By Adriana Mendez
I had just turned on the television to watch the news, which I hadn’t watched for several days. Then I received a text from Marcela, “Adri, come to Tues-gay at Marsala, we have a drag queen show.”
I gladly tuned off the horrors I was watching on the screen: terrorist attacks on Oxxo stores in Celaya and Irapuato, and the burning of vehicles. I put on a jacket and headed to Marsala. As I walked I realized how quickly I had left; the news ran me out of my house. I guess I preferred to turn a blind eye and pretend nothing was wrong in the face of the impotence and fear that the news of the day had generated in me. I was saddened by the violence in our country and in the world. Tragic news abounds: the war in Ukraine, which has already lasted six months; point-blank assassinations in broad daylight; displaced people asking for asylum in different countries of the world; young people murdered by their peers inside school classrooms; forced migration for economic reasons by those constantly risking death by starvation and exhaustion or at the hands of smugglers.
I thought of young people and the enormous efforts they have to make to adapt to living in such a threatening environment—not only because of the violence but also because of the effects of the pandemic that never seems to end. The virus insists on mutating. It seems so unfair that my children have to spend their youth in an environment like this, where violence and impunity seem to be normalized. I’m not surprised by the exponential increase in symptoms of depression. It’s a logical response to the fear and social isolation resulting from remote work.
This was on my mind during the 10 minute walk over sidewalks and cobblestone streets. My internal discourse changed direction when I turned onto Hernández Macías. I was about to reach Marsala and could hear music and laughter all the way to the street. Ximena opened the door for me and took me to her table. As soon as I sat down, I panned from left to right, trying to take everything in. My attention was captured by an artist dancing around in the patio, which had been converted into a stage. I didn’t know whether to focus my gaze on the dress, the makeup, or “her” acting and movements. When she ended her act, Queen Anastasia sat down at my table. You couldn’t help noticing her dense, mile-long, black lashes that covered up the bluish shadows of her eyelids and brightened her pupils. Her face had foundation makeup enhanced by exaggerated lines of white concealer on the bridge of her nose and brown concealer under her cheekbones. There were gold sequins on her dress, and the long, straight, black wig. Every time she changed position, the sequins made a soft noise.
Because I’ve always been curious, and I’m interested in hearing about experiences in person, I asked her, “Can you explain to me what it is to be drag?” Slowly, but with great enthusiasm, she broke down the details of her show.
“Our clothing, makeup, and acting, exalt feminine characteristics. The goal is to amuse the public through our exaggerated costumes. Our moves poke fun at socially invented gender stereotypes.”
Even as I listened carefully, my eyes refused to miss what was happening around us. The restaurant is set up in a colonial house, with a central patio and a fountain. Another drag queen was showing off her impressive elasticity. She was on the floor with her legs spread, making splits in the air, as she moved her blonde hair to the rhythm of “I will survive” by Gloria Gaynor.
“How should I refer to you?” I asked the performer at my table, “With what pronoun?”
“As you wish…When I’m in drag, I’m ‘her,’ but in my daily life I’m a man, and my sexual identity is masculine. In that context, I am ‘he.’ My work is managing a bar, and I enjoy this feminine characterization some nights, and during my days off.”
(To be continued)
