As I stood facing the copious choices that lined the shelves of my closet, I wondered. Who should I put on today? I was at a loss as I pushed through the hangers—today I was dressing for death. The sudden death of an ex-boyfriend and valued friend left me stunted for how best to present myself at his memorial service. I considered a suit, but it seemed too rigid as I remembered our relationship. I contemplated sneakers, in memory of the staked parking lot of perfectly arranged athletic footwear thatlined the floor of his bedroom. I tangled with a tie, ultimately deciding not on a knot, and eventually concluded on a pink polo shirt and driving shoes. A classic and relaxed choice— the pink adding a touch of sweetness. All of these were things I remembered about him as I painfully “dragged” myself into my outfit.
As I walked to the memorial service, I thought of the endless ways he had put himself out there through the span of his life. And that included drag! Big haired, long nailed glittery drag! Then a smile came across my face as I thought of Della. Even she was something he did for others. To make them laugh, to raise money for charity, and most importantly to participate differently—to wear life another way. It made me recall my first drag…off of the world of a woman…
…”What's the difference…it's all drag!” he said, as he pulled on a leather armband. This was delivered with the bitchy candor of famed screen legend Joan Crawford—as both a statement and a question. The previous weekend, I'd seen my friend Robert, a.k.a. “Champagne”; compete for the Miss Fire Island contest. But that night, as he stood before me, transformed into a big, sexy, Nordic, leather daddy, his words were oddly arousing. His declaration was brought about due to an upcoming evening of drag. It was the big annual “Night of a Thousand Gowns” held at the Waldorf Astoria hotel…in the grand ballroom! And he/she, Robert/Champagne was to be crowned the new Empress of the Imperial Court of New York. The evening was famous for turning out the well (high) heeled who's-who of New York drag-society. My friend, Robert/Champagne wanted his friends there to witness his/her coronation. More specifically, me…in drag! “Bbbbut… I've never done drag…it'll be weird to be on the streets of New York in a dress.” I meekly responded, as he added additional leather items to his much-mucho ensemble. “For God sakes, you're a fashion designer!” (Again, said like Joan—think Mommie Dearest-boardroom scene) “What do you care what people think?!” I had to admit, he had a point. “Ok, I'll go! But I'm getting a room at the hotel. I can't face the streets of New York in four-inch heels!”
“Guess what, ladies?” I announced to the sample room atwork that following Monday. “My friend Jhayne (my girl nickname) is going to a B-I-G society ball, and we're going to make her dress!” Overjoyed exclamations emoted from the room in various tones of Spanish and Italian. For weeks I poured over my favorite fashion books while feverishly sketching and swatching—eventually concluding with a classic Balenciaga inspired cocktail number. It was the perfect choice to ad-dress my glamorous, fantastical, feminine side. At least that's how I saw it…
On the evening of my debutante-drag debut, after consuming copious amounts of vodka in order to negotiate my heels, I left the safety of my hotel room to make my entrance. As I teeter-tottered through the glittering crowd, my only fabulashed focus was to make it across the ballroom to my table—without falling. The view of the room, from what I could see through my overly made up eyes, wasn't so big. Although, were it a vision to take my breath away, that had already occurred, thanks to my corset. Were I able to breathe, I may have let out a small gasp, but I couldn't hear through the mass of Veronica Lake-inspired hair now blocking any views from the side, as well as my hearing. Perhaps I might have been able to grasp a larger scope of things, but I was stuck in glue—false eyelash glue to be exact. Due to several pairs of eyelashes, my eyes were pasted into seductive slits. So I never saw it coming!
“Who are you supposed to be … Sunny Von Bulow?” From what I could make out, the tuxedo-clad man before me was assessing my new creation of...well…me! Suddenly the cocktail ring on my finger felt like a million pounds instead of dollars, as I pulled my gloved hand to my face, in an attempt to be coy—the perfect pretend. But, as I lowered my falsely accused eyes—in an attempt to lash out like a lady—I was quickly presented with fingertips the color of my face. And, at that very moment, with my face literally on my hands, I realized I'd been miss-understood. Seen as someone other than whom I'd created in my head. Ultimately I had planned for sultry as opposed to sunny!
It was days before I could breathe normally again—the corset. It was weeks before I could feel the balls of my feet—the heels. The eyelashes I'd lost during the extraction of my false ones eventually began to grow back. The smothered clumps of leg hair that had vanished from pantyhose suffocation reformed a new forest. And my understanding of “women's issues” held a much advanced impact when I began to design the following season’s line of clothes! But, my tuxedoed strangers assaulting assessment of my beauty taught me the most important, albeit painful (due to my heels) lesson: That you can never fully understand what someone else's life is really like. Because each and every day, as we stand before our mirrors, and make choices in our “closets,” they are all various forms of drag. Drag we use to protect us, to hide our secrets, to accentuate our best qualities and to conceal our biggest insecurities—all in the hopes that those around us will see us in the ways in which we choose to put ourselves on.
It is the relationships that transform you—no matter how painful where you learn the most about yourself. They are the ones that show you life from a different vantage point, whether it be a higher one (from four-inch heels) or a sultry one (due to copious amounts of eyelash glue). One that takes your breath away—because your corset is too tight—or one the allows you to present yourself in a new way so that other's see you differently… even if you don't welcome their observations. But, to me, how we present ourselves everyday really is all a form of drag. Abercrombie-kick in' it drag, leather daddy drag, done-done-designer duds drag, or dresses and high heels drag. Sometimes it's fun, other times it's uncomfortable, but to walk in someone else's shoes, heels or otherwise, gave me a whole new perspective when considering whether or not to inhale when taking a drag.
And now, when I hear someone say “GOD … life is such a drag!” at first it hits me like a cloud of smoke! Then usually I just smile, and think sunny thoughts—Sunny Von Bulow thoughts! I next take comfort in knowing that for one glamorous, albeit painful moment, I knew what it was like to be mistaken for a wealthy Newport socialite.
Today, after I wrote this, I stood staring at my closet, trying to decide how to put on my “makeup” for the day—I found the perfect drag. A burgundy and white checked, Banana Republic shirt. It was a Christmas gift, given to me by someone who looked at that shirt, and saw the perfect husband … even when I wasn't!
I dedicate this in loving memory —to Della Mae Deville…
…you will forever be braille on my brain.
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