Legacy

I made it to the Miss Capitol City America drag pageant at Splash just in time to witness a man in leopard print tights and a five-foot, feathered headdress frolicking like an antelope. He was singing an innuendo-laced rendition of “He Lives In You” from The Lion King Musical.
Intermission included a 300-pound man in choir robes singing gospel and a Wynonna Judd impersonation by veteran queen Chica La Rouge, whose aged-construction-worker physique actually enhanced his impression of the singer. The most intense performance of the evening came from the hyperactive Lady D, who seemed thrilled that McDonald’s had given her the night off. (Later, she tried to win some votes by offering free hamburgers to the crowd.)
I’d gone to Splash that night specifically to watch Miss Krystina Synclaire, the reigning queen of the capitol city. But my expectations were exceeded by the soon-to-be-crowned Miss Capitol City, Ambrosia McNeil. The room flooded with smiles as McNeil and a stage partner reenacted “Anything You Can Do” from the musical Annie Get Your Gun.
The choice of a classic Broadway song injected the club with a refreshing dose of old-fashioned appeal; drag performers there generally stick to contemporary, pop culture themes. The couple’s choreography and costumes so flawlessly nailed the essence of the Broadway experience that I forgot there was a man in a dress on stage. I even forgot that I was in a gay bar. To me, anything that followed this act was merely cross-dressing karaoke. The judges were just as impressed; McNeil took home the crown and earned a chance to compete in the annual Miss Gay Louisiana pageant. But what was beyond that? Were these pageants lucrative? Or did the performers compete simply for the attention? What, exactly, drives a drag queen?
Chris Daunis, aka Veronica Andrews, said, “There are queens who do it for the money and some who do it just to feel beautiful.” Our interview took place at the 23-year-old sociology major’s home, which, while cleaner than most, was aesthetically no different than the average college student’s. Daunis, clad in the traditional khaki shorts, polo, flip-flop combo not uncommon for LSU males, exhibited no obvious signs of his old drag lifestyle. There wasn’t a female article in sight.
“Veronica lives in a box now!” Daunis exclaimed, pointing to a coffin-style Tupperware bin on the floor. But before inquiring about the retirement of his alter-ego, I asked why he started doing drag in the first place. He replied in a deep yet sassy tone, “Good pussy, baby. It’s all about good pussy.” Reading the confusion on my face, Daunis explained this catch phrase had become a popular way to describe the sexy, feminine allure of being a drag queen. Other than that appeal, he felt drag was no fun, nothing more than a competitive game of pageantry.
Early in his drag career, Daunis would act in drag showcases from Lafayette to New Orleans to have fun with his friends. During these shows a handful of queens would perform for tips and a portion of the cover charge.
Daunis said his disenchantment with drag began when his friends started to engage in competitions. He explained, “I first tried drag because my boyfriend at the time wanted to and I wanted show my support. Now people were working against each other.” He recalled one show where drag queens competed to see who could strip down to their last male garment. (Louisiana law states that drag queens must have on at least one male article of clothing, such as underwear with “Men’s” printed on the label.)
Daunis also said some queens he knew would occasionally use their convincing garb to taunt unsuspecting straight males. Often, the queens put themselves in situations dangerous enough to warrant personal protection. Of one particular encounter, Daunis said, “Let’s just say it involves Tiger Land street corners and kitchen utensils.”
But there is unity within the drag community. Many drag queens focus on creating a lineage, in which a queen has a “mother” and “sisters” who all take on the same last name. He and his “sisters” are taught the art of drag by their mother and sometimes other mentors who take promising new talent under their wing. This is how a mere boy in a dress becomes a queen.
“I have a mother and a mentor,” 2007’s Miss Gay Louisiana Derrian Tolden (aka Miss Chelsea Delorean Divine) told me. Though he anointed himself “Divine,” the Delorean namesake was passed down from his drag mother, Miss Gay Louisiana 2005 Dominique Delorean.
“She taught me how to deal with being a celebrity and how to act in the spotlight, which meant not being a bitch.” Tolden said drag queens are notorious for their vicious attitudes, since many members of the gay community look up to them as the gay entertainment elite. “Because of this they can get away with murder,” he said. “But my mother taught me to gain respect without being that way.”
As a young black man in drag, Tolden is a minority within a minority, but as an experienced gymnast with a background in stage performance, he has thrived. From what I witnessed at the shows I attended, this kind of trained talent was rare. I asked Tolden if he knew of queens who relied solely on creativity rather than skill. In response, he cupped his hands around his mouth and whispered the name of a fellow drag queen.              Apparently, few queens are able to take on an intensely choreographed rendition of a Janet Jackson stage show or pull off theatrical burlesque to ABBA’s Mamma Mia! with as much grace as Miss Gay Louisiana. But even with experience, becoming a drag queen isn’t an overnight endeavor.
“My mother taught me how to be [a queen], but my mentor taught me drag,” said Tolden, referring to drag guru Carrione Armani Sinclaire. He continued, “She was the first one to sit me in front of a mirror and put a brush in my hand and say, ‘This is how you make your face,’ ‘This is how you talk’ and so on.” Carrione Sinclaire, drag mother of last year’s Miss Capitol City Krystina Synclaire, has taught the city’s best queens everything from picking out shoes to wearing them well.
However, there’s a lot to learn beyond walking in high heels. Full body shaving, vocal training and exercising specific muscles to attain a more feminine look are among the most important skills a queen must learn to be convincing. Then there’s the most personal detail: tucking.
One method of achieving a quality tuck is the use of a gaff, a practice borrowed from transvestites. A gaff is an undergarment that holds the tucked genitals and is worn tightly to prevent any “letting out” of one’s parts. As a trade secret, Carrione Sinclaire introduced to the Baton Rouge drag community what is known as a “jailhouse g-string,” aptly named for where it was conceived and for the fact that you could wear a g-string with it. (I received no further comments on the device, other than it hurts.)
Tolden elaborated on the importance of being utterly convincing, because for him, there are guidelines to follow. As part of his Miss Gay LA title, Tolden is involved in the Miss Gay America system, which requires that one has no “work” done below the neck. According to Tolden, such guidelines are established to protect both the contestants and the integrity of the art. Tolden explained that some queens go so far as to inject themselves with silicone to achieve womanly measurements — practices that take place without medical supervision. The silicone is injected right underneath the skin, risking infection and possible death. This is called “pumping” on the streets.
Tolden said this phenomenon was more common within the black drag community, where acceptance issues are compounded by its members not only being a minority, but also gay and drag queens. “For some, drag is the only thing they have. It’s the only way they feel accepted,” Tolden said.
On the opposite end of the drag spectrum, acceptance is challenged more than it’s sought after.
Ked Dixon, founder of the Crescent City Kings drag troupe, said, “We explore gender more than drag queen culture.” Dixon, aka Kyle Reigner-Cox, said the drag king community is socially more sensitive than their drag queen counterparts. Their troupes welcome a variety of gender types, such as transmen (born female, yet identify as male) and transwomen (born male, yet identify as female). Their performances aim to challenge the common social view that there are just two sexes.
In the drag king world, troupes are formed for the sake of creating a cohesive group and booking shows, rather than one-on-one competition. Before starting the Crescent City Kings, Dixon was a member of the Hardly Boys and Carnival Kings drag troupes. Her ideas having evolved, Dixon felt it was time to start her own troupe; she is also considering re-naming her drag persona.
“Kyle’s name is about to change, but I’m going to keep Cox because it’s a variation of Dixon,” she said. “I guess you never really grow out of Cox.”
Due to the latent popularity of women in drag, few drag kings are able to make a career out of their performance. Although drag king pageants do exist, Dixon said drag kings care more about entertainment and social experimentation.
“A typical drag king show  …  focuses on gender play and comedy,” Whitney Normand told me. Normand, aka Elliot Sid, is a member of the Crescent City Kings and a 19-year old sophomore at LSU studying environmental management systems. Normand and her stage mate, Deja Trudeaux, aka D’Aquanita Harris, have developed a comedic act rooted in gender experimentation.
Their performances range from sketches involving erectile dysfunction-inducing antidepressants to parodies of great cinematic moments. Trudeaux, a petite 18-year-old art major at LSU, is straight (despite the trend of gay drag kings), and got involved through her friendship with Normand. Trudeaux said she would take on the challenge of playing a male character in their next performance.
Convincing an audience with a drag king performance often involves less physical effort and more characterization than that of a drag queen’s. Prosthetics may be used to portray or mock male genitals. Other efforts include dark makeup to achieve a five o’clock shadow and the use of masculine hairstyles and attire.
More importantly, Normand said, the performance attempts to juxtapose sexual identities, often by putting straight people in awkward circumstances. (Dixon recalled one performer whose character would always stumble into the sexual leftfield. The character would find himself or herself roosting with a herd of “big beautiful women,” or going to a gay bar in search of love through “hanky code,” a form of bar communication where the colored handkerchief in your pocket denotes your sexual fetish.)
But beyond color-coded kinkiness and jailhouse g-strings is a world of performance that’s not just skin deep. Drag culture tackles entertainment from every angle: music, comedy, theatre — there’s even a drag cookbook.
Drag performers stand outside and amongst us at the same time, perpetually redefining the way we view sex, gender and social norms. When a script demands a lead actor or actress, drag queens and kings dismiss the parameters, creating a new kind of performance that transcends the stage.
At the Miss Capitol City America pageant, the men on stage showed they could pull off their acts in five-inch heels. A female in the audience told me that aside from not being able to walk in those shoes, she could never be that feminine. Sporting a red dress and proclaiming “Anything you can do, I can do better,” Miss Gay Capitol City would have to agree with her.