"It will be gender bending debauchery at its finest." Bradley Forkner stares at me with direct blue eyes and flashes a lightening-white smile. His teeth enchant me. They're not just white, they're bedazzling white— the kind of whiteness a electric bulb shines. I imagine them glittering in the spotlight, surrounded by scarlet lipstick and deep wet layers of lip gloss. "It's like getting baked for free!" He taps his temple with a long, slender finger. I imagine that temple crowned with a luscious blond wig, poofy platinum erupting over his short buzzed hair. "It will be good times," he says.
The "it" Bradley refers to is— of course— Pacific University's fourth annual drag show. Brad started the drag show his first year at Pacific, and the event has only increased in size and popularity since then. "I brought it up as an idea. We said let's do it. And we did it." Bradley cocks his head to the side and smiles proudly. His tall, slender body radiates confidence. Charisma and confidence. Yet Brad insists his confidence vastly intensifies when he sports a dress, a pair of tights, and the audience's attention. "It feels powerful to be in a position to demand that respect... in normal every day lives, gay men feel— unpowerful."
Bradley knows copious amounts about drag. He knows drag queens. He's dated them. He's written an ethnography about them. And once a year, for the entertainment of Pacific students, he dresses like one. I suddenly blush at my basic, uncomplicated questions. "So what exactly is the difference between a cross-dresser and drag queen?"
He smiles patiently, and I see my naivete reflected in his direct blue eyes. I feel like a child asking "Why do boys and girls have different parts?" Brad sits up straighter, elongating his neck. "Cross-dressers do it for sexual purposes. And transgender people literally want to be the other gender. But drag queens are people who do it as a form of expression. Most of them don't actually want to be women."
I think of all the time I have seen men elaborately dressed as women in the streets and wonder which category they fell into. As Brad elaborates on the complexities of drag queens, I realize how little I know about anything he's saying.
"It all started with masquerades... when people would do stuff they normally wouldn't do because they were behind a mask— or in our case— under a wig..."
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
He Was A Skater Boy
He sits, a spot of violent aqua and orange on the angled pavement. Thumbing an electronic game, he avoids my eyes as I approach. Click. Click. Uneasy glance. Click. As I ask him for an interview, his eyes dart everywhere except my face.
“Uh…okay,” He says, fumbling the gameboy into his pocket. His soft voice shocks me; I assumed it would be as loud as his neon shirt. The delicate sound is almost lost in the howling spring wind. “It’s Josh,” he mumbles. I move my eyes from his punky attire to his face. Acne-smeared cheeks. Blurry blue eyes. Chapped lips. No hint of man peeks out from this fifteen-year old boy’s face.
Josh and I are the only ones in the empty skate park. He’s been coming here since he can remember, having grown up in Forest Grove. The cement ravines surround us as he laments his hometown’s lack of excitement. Yet Josh does not long for the seductive clamor of city streets. “I’d rather be in the country... Outside… Away from a lot of people.” He rubs the side of his face and fidgets with a waterbottle. “I like being in the woods— the middle of nowhere.” If he could wake up anywhere, he wouldn’t choose New York or San Francisco. He would pick “Montana.” Why? “There are a lot of animals there.”
His quiet voice intensifies as he tells me what he hates most. “Teachers and I don’t get along. Our grades are 90% tests and I can’t pass them.” The water bottle cracks like knuckles as he twists it. “I’d rather work or do something outside.” I imagine myself in his scuffed Nike shoes: an introverted young boy at the most awkward stage of life, pining to be outdoors instead of struggling with exams. He describes himself as “easy to get along with,” and I wonder why he is here alone.
When I ask about the best part of his week, his lips almost rise into a smile. “I met one of my little brother’s friends. He didn’t act like a little kid. More— mature.” He squirms uncomfortably and will not give me an example of this mysterious child’s actions or words. My mind is left pulsing with ideas. What did this boy see in a younger boy that he would describe as “mature”?
I thanked Josh for his time, sentiments he returned with a clunky shrug.
Sprinting away from the island of cement ramps, I almost felt like I was wading through a field of rye.
“Uh…okay,” He says, fumbling the gameboy into his pocket. His soft voice shocks me; I assumed it would be as loud as his neon shirt. The delicate sound is almost lost in the howling spring wind. “It’s Josh,” he mumbles. I move my eyes from his punky attire to his face. Acne-smeared cheeks. Blurry blue eyes. Chapped lips. No hint of man peeks out from this fifteen-year old boy’s face.
Josh and I are the only ones in the empty skate park. He’s been coming here since he can remember, having grown up in Forest Grove. The cement ravines surround us as he laments his hometown’s lack of excitement. Yet Josh does not long for the seductive clamor of city streets. “I’d rather be in the country... Outside… Away from a lot of people.” He rubs the side of his face and fidgets with a waterbottle. “I like being in the woods— the middle of nowhere.” If he could wake up anywhere, he wouldn’t choose New York or San Francisco. He would pick “Montana.” Why? “There are a lot of animals there.”
His quiet voice intensifies as he tells me what he hates most. “Teachers and I don’t get along. Our grades are 90% tests and I can’t pass them.” The water bottle cracks like knuckles as he twists it. “I’d rather work or do something outside.” I imagine myself in his scuffed Nike shoes: an introverted young boy at the most awkward stage of life, pining to be outdoors instead of struggling with exams. He describes himself as “easy to get along with,” and I wonder why he is here alone.
When I ask about the best part of his week, his lips almost rise into a smile. “I met one of my little brother’s friends. He didn’t act like a little kid. More— mature.” He squirms uncomfortably and will not give me an example of this mysterious child’s actions or words. My mind is left pulsing with ideas. What did this boy see in a younger boy that he would describe as “mature”?
I thanked Josh for his time, sentiments he returned with a clunky shrug.
Sprinting away from the island of cement ramps, I almost felt like I was wading through a field of rye.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
WHAT THEY DON'T TELL YOU ABOUT STAIRS
What they don't tell you about stairs is the anatomy.
A stairway has a nuanced body. There's the shoe molding, where the hulk of the stairs is constrained to the floor. Your toe may nudge this before you traipse up or down the horizontal risers and vertical treads. The smooth railing that your hand clutches is called the balustrade. It's an intricate system of handrails, baserails, and spindles that sprout from the steps like ribs from a spine. If you peek below the balustrade, you can spy the spandrel, the empty belly of space beneath the stairway. Volutes, turnouts, wall brackets, winders, nosings, and countless more parts combine to form the body of a stairway.
What they don't tell you about stairs are the laws.
Human bodies have laws. We do not grow to be fifty feet tall nor shrink to five inches. Similar laws dictate a body of stairs. Building mandates assert the Riser-Tread formula: Riser + Tread equals 17-18 inches. The minimum tread length is a mere nine inches. This is shorter than the average person's foot. So when you climb a stair, your foot does not completely fit on each step.
What they don't tell you about stairs is the danger.
1000 people die from falling down stairs every year. I have always known that I will be one of them. I will be flying down a stairway, rushing to a movie, an interview, or a wedding, and my foot will miss the riser by an inch. Just an inch. The stair's sharp edge will peel of a petal of skin from my heel, and I will lurch forward, my stomach twirling, the corners of my mouth wilting with shock. My hands will shoot up to shield me, but gravity will overpower me, and my elbows will buckle from the steep collision. The stairs will shatter my jawbone and nose, and I will thump down the stairs, a carpet of blood unrolling behind me. I will die alone on that stairway, caught between where I was coming from and where I wanted to go.
What they don't tell you about stairs is that they can kill you before you ever realize your dreams, or meet the person you want to marry, or see the sun rise on the east coast. They can kill you while you are texting, dreaming, scheming, or laughing. One inch of surprise space and you could be nothing but a scrambled mass of flesh and blood strewn between floors, never to go up or down or anywhere again. Stairs can end your life while your are waiting for it to begin. So climb with care.
A stairway has a nuanced body. There's the shoe molding, where the hulk of the stairs is constrained to the floor. Your toe may nudge this before you traipse up or down the horizontal risers and vertical treads. The smooth railing that your hand clutches is called the balustrade. It's an intricate system of handrails, baserails, and spindles that sprout from the steps like ribs from a spine. If you peek below the balustrade, you can spy the spandrel, the empty belly of space beneath the stairway. Volutes, turnouts, wall brackets, winders, nosings, and countless more parts combine to form the body of a stairway.
What they don't tell you about stairs are the laws.
Human bodies have laws. We do not grow to be fifty feet tall nor shrink to five inches. Similar laws dictate a body of stairs. Building mandates assert the Riser-Tread formula: Riser + Tread equals 17-18 inches. The minimum tread length is a mere nine inches. This is shorter than the average person's foot. So when you climb a stair, your foot does not completely fit on each step.
What they don't tell you about stairs is the danger.
1000 people die from falling down stairs every year. I have always known that I will be one of them. I will be flying down a stairway, rushing to a movie, an interview, or a wedding, and my foot will miss the riser by an inch. Just an inch. The stair's sharp edge will peel of a petal of skin from my heel, and I will lurch forward, my stomach twirling, the corners of my mouth wilting with shock. My hands will shoot up to shield me, but gravity will overpower me, and my elbows will buckle from the steep collision. The stairs will shatter my jawbone and nose, and I will thump down the stairs, a carpet of blood unrolling behind me. I will die alone on that stairway, caught between where I was coming from and where I wanted to go.
What they don't tell you about stairs is that they can kill you before you ever realize your dreams, or meet the person you want to marry, or see the sun rise on the east coast. They can kill you while you are texting, dreaming, scheming, or laughing. One inch of surprise space and you could be nothing but a scrambled mass of flesh and blood strewn between floors, never to go up or down or anywhere again. Stairs can end your life while your are waiting for it to begin. So climb with care.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)