Addressing My Real Queer Self

In the thrift business, a lot of resale items come through and must be sorted. For about five months, I worked in the back of a thrift shop where the processing of donated products took place. This was, in dramaturgical theory, the back stage of the workplace. Here, workers could be fully themselves, unhinged, catty, and perverted. As an effeminate gay male who had recently moved out of the Twin Cities due to rapid political transitions, I was in the midst of questioning my own gender identity.

In the midst of testing my own comfort with cross dressing, I decided to move back to a rural town to live with my mother. I intended to save money and move to Germany before America collapsed entirely. I was overly optimistic that rural Minnesotans might be a different type of Trump supporter. The libertarian type who just didn’t like the government treading on them. The type who were tolerant.

The real queer me? Well, I quit my job again because I felt uncomfortable as an effeminate, cross-dressing gay male. Furthermore, I quickly realized I became a token when I was designated the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) captain because I was visibly queer. The leadership was noticeably uncomfortable talking about such matters and then asked me if I wanted to take on the role. I foolishly said yes, gave a presentation, and realized I had just became the gay token of what some perceived as woke bullshiterry, victimhood, and other snow-flakery.