A love letter to drag

Abstract

Drag as an enduring artform has reached the masses through the hit reality television show RuPaul’s Drag Race (2009–2024). This article explores an intimate reflection on the series through the lens of a queer Aboriginal person who is both a fan and practitioner of the art of drag. Beyond the scope of niche fandoms at queer margins, this letter points to the violent and liberatory entanglements generated by the mainstreaming of drag.

Since 2009, no other television series has been a part of my life in the ways that RuPaul’s Drag Race (2009–2024) has. It has taken drag, which is typically a response to mainstream culture, and elevated it to the height of being the reference point to drag culture globally. It is a formulaic reality TV show, sure, but nothing is perfect. I see its blemishes and I still cherish it in a cliché, cringe kinda way because it has, in some ways, led me towards myself.

The series accompanied me as I evolved in my mid-twenties, seeing me through periods of identifying as gay, genderqueer, trans and queer, and has orbited and coloured my identification, embodiment, and creativity. It has impacted my sense of the socio-sexual and the pervasive yet volatile and imagined nature of gender, reassuring me as I read Judith Butler’s assertion that “gender is not a fact” (Butler, 1988, p. 522). More than just a series, RuPaul’s Drag Race promulges the specificities of queer drag cultures typically held and safeguarded by the community. There is no linear way for me to describe all the layers and intersections of its impact and influence, but one thing is certain: drag is in experiencing a renaissance, a contemporary golden age (Oliver, 2018).

The drag community and its allies are under attack from waves of anti-trans and anti-drag sentiment. In 2023, the Internet is ablaze with a broad spectrum of violent, uneducated, and antiquated pseudo-intellectualisations which attack any kind of gender non-conformity. It is especially dangerous where conservative reactionaries seek to eradicate all things drag and trans (Gabbatt, 2023). In the age of social media, transphobes are ravenous and negligent in attributing us with the humanity we deserve. There is much learning, empathy, and justice needed in these public forums. Learning can begin with the assertion, understanding, and acceptance that drag and trans, which are often conflated, are not the same thing. Let’s not get it twisted: trans is who you are, drag is what you do.

We fight a daily war of recognition against a precedent in pop culture where drag can only be recognised through trickery and comedy—the butt of the joke. When drag attempts to exist, it is met with punishment and discipline by adversaries who induce a fervent witch hunt. In part, you can trace how these waves form in response to trans and queer lives breeching public consciousness through queer productions such as RuPaul’s Drag Race. The violence has trickled into everyday life with conflicts such as White supremacist attacks on local library drag story hour events (Aubrey, 2023). This is a current reality for us as we dare to exist in the world beyond the oversexualised stereotype society has used to vilify us.

My drag has become a part of my family life in a dichotomous way. I have built measures of safety, boundaries, and access to drag for them. They know that uncle goes out dressed as a girl; their naive yet astute observation calling back to the Shakespearean etymology of drag. Uncle’s wigs and makeup are irresistible to sassy, mischievous kids. It is nothing but curious dress-ups to them. They don’t understand that when I go outside, I risk my safety because someone inevitably has an adverse reaction to my existence. They don’t yet comprehend a world where hateful glares and non-consensual photographs interrogate my body. They are shielded from (trans)misogynists and gatekeepers who accuse me of grooming and trying to redefine “woman” when the only femininity I occupy is my own. Instead, what the kids see is a composition of me in the many ways I can be me. It is that simple.

I get to practice my sovereignty through drag. I am Wodi Wodi, from the southern region of Tharawal Country (New South Wales, Australia). Recently, I was asked to do an Acknowledgement of Country in drag. Aligned with the book Monumental Disruptions (2023) (Carlson & Farrelly, 2023), my Acknowledgement disrupted the norms practised on unceded Tharawal Country. I wore a neon kaftan, blue tinselled hair, and genre-defying makeup. I figured I would receive attention, but I didn’t know it would involve signing poetry, taking photos, and receiving gifts. It felt like I was a D-list celebrity. Afterwards, a curious thing happened. A parent and children spotted me from across the street. They felt compelled to come and ask for a photo, which I obliged. It was an interesting moment in the current climate of trans and drag panic as anecdotal proof of what some might see as the opposite of panic: popular appeal, market demand, and dare I say—acceptance.

Where would I be if not for the drag pop culture boom? Where do these moments exist in the Australian context, when most references to drag are time capsules including The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert (1994), Carlotta, Bob Downe, Aunty Jack, and the infamously anti-trans Dame Edna (Moran, 2018). My drag exists on those fringes, between the queer and Indigenous community on invaded Aboriginal lands. In that space, I play with settler logics of gender and sexuality on the shoulders of those like Malcom Cole and his famed Captain Cook drag in the 1988 Mardi Gras parade (Stapleton, 1988). I was born in that year, and I like to think that I was born out of the radical sentiments of the time where community spoke back to patriotic, nationalistic bicentenary celebrations. My references to the colony are not as on the nose as people like Cole, but my trickster practices continue to trouble the boundaries of gender in this space as an off-beat spectacle of Indigenous survivance.

I feel privileged to have drag in my life as it continues to shine hope against any looming despair I may feel. Winner of Season 15 of RuPaul’s Drag Race, spoiler alert, Sasha Colby, a māhū (gender identity terminology in Native Hawaiian culture) and transgender drag queen, declared that “this [win] goes to every trans person: past, present, and future, because we are not going anywhere” (Murray, 2023, 57:43). Colby’s call was a refreshing, decolonial emphasis on the importance of trans people to the drag community and beyond. The colloquially discursive fatigue brought on by the saturation and globalisation of the show as a franchise, including spin-offs such as Allstars, and tours and endless social media content, are tempered by these moments of Indigenous joy.

I still connect into the franchise even though I do not watch every episode as religiously as I used to. Perhaps it is a sign of my evolving interests. What I find engaging now is the trajectory of famed drag queens beyond their run on the show. I follow queens on Apple Podcast, Tiktok, Youtube, Reddit, and X. I have been particularly drawn into the commentary, gossip, and podcasts created by queens who have become media staples. This includes queens such as Bob the Drag Queen, Monet Exchange, Ojibwe (Native American and Canadian Aboriginal peoples of central southern Canada and north midwestern USA) identified drag queen Trixie Mattel, Katya Zamolochikova, Delta Work, Alaska Thunderfuck, and Willam. I also follow other non-RuPaul’s Drag Race US drag icons Hecklina (1967–2023), Lady Bunny, and Meatball. Meatball is the pinnacle of drag names. I adore listening to these wild characters, laughing to myself, and living a secret world on severely vanilla commutes to work and winding down to sleep at night.

Drag fame is a spectacle to which I have become co-dependent; however, my envy is sobered by long-form multimedia representations that show how these queens relate to their own fame. It is a tug of war seeing and not seeing myself in these people. At times I relate to them, for example, in the candid moments where they show the brutal physical toll of getting into drag. Other times, I can’t relate, as they experience the privileges of significantly more access to resources that fulfil their drag fantasies. I’m not saying I want fame, but I see how fame demonstrably transforms lives in both positive and negative ways. I appreciate the ways that drag fame is somewhat kept in a world where queer districts, communities, venues, and events maintain their spotlight. In the public eye, these queens get themselves embroiled in tedious heteronormative arrangements and soar during important political moments; all of which are intimidating prospects. In contrast to this, I will continue to enjoy my introverted, voyeuristic, local, and supportive roles.

As Trixie and Katya say with deadpan sarcasm: drag is tired and played out. Ridden hard and put away wet, us cross-dressers are relentless in the pursuit of the high that only drag can fix. I love the art of transformation. I love it in the form of drag culture. I love that drag is increasingly awarded and paid. I love and sometimes loathe the fandom it has created. I love that drag continues to destabilise gender and sexuality. I love that it carries so much power. I love that it is a project of justice. I would love drag more if it became more radically anti-colonial. I love my near-pathological relationship with it all. I love drag.

Yours if the money is right.