group was about and what we hoped to do in the future. We have time and space later for more words and deeper discussions, but as a coming out party this was the bee's knees.
It wasn't until I started reading and thinking about gender that dress-up made a reappearance in my life. Ru-Paul's words, that we're all born naked and the rest is drag, resonated with me and freed me up to experiment just a little bit with my presentation. I've written this summer about feeling fairly androgynous but there have also been other phases, most notably a resurgence of my femmey self a few summers ago. I haven't been feeling particularly girly lately, but when I heard that Genderqueer Chicago was going to be having a drag 1920's party I knew I was going to have to femme myself up in some sort of outrageous fashion. For one thing, I look like a total dweeb in boy drag--think bible salesman--and for another I have a very flapper-esque body type. When else was my lack of boobage going to count in my favor for girl drag? But also, I just kind of wanted to, and for me being an excessively feminine girl is pretty damn subversive feeling.
And so I showed up in perhaps the shortest black dress I've ever owned, my hair curled and pinned on top of my head and sporting heels, two pearl necklaces, and a peacock feather. My friends were all looking incredibly dapper in their suits, fedoras, knickers, and mustaches, and much to my relief and surprise the vast majority of people walking into the rather swanky pretentious under-lit gay bar we were at were decked out in similar fashion. Dress parties are only fun if people really go for it, and I've been to more than my fair share where I did and other people did not; it's gotten to the point where, if I'm invited to a theme event, I often show up in normal clothes with my costume in tow just in case. I will never forget showing up to my first Ugly Christmas Sweater party (in another town, which pretty much obliterated my chances of a change of clothing) wearing a christmas tree turtleneck, red pants, and a vest embroidered with huge Santa faces only to find out that no one else had dressed up. And then there was the early nineties party where I showed up in neon Blossom shorts and a midriff-baring orange plaid halter top tied in front, only to discover that the host had forgotten to inform most of the other guests that it was a theme party at all. I believe both events ended with excessive drunkenness on my part, largely due to embarrassment and the massive discomfort of looking like a total weirdo.
But last night? It was classy. Fedoras abounded, as did vests and ties. I felt like a million dollars, and even though I was nearly the only person there in girl drag I was completely comfortable with that. It felt good to see so many happy costumed queer folk chatting and making new connections and generally taking over the bar we'd booked; all these queers in this blowdried gay male space! It made me so happy. And even though we didn't talk formally about Genderqueer Chicago, it still felt like one of the major underlying layers to the evening. I talked with people about queer barbecues, pronoun choice--I was asked multiple times which pronouns I preferred, and there was a group lean towards y'all as a neutral option--and yes, sometimes even what the group was about and what we hoped to do in the future. We have time and space later for more words and deeper discussions, but as a coming out party this was the bee's knees.
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