In a world where you can choose to be Trans sexual, tri-sexual, bi-sexual or a Billy Goat, I’ve come to believe I’d like to pick my own gender too. I’ve given it a lot of consideration, looked at the many options and acronyms floating around and decided none of them really explain me. When I tried to put a few together it turned out not even stacking my options could make the Universe yell out “this is you” from across the room. I started to read articles about people who were brave enough to make singular gender choices and used their stories as inspiration to look at what title would best label me me.
It’s been a long search and at some points a harried confusing one. If gender isn’t designated at birth by God or science than what criteria should be used to decide it? Should it be based on physical attributes? Emotions? The zodiac? Social and financial standing? What age should it be decided? If it’s a personal choice clearly birth is not an option. So at what age do you stand before the world and claim your gender out loud.
Forget the Quinceanera, Bar or Bat Mitzvah the coming of age party celebrated world-wide needs to be Name Your Gender Day; the ultimate day of free choice. Burst the balloons of gender reveal party planners everywhere by leaving it up to belligerent, confused teens to stand up and say things like “I was born a man, I thought for a long time I wanted to be a woman, but after meeting Bill the Billy Goat last week on a school field trip I discovered my true family walks on four legs and has hooves. I’m a Billy Goat.” Who needs a cake to explain their little bundle of joy when you can wait to have that bundle explain itself, at an age most children are not considered a joy. I can see the proud parents of this Billy Goat. I can imagine them beaming with pride as they watch the YouTube reel that introduces their once human son as “Will the Billy Goat, descendant of Bill.” Instead of being known as the fruit of their love and culmination of their life efforts as he should be, he’ll be known as a four legged animal. Instead of being top of the food chain he’s moved himself to the middle; he has literally offered himself up as a food option at the next family BBQ instead of being a guest. He can be an urban answer to low carbon grass control. I can hear those parents now “yes that’s our Will he’s eating out in the yard today. We are so proud of his quality lawn work, so proud. We never knew how much we needed a Billy Goat until he discovered his gender” While it sounds completely ridiculous and a lot exaggerated it’s literally becoming the social norm to pick a gender on very little realistic criteria and all fantastic feeling. What surprises me most is that no one seems to be resisting the change. Picking a gender is becoming a way to explain away social awkwardness and emotional challenge when the only thing it’s really designed for is designated roles in procreation. Testing the concept of a fair and open society where freedom of choice is becoming exactly that, the otherly awkward and truly fed up are playing their own game and making their own rules. While I’m confused that changing genders can often mean changing species I applaud the brave souls demanding the change. When I was growing up boys were expected to be boys and girls were expected to be girls. I was a square peg in a round hole. I love all of the sparkly wonderful trappings consistent with being outlandishly feminine while leaving little doubt in anyone’s mind that I “wear the pants” in my world. I’ve been accused of having a dick many times; to which I often reply “why yes I do, I’m so grateful for Amazon Prime two day delivery, because of them I have many!” 😂😂😂 What I know for sure is I never fully felt like I fit in either gender I was presented, but in my early years there simply wasn’t another one to be. My new gender seriously needs to accommodate my lack of filter and my sarcastic sense of humour.
I’m too old for my found choice to be a coming of age moment. I don’t think it will create a lifestyle change or open any new doors. People will not see me different; everyone already knows I’m a little odd. I’m okay with that. I see it more as taking the place I’ve always wanted in the society I’d prefer to mostly do without. I see it as joining a community that always said I didn’t qualify because of my gender. A concept that always amazed me considering the effort the group as a whole put into proving their equality. How can the members of this group demand to be equal, yet refuse to let me join the club based on my genitalia? I’ve been drunkenly righteous about it many times without success, but this paradigm shift in gender relation has actually opened a life hole large enough to drive my notion through with little opportunity for refusal.
I’m sure you’re mentally running through the list of all of the options you’ve heard or personally thought of. I think unless you know me inside and out you would not guess. It should not surprise you that I don’t want to be considered Trans, tri, pan or bi. I want to be something previously considered impossible for my current gender. I want to be something wimmin have been denied since its inception. I want to end the reverse discrimination and demand my rightful place as the person I know me to be, on the inside. Not only do I want to consider myself one of the group, I want to be welcomed with loving open arms, invited accepted and considered one of the sparkling pack. Ladies, gentlemen and all the genders newly or yet undiscovered I want to be a Drag Queen.
That’s right you read it. I want all of my official paper work to say Gender: Drag Queen for now and all eternity. I want the right to be colourful, outlandish with big hair and even bigger high heels, on any day, at any time because I’m me. I want to break out in song and critique the fashion choices of the world out loud, with great humour and at will without judgement because it’s a gender trait not a personality flaw. I want to turn standing in a grocery line into a disco revival because it’s Tuesday afternoon and the crowd at this store seems a little colorless to me. I want to be my own definition of me and after considering all of my options and parameters for choice I think Drag Queen is truly the best and most desired option. I don’t mean me dressed as a man I mean me dressed as the female version of me I want to be. I mean dresses that blind you with bling like a Gyspy in a TLC exploitation moment and the internal fortitude to take care of business like Patrick Swayze in Too Wong Foo. All of the things I want to be Drag Queens have been for years – strong, brave, individual and unapologetic while blazing a path all my own. That’s the me I want to be, no plastic surgery desired.
From the Divines and Dame Edna’s to the painted beauties on bar posters everywhere I’ve always wanted to highlight my assets in the most exaggerating ways and create my version of me for all of the world to see. My version includes wigs, mink lashes and sequins that never end with a love of show tunes and choreographed dance. So I ask you – what’s wrong with that? From the first time I watched a group of “Queens” conquer the Australian desert I knew Priscilla and her passengers were like family. To be brave enough to face the world with the face and personality you chose to wear not the face and personality you were genetically given – that’s who I truly want to be. I also want the option to change that face. Like the Drag Queens that have come before me I want to explore all of the many faces and moods I imagine myself wearing, not be stuck with the same one every day.
I grew up in a weirdly traditional Christian household where only one set of beliefs was preached loud and often. Families started with a man and his wife, otherwise known as chattel. Their first job as a married couple was to procreate. After that their main job was to nurture the fruit of these efforts into newer versions of themselves so that procreation of the species could continue. As the fruit you were either male or female, designated by birth and anything else was considered an aberration. From an early age and your first toy you were instructed as to your role in life. Boys were always given trucks and diggers to teach them about “working like a man” while girls were given dolls and kitchen sets so they could “learn to be good mothers”. You were expected to follow in the steps your parents laid out for you and severe consequences existed for resistors. This was a theme from the beginning of time. Banishment, disowning, being sent to a religious house the evolution of man hasn’t lessened the binds in fact it’s done the opposite and increased them. While wimmin are no longer sent to the nunnery to make room for a next wife they are still regularly vacuumed from their entire existence and erased to make room for version 2.0. The poor female is often forced to reinvent herself accompanied by few resources and with only decades of self-sacrifice and empty slots for self-care filling her tool box it’s hard to imagine her as a member of the weaker fairer gender. I’m sure no one would pick to be weaker or fairer so what gender should she and other wimmin like her chose? I mean surviving something so terrifying and painful, wouldn’t you expect her to choose a gender other than the one that made her a victim?
I don’t know about her, but I’m choosing to be a Drag Queen. I don’t think anyone should follow in my footsteps; rather I think they should carve a path and walk in their own direction. Being a Drag Queen is a solid choice for me. I long for a culture where fashion is your right, lashes are for daytime and for night. Faces don’t need to be butchered when they can be painted. Looks can change with moods and magazine trends. Wigs make hair an ever revolving accessory and shoes can be discovered in endless styles. I want to be an active part of the outrageous things in life and for me no one is more genuine in character or as outrageous as a Drag Queen.
Most importantly going forward whenever I feel marginalized or outright abused just because I’m perceived as a wommin, I intend to remind my abuser that their perceptions are off, I’m not female I’m a Drag Queen and therefore a man. I will demand all of the rights and entitlements that a man, regardless of being dressed in Wimmin’s clothing, is entitled to simply because underneath his frilly drawers he’s a man. I will celebrate my apparent superiority and wave my dick around for all to see. I may not have a real one, but playing by the rules of our new world it would be outright prejudice for anyone to single me out; after-all as a penis-challenged Drag Queen I’ll be a minority amongst a minority and therefore the most abused. Don’t worry I’ll carry a prosthetic penis in case I feel envious and insecure. Perhaps I’ll get it a red vest, call it my service penis and show it to anyone who doubts me.
If you doubt Drag Queen as a gender ask any of the Queens themselves. No matter whom they are wearing on the outside their hearts are always the same. They were born to live this way. It’s not a choice, but a calling. So buckle up girls I’m ready to jump to your side. I’ve decided to face this crazy world martini and microphone in hand. If the whole world is a stage my turn on it should simply be Divine. I feel like the time has come to channel a little Connie and Carla into the next act of Me. I feel like being a Drag Queen would go a long way to making me feel free.