What Drag Has Taught Me
Every time I have gotten the opportunity to do mediocre drag as a beginner, I have had some of the most fun a person can have.
Every time I have gotten the opportunity to do mediocre drag as a beginner, I have had some of the most fun a person can have.
I came across the concept of the “designated son” on TikTok.
Realistically, I understand that if you do something for 11 months, the chance that you’ll feel good for every second of those 11 months is zero.
There are so many things I may reach for to explain how I know I am a femme or an intersex non-binary woman but these words and concepts themselves are devised and constructed. Where do I anchor femmeness and how do I understand it?
Burlesque is my loving manifestation of what all my ancestors deserved—not simply tolerance, but unbridled celebration.
Science fiction taught me that any sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from magic. In the kitchen, my girlfriend is a witch.
My summer hookup with a rich businesswoman in Japan gave me something more valuable than even the room service wagyu steak.
Society painted me as a burden, and undeserving of autonomy. I have taken that paintbrush and created a beautiful life where being disabled isn’t a bad thing.
Body fat is central to how we perceive gender. So what does that mean if you’re a trans person?
You want to know where you came from, is that it? Do not be embarrassed. Nature did not see motherhood in me, either.
“I spent years not thinking about my penis — or, at least, thinking about it as little as possible. After I transitioned, my penis became the most important part of my body — at least, to other people.”
I am ready to be fearless. To dream beyond Black womanhood and know that I — Black, queer, and not-quite-sure — am worthy, so worthy of all of the love, affirmation, and power the universe can muster.
I always wonder what words my ancestors had for someone like me. In embracing my genderfluid identity, I’ve found great comfort in the deep and wide of the Atlantic — the way the water connects me to kin, named or unknown.
On the 24th day of quarantine, I turned on all of the lamps in my room and took off all my clothes. Then I stood in front of the mirror and stared.
Getting top surgery with my butch identity is no longer some unattainable fantasy. Now the question firmly rests with me: do I want to go ahead with it or not?
“I have a question!” she exclaims. Stepmom knows where this is going so she tries to head her off, but the child will not be dissuaded. “My question is,” — here it comes — “… are you transgender?” No one knows what to say, me included.
Three weeks ago I began my Coronavirus self-quarantine. Faced with the reality that I wouldn’t see anyone, I started an experiment. I wasn’t going to shave, paint my nails, or put on makeup — until I wanted to, for myself.
For this piece, I talked to some trans women about their names and their experiences changing them legally (or choosing not to), as well as a couple of the incredible organizations attempting the make the process more accessible to all of us.
We now live in a world where it is totally possible to claim the same word as someone else and completely disagree on what the word means.
“I decide I’ll test the durability of a BB cream by Tarte at thousands of feet in the air, then feel ashamed at worrying so much about how I look, then feel the dread again, that all this might go completely wrong, not because I’ll fall to my death, but because I’ll be reduced to my past.”