Though it's a horrible clichˇ, there is some truth in the old adage that the small, brief instances of serendipity are what make life worth living. For some people, the sun setting over the horizon is enough to take their breath away. For others, elation is found in climbing the highest peak in all the land, surveying the land beneath and the air above. While these examples are all well and good, they simply cannot compare to the utter spectacle and thrill of watching a drag queen work it in all her cross-dressing splendor.
Drag queens are, in a word, fascinating. I am utterly enthralled by them. These magnificent sequined creatures of the night have been my folk heroes in this day and age. Forget about your standard, tried and true role models of yore such as ball players, actors and the virtuous social reformer. Anyone who can maneuver in 5-inch stilettos has my unwavering respect and devotion.
With any level of admiration, there is always an underlying current of wanting to emulate the object of your affection, and I am not the exception to the rule.
Sometimes I wish that I could have been born a man just so I could pretend and dress up like a woman. But, alas, genetics has not been so kind. Drag queens epitomize a grace and persona that no other group of people possesses. With the ability to work a room like a seasoned politician (sometimes it seems like cross-dressing and politics go hand in hand, but that's another column entirely), perfectly formed, mile-long legs that would put any miniskirt-wearing sorostitute to shame, and the brassiness and sass of a wizened breakfast diner waitress, they induce within me waves of envy. My only consolation against the utter majesty of their persons lies in the fact that at least my breasts are real. All I can hope for is that one of them will take me under her wing and into her dressing room, where she will show me her secrets, like "How do you get your legs to look so perfect?" and "Where exactly does it all get tucked in?"
Besides the whole education bit, college has indulged my fascination with the wonderful world of transvestites through events such as Diva La Paz, of which I am a two-year veteran.
Friday's first annual Gender Bender Ball, put on by the UA Pride Alliance, was another foray into the drag world.
The event, hosted by Miss Bunny Fufu, was filled with song, dance and making the heterosexual men of the audience feel extremely uncomfortable.
Along with the drag queens came drag kings. I'd never heard of drag kings before, but they work on the same gender-bending principles of their counterparts. A local group called Boys R Us and some East Coast imports called the Baltimore Kings were set to amuse us for a good portion of the evening.
Though I was entertained with pokes to the establishment and looks at social issues like domestic violence, I was also taken aback by their appearances - I mean, they were cute. Really cute. And that left me confused. Really confused. Like 57 minutes into "The Crying Game" confused.
With many a thoughtful scratch to my head, the night left me questioning the whole breadth of my sexsexuality. Again, my self-indulgent tendencies toward introspection took over while I fretted over this recent development. I've always thought of myself as straight, even though family and friends have thought that I was buttered the other side up. I'd always been firmly entrenched within a heterosexual mindset. But then the drag kings landed, causing me to wonder: Am I on the verge of switching teams? Why do I have such a large collection of Ani DiFranco CDs? Does this mean that the things that the boys said in high school were true?
Honestly, I really don't know. The rules of attraction are getting more convoluted with more and more people challenging the social constructs of gender.
If anything, I learned this weekend that I am still heavily attracted to men, which still puts me in my mother's good graces, but just barely. Still, it makes me wonder whether social restrictions govern my actions or I lack the strength to follow my personal inclinations.
To put things into context, it seems narrow-minded to discriminate against people in the realm of the dating world based on class. Obviously, the person, not his or her social status, is the most important factor. Doesn't it make sense to say that gender is just as petty? Shouldn't attraction be more metaphysical, transcendent of the body? And shouldn't its only consideration be for the essence of the person? Shouldn't the quest for finding "the one" be blind not only to race, age and socio-economic status, but also to gender?
Susan Bonicillo is now majoring in English. She can be reached at letters@wildcat.arizona.edu.