20FemTeen
My hands were shaking. I felt like I had downed 5 cups of coffee, and I hadn’t . . . or like I was going pass out, turning into a Taylor puddle. I HAD TO PULL MYSELF TOGETHER. I picked up the bottle, looked at the bottom, and realized that I didn’t have my reading glasses with me. So now I was squinting, shaking, and beginning to sweat uncontrollably, which I could do nothing about because if I took off my coat, then I’d actually have to commit to stay. Today was not that day.
But listen, I had bought makeup countless times before. Drugstores were my usual spot, and I guess they allowed for some type of discretion. I could go in, grab my deoderant, some chaser for the pregame, and a nice tube of whatever to make my look pop. But I was at MAC now. There was no sale on Ginger Ale here. Vowing to invest in something other than two dollar eyeshadow, which is one of my favorite things, I needed to prepare for my 6-hour long look, my onstage look, my fierce, fully expressive “me” look. Goals, people. Goals.
The bottle read, “matte finish top coat,” and I realized that I had struck gold. I could check my first item off of the list. But there were 6 more items.
“This beautiful year, 2015, or what I’m calling 20FemTeen, is when I’m going to start to embrace my femininity more and begin my drag transformation. Going in a lanky, tall otter and coming out a beautiful, luscious queen. Plus, my unemployed dark circles look like they’re literally from Mars, and making friends in a city when you look like you’re an alien or drugged out of your mind isn’t so helpful. And cue concealer.”
This monologue was of course what I started to tell the sales associate when I finally asked for help. Dialogue finally succeeded after I had caught my breath and took a seat.
“Oh, so which concealer do you want to try out then?”
“Well, I’ve done some research, and if I already know what I’d like, how do I get it? Well I kind of know. I watched this tutorial by Miss Fame and I decided that she got me, and some of her makeup would work.”
“Huh??”
“Sorry. I know which products I’d like to buy. Do I ask you for them? Do I pick them off the shelf? I’m new to the whole MAC experience, and I thought I’d just go for it and really own my look. I’m getting my drag persona down pat.”
“Oh sure, so tell me what you’d like and I’ll get it from the drawers.”
I still don’t even know if I have access to these drawers when I go back to the store, if I go back to the store. These drawers were magical and filled with non-tester products, which I would know little to nothing about because, hello, this was a lot to handle at 10:30AM. By the time she returned with the right shade, I realized that I needed to calm the fuck down. No one cares who I am. I mentioned that I was doing drag countless times but did it matter? No. MAC is a makeup store in Union Station in DC. Inside the store seemed safe enough since there were tons of people outside with different genders and sexualities that don’t just hide behind misshapen grey suits and awkward office dresses.
I guess what was weird about this whole experience was that it finally showed me how internalized my own femphobia is. Sure, I’ve done light drag to some house parties in undergrad, I’ve worn nail polish to work, and I even lead a goddamn conference with baller aquamarine (“Kamikaze”) lipstick (shoutout to The Lip Bar). Bending gender and expressing myself has been “a thing” of mine. Whatever that means. But I just found out “that thing” is like a little spec floating through a rainbow. I want to be the whole damn rainbow.
And at the same time, it’s horrifying to know that at least 6 trans women of color have been killed in 2015. It’s still February.
The least I can do as cissy-white fag—besides donating money and putting my body on the line in support of trans women of color—is to fuck with people and live my fem life. By embracing my inner fem, I’m shouting back at everyone who ever yelled “fag” at me or chased me down the street because they saw my heels. I’m defying those that stopped to harass me in a coffee shop because my makeup had offended them. And I’m shouting at every masc gay man out there to cut it with their misogynist bullshit. Perhaps we should start talking about gender more, and even more about supporting trans folks.
But, if anything, moving to DC has taught me that gays here (and I say gays specifically and not queers) are pretty Masc4Masc, clean-cut, professional men. And while some do enjoy the occasional queen or voguing wonderland, more often than not, they’d prefer to bro out with the person they want to suck-off, ha, I mean “hang out with.”
Though it’s not a particularly surprising thing that gays here have a bit more internalized issues than, say, my undergrad where I would slow dance to Judy Garland and paint my nails all while reciting Toni Morrison, it’s still off-putting and nevertheless rubbing off on me. Being in a parasitic space has ended up eating away at my confidence.
I said cissy-fag on purpose. I identify as a cis-man, but half the time I don’t even know what’s going on with my gender expression. For me, “man” can mean whatever I want it to mean. And some days I like being the masc dude bro who wears a baseball cap to the gym (even if my wrists do fantastically fling out, or I see a friend and start to kiki), and sometimes I wish I could find tasteful heals that actually fit my women’s size 14 feet.
Alas. The gender struggle is real.
And it personally peaked this morning. This awkward, awkward experience helped to inspire me. I have a lot more to un-teach myself and new ways to push other people to conceptualize gender. Today was a step forward. I claimed and embraced my femininity in public as I strutted with my MAC bag through the DC Metro.
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