Diary of a Drag Queen, page 14
27th April / le 27 avril
Some promises I’ve made to myself:
I’m not going to wear black; I’m not going to be scared to take up space; I’m not going to avoid make-up or drag any more; I’m not making sure there’s no nail polish on my fingers any more, checking for tiny specks and frantically scratching them off when found; and I’m not going to put earrings on in the morning and then decide against it.
I’m going to work to find my femme energy, which I know is somewhere among all these brittle parts of myself, that feel like they’ve been stretched and peeled apart from each other and injected with fearfulness.
Yesterday, I thought of my mum, who used to tell me that she loved me but worried about me being attacked for looking a certain way or acting explicitly ‘gay’. For a moment, I had a feeling that she was right and that I should have listened to her and given in, even though I knew the only way for me to survive was to set myself alight, make a spectacle of myself. I called her and told her what I was thinking. And she told me that she was wrong and that if I’d have listened to her I wouldn’t be the person I am now and she would have felt eternally heartbroken for that.
‘People like you are a beacon of beauty; you show so many of us just how beautiful the world can be. You have changed so many people’s universes, don’t ever forget it.’
We were both sobbing.
‘Don’t you dare change the way you are. You’ve worked so hard. Take them all down. Do it the way you always wanted to. Be loud. Do it for all of us who can’t be or don’t dare to be.’
I’m going to go out to get some food as Hatty is at work. I know I’m about to break all my promises and decide on an all-black health-goth kind of look, desperately camouflaging myself into the dusty streets of east London, but it’s only been five days since I was boxed on my doorstep, so failing at them is absolutely fine.
MAY/MAI
* * *
3rd May / le 3 mai
A note from my diary, this day last year:
Last night I wore an actual nun’s cassock and a dip-dyed wig to the gay club. Safe to say people weren’t really into me in all my full-length black-sack glory, but I was feeling it so hard. Halfway through the night, all of us rejoining into a circle after various split offs and rampages through the different rooms of the club, Glamrou dared us all to play kiss-chicken – a game where you go in for the kiss and see who can hold for the longest.
Glamrou was crap at it. Every time you got close enough they would flick their head away and laugh hysterically. Sometimes it’s so liberating to behave like a teenager. In fact, not one pair made the kiss, all succumbing to the position of the chicken, except myself and Ace.
After we’d come up for air we looked in each other’s eyes, inhaled deeply and both, at the same time, exhaled a breathy ‘Woah!’, the world slowing around us, the sound of Loreen’s ‘Euphoria’ muffling.
I know my penchant for falling for friends and, worryingly, unlike the many frogs of gay dating gone by, this kiss felt like the kind that turned us both into each other’s princess.
It’s funny how some moments in our history dwindle into insignificance, while some elongate and become long stretched memories that exist in full technicolour, taking up far more time than the seconds it took to do the deed.
Since I was attacked, Ace has all but moved in to Wally, there by my side most days and nights when he’s not teaching young kids who’ve been kicked out of their schools to read and write. A literal saint. He’s unquestioningly sacrificed his time to sit and watch shit videos with me, or read while I apply to various internships and jobs, or go to the shops to get me Nurofen or a tub of Häagen-Dazs Pralines and Cream. That’s actually his favourite flavour, not mine – it makes me feel sick but I don’t tell him that, and let him enjoy both the ice cream and the thought that he’s doing the sweetest thing for me. Which he is.
Last night he was awake, reading, and I’d closed my eyes, nearing sleep. He brushed my hair from my brow and kissed my forehead and whispered, ‘I really do love you.’fn1 In written form it sounds painfully saccharine, but in the moment I decided to keep pretending I was asleep so as not to disturb his secret confession. So filmic. I’m Bridget, he’s Darcy.
6th May / le 6 mai
The one good thing about my temporary agoraphobia is that I’ve had loads of time, when not consumed by dread, to apply for a ton of jobs. From internshipsfn2 to social media positions,fn3 from the PA to editors, to fashion cupboard assistants – I’ve been hurling my CV out left, right and centre. I even applied for a junior position at Hello! Fashion. Obsessed.
I’ve developed, also, a new obsessive skill: anxiously stalking editors and writers on Twitter and Instagram and submerging myself in their worlds in quite an unhealthy way. It’s actually really embarrassing, and I’m unsure how I’ll fare if I were ever to meet them – me knowing everything about their front-facing selves, them knowing literally nothing about me.
7th May / le 7 mai
When you’re attacked you learn many things about the world, about its inequalities, its violences, its unfairnesses. You learn empathy. You learn to view the world through the lens of violence: what’s given and what’s received. But the most prophetic thing you learn, perhaps, is that, whether you like it or not, the world goes on.
I got a job!
Well, an internship, but it’s paid and it’s at a very high-profile fashion magazine. Let’s call it Chic.fn4
Let it be known, in writing, that if I am to die and this diary be found: I have, right now, at this second, been offered a job at Chic.
Chic is the magazine my grandma used to buy for me every month, in which I’d fall deep into the pages: pages of Viktor & Rolf couture or Van Cleef & Arpels diamonds or Alaïa silhouettes or McQueen show reports or endless fantasises that took me far from where I was. It was one of the first things I ever saw that taught me that the world could be bigger than Lancaster. And every month, as it plopped through my letterbox, I got a glimpse of what I thought true luxury was. And, for someone who didn’t realise they already had it in abundance back then – home, love, friends, smarts – it represented everything I would spend the next years of my life aiming for.
Funny how life can be so disparate: on the one hand I still morph into a trembling little deer at the thought of leaving the warehouse; on the other hand I’ve just been welcomed onto the first rung of a career I’ve wept over thousands of times. This is every fashion gay’s dream. Now what to wear?
10th May / le 10 mai
Hey, I ran into your mum at Morrisons and she told me you’re now the deputy editor of Chic!? Honestly amazing! Always knew you’d go far at school! If you ever have any openings I’ve always dreamed of working in fashion? And I’m so good at make-up now! xxx
Oh my God! Deputy editor at Chic? Are you kidding! So proud of you, queen; next time I’m in London you have to take me on a tour of the fashion rooms!! Maybe I could send you some ideas and stuff? Obviously no worries if not, just thought I’d offer! <3
Hi there, it’s Linda – I used to teach you at Rock Solid Sunday School! How are you doing? I added you because I heard that you’re now the deputy editor of Chic magazine? Amazing news! Everyone here in Lancaster always knew you’d go so far; you were born to be famous!! Anyway, my daughter, you remember Lara, is looking for work experience at the moment. She’s in Year 11 and I know she would just love to work at Chic. How can she apply? Sorry if this is out of the blue – but God gives to those who ask, I always say. Let me know, L xx
Today I awoke to these three incredibly random messages, from three incredibly random people. I called my mum, wondering what on earth’s gone on.
‘Oh shit, yeah, it sort of got out of hand …’ she explained.
It’s really not like her to lie.
‘I ran into Debbie – you know, that awful woman with alopecia––’
‘Mum, you don’t need to mention her alopecia––’
‘Anyway, she was being really boastful and awful about her son who just got accepted onto an acting course in London and it just came out.’
‘What did?’
‘That you’re now deputy editor of Chic. I didn’t think anyone would care, I was just trying to one up Debbie.’
She’s the source of my unhealthily competitive side.
‘Well, was it not enough to one up her with the fact I got a beauty internship at Chic? I mean that’s still a pretty big deal.’
‘Oh, I know, I know, and I don’t want to diminish your achievement. But I just wanted to really stick the knife in, you know?’
‘Well, what should I do now? Should I set them straight?’
‘If you could just take one for my team this time, just tell them you’re deputy editor, go on, for me? How embarrassing if everyone finds out I’ve been lying––’
‘Mother, this is utterly terrible parenting. But yes, I’ll do it for you.’
I’ve responded to all messages explaining that I am indeed deputy editor of Chic and that when I start my new role I’ll do what I can about Lara’s internship or Sunita’s make-up skills. Here I am, a mere intern, but at home I’m the deputy editor. And I’m fine with it.
13th May / le 13 mai
In life there are some questions that are frankly too big, too monumental, to even consider tackling. I can usually conceptualise most things, work my way through them and around them. But the question of what to wear to your first day at a job at Chic is one of the few unanswerable questions. I would pray to God, but fashion’s never been her strong suit.
The whole point of Chic is that it’s culturally definitive in the fashion arena: it sets the trend,fn5 doesn’t follow, and while trends are reserved for the tiny, tiny few of us in the world who have bucketloads of money and time and taste (wealth and taste are so infrequently bedfellows), that is not me. It’s also not the job of someone at Chic to be on trend; they must be ahead of it, surely? And, let’s face it, while much of the produce of this British institution is somewhat staid, white-washed and anorexia-inspiring, within its walls it still houses some of the most influential people in the fashion world.
Over the week I’d laid out various options of various outfits, ranging from a giant leather bomber jacket embroidered with a very eighties paisley pattern to a jewel-toned fashion turban. I quickly scrapped the turban because cultural appropriation, and gave it back to my friend Violet who is very stylish, and we both agreed that, while it’s Prada, the turban should be left to gather dust in the back of the wardrobe.
I’d settled on a long dress with a fringe at the bottom in black, Prada heels also donated to the cause by Violet, a trashy ruby necklace and a very oversized maroon bomber jacket. I wanted something that said both, ‘I’m new here, but very cool’ and ‘Give me five years and I’ll be editor-in-chief’, which is why I added the rich white-woman jewels.
This morning, outfit ready, I stepped outside, in near full face – it’s the beauty department, after all – clutching a Miu Miu patchwork tote that Violet also lent me, teetering in the Prada heels. I stopped, lit a fag, and felt momentarily terrified by my visibility.
I was basically in full drag on the morning commute, save for a wig and lashes. I took a moment and a deep breath, reminding myself that at the end of the terrifying journey was my first step to my future – and when I get to that future I can get cars everywhere, anyway. I galvanised myself: the outfit was more important than my safety. I’ve always been good at illogically ordering my priorities.
As we buzzed through the tunnel towards Bank on the DLR, I saw two men laughing at me, one of whom was taking my picture. It felt like my arse was going to fall out the bottom of my dress and I kept letting out little farts of fear.fn6
I tried to remind myself that this happens all the time, but couldn’t quite hear it. ‘Seriously, fuck off.’ I hurled my rage down the train, direct like a laser beam.
‘You talking to us, mate?’ They were laughing. ‘Why don’t you fuck off, you fucking faggot?’
And then I did something I’ve never had the courage to do before. Addressing the sardine-like commuters on this packed train, I harnessed the potential power of the people:
‘Hello, my fellow train riders. Sorry to disturb your journeys this morning, but I’d just like a show of hands as to who, in this scenario where these two men were taking pictures and laughing at me, thinks I should fuck off? Show of hands.’
At this only the two men, of about ninety, raised their hands.
‘And who, of those of us who haven’t voted yet, thinks indeed that these two men should, in fact, fuck off?’
The entire carriage, bar the two men, raised their hands straight to the sky, engaged fully in my voting system and saying things like, ‘How dare you?’ and ‘If you don’t like it, get off our fucking train.’
Democracy, when done well, works.
Revolving doors. Reception. I was greeted by Gillian – ‘not Jillian with a J sound, for God’s sake, but Gillian like the gill of a fish’ – an Alexander McQueen scarf clinging to her incredibly posh, very long neck.
‘Quick, it’s morning briefing. Don’t you speak, just listen.’
Everyone collected around a white table, every single decision-maker in the room as white as the table, and as posh as the calla lilies set at the centre.
‘Bobbles: it’s honestly all about bobbles. The nuovo hair-tie, the must-have luxe pony-puller, the bobble!’
The women around the table scribbled in their customised Smythson notebooks with the zeal of the twelve disciples listening to Jesus preaching the Sermon on the Mount.
I fought the urge to laugh, hard, at these once-inspired brains foaming at the mouth about bobbles. Literally bobbles.
‘Do you mean like hair-ties? Would you not say they’ve always been in fashion?’ I piped up.
All of the long-necked women craned toward me, eyes darting as if I’d just killed their children.
‘And who are you?’ the actual deputy editor queried.
‘I’m the new beauty intern …’ My genitals disappeared inside me like a snail into its shell.
‘Well, girls, I think the new beauty intern should take the bobble story, don’t you?’ They all nodded their heads in support, as if they’d won at a game I didn’t even know I was playing.
Joke’s on them, as it turns out. It was a first-day byline – even if it was about bobbles.
17th May / le 17 mai
Okay, been thinking a lot about Chic and wondering how I might see past my infantile fantasy of what it meant to me as a teen queen. How do I now, a much more politically advanced me, tackle the racism and the sexism and the fattism that the magazine has upheld for near a century? ‘Change it from the inside,’ Hatty advised me.
In the room it is utter madness. Even after five days, I’ve noticed how people are blind to the inequalities that plague the industry, and the wider world. That’s not everyone, of course, but so many of the older, white people who run the magazine are so cemented in their upper-middle-classness that the utterance of words like ‘queer’ or ‘black’ or ‘equality’ are met with a furrowed botoxed brow, deemed as inappropriate topics of conversation. I wish I could bring them all to Wally to meet Hatty and the Denims, and my other rad anarcho-queer friends, to show them real inappropriate conversation.
For instance, today, someone on the beauty desk told me that she thinks women of a certain age should have surgery, that it’s a woman’s ‘responsibility’ to age gracefully, ‘and if that requires a knife, then so be it’. Despite Hatty’s words ringing in my ears, I didn’t dare speak back, and I definitely didn’t want to raise the subject of misogyny or classism or ageism. Yes, surgery is great but by no means is it anyone’s responsibility. It’s not her fault; her name is, and I’m not kidding, Theodora – she had no chance.
There’s one girl, Amnah, a fashion cupboard intern who is equally tearing her hair out. We’re each other’s only office allies – meeting up by the loos to have a moment of ‘What in the fucking hell did she just say?’ before going back to our menial tasks. Today those tasks were comprised of swiping different make-up samples across different smooth surfaces to see how they would smear, ready to be photographed like those beautiful glistening smudges of make-up or cut-up lipsticks you see on the glossy white pages of the magazine. It was pretty fucking satisfying, I shan’t lie, decimating these expensive products into smudges and smears – the same impulse that makes you want to eat certain soaps or lip balms.
Anyway, there’s a question the fashion industry really needs to ask itself, especially within the corridors of Chic: in order to work in this part of the industry why must we be required to compromise both morals and intellect?
Fashion and dress, at least for the communities I move in, have proven to be incredibly, irreversibly powerful tools of protest, of coding, communication – the hanky code, leather and latex wear, drag, gender non-conformity, that jacket worn by a member of ACT UP! in the eighties that read ‘IF I DIE OF AIDS – FORGET BURIAL – JUST DROP MY BODY ON THE STEPS OF THE FDA’. But here we flutter around with an air of superiority, as if we’re solving world hunger when really the chance of an engaging conversation in this place is as likely as there being a woman of colour on the magazine’s cover. The central feature in this month’s issue is literally on types of butter.
