The Queer Kids Are Alright

by E A Vero

Sparkling cerulean cast in blushing light. The dress hangs on her body, gently. I don’t have words for this beauty. I can attempt some, though. Her hem twirls on the platform stage. Her lips pulse, uttering a spell on the freaks in the room. I am one of them: a fay in my realm. The mortal world waits for me, but for now I sway to her song. She’s an enchantress, a siren plucked from the crags, here to entertain.

No, to ignite.

Her mouth strikes a spark and the audience combusts. Our screams go unheard. Empress, priestess, witch. She transforms lead into gold into life.

In the mortal world, this queen is a gay civil servant. If I passed him on the street, I’d fail to recognize her. He works with people who want to shut down places like this club. Probably. They want condos. The developers have no idea who they’re facing, though. The old queers throw bricks. I always keep in mind the nearest brick. You never know when the place is getting raided.

This is my first time at a drag club. My only other experience with gender bending is RuPaul’s Drag Race. A dear friend has dragged my sister and me to this tightly packed club during Pride. An hour ago, over pizza, I revealed my queerness to them. I recognize the perfect timing of it all.

The next queen climbs to the stage. Her nails glint in the moody lighting, her beard powdered aquamarine. Some don’t consider this drag. They think it ruins the female illusion. I ask, why can’t a beard be pretty? My beard longs to be pretty. It’s coarse, rough to touch. Sometimes I don’t want to be coarse and rough. I decry my gender.

I drink to the bearded queen’s confidence. I fall in love with life an inch more. Around me, there’s a torrent of loving life. No despair, no tragedy. My unmet siblings surround me, packing me in. I’ve met you today; I’ve known you my whole life. Precious children, where have you been all this time? I think you were my desk neighbour in elementary school. Or perhaps you beat me at a track meet. We share knowing glances at the foot of the waist-high stage. Shared bullies, long-lost childhoods, as we stand at an altar. The lip-syncing queen talks for us in this heart to heart.

A rapping on my shoulder breaks our communion. My sister slides an empty glass onto the ledge behind me. She takes my empty cup and sets it beside her discarded glass. I recognize her rakish look in the blare of the stage lights. I could get another overpriced drink. Anything for the gay cause.

Our parents were fated to have two queer kids. It’s a law of nature if you’re that heteronormative. My sister is the son my father always wanted but couldn’t find in me. She picked up the slack for me. She got none of the credit for it.

We emerge through a clump of patrons waiting at the bar. The dance floor upstairs rattles the ground floor walls. My sister yells in my ear that she danced with a stranger before she found me. I offer a thumbs up.

I thirst for ambrosia. We need refreshment. Bathing in beauty is exhausting work. The bartender shrugs when I scream my order. I feel the hoarseness of my unheard voice. My sister shoulders through to the bar. My hero. She emerges triumphantly with a rye and ginger in hand. In her other fist, an expensive domestic beer.

“That queen is beautiful. I’m going to marry her,” my sister screams as we sip and admire the stage.

“I hate to tell you, that’s a man who is married to another man,” I yell back, echoing what our chosen sibling told us earlier.

We raise our glasses to the death of gender.

So, this is what queer pride is. I watch my sister navigate a world that has rarely been kind to her. People are obsessed with trying to put her in a dress. She’s getting over a breakup, but she’ll be okay. We toast to the night again. The kid is going to be alright.

My own queer journey has not been straightforward (pardon the pun). Not a single queerless memory. Schoolyard boys called me gay (or worse) for liking theatre, not sports. They were correct in my attraction to other boys. But they were wrong that I couldn’t like girls. I’m not comfortable in boxes. I like to surprise people.

 

Gorgeous faces whirls around us broken individuals with shattered lives. Unfulfilled hopes. Resurrected dreams. Each person’s glimmering shard a brushstroke in a masterpiece. A fierce girl group vogues and death drops on the scuffed stage. Let this night be as long as their heels.

Another drink, another queen. Yet another broken heart healed. We hide during the day. But we howl under the moon of a cheap spotlight. If just for this night, we have it. What is that? A hug, a dollar in our pocket, a chance. The laws of time fault and we approach an event horizon. We will be here forever.

The spotlight shuts off. The bar has closed. A gruff security guard corrals us out of the building. We step out into the frigid Toronto winter, the air steaming from the body heat inside. Posters of upcoming acts plaster the exterior walls, lit by a flush of gobo lights. Ancient beams bound with gay rage hold up this building. The angrier, the tighter the hold. Even if they tore this place down, someone would reclaim the wood and rebuild.

I ponder, where do the queer kids go?

Church Street is cold. The club door is closed. Only home remains. It’s a long drive, too. My group clumps together. Being alone is unsafe. Home isn’t always safe, either. Even this club that we call a home has a cover charge.

When you’re queer, every space has a cover charge. Your school, that Tim Horton’s. Our libraries, our jobs. Even our home. Sometimes you intentionally forget yourself to survive. Ask anyone here waiting for an Uber, they’ll sing about the difficulties of playing straight.

I refuse to solely sing the queer blues, though. Tonight’s magic is still fresh as we scatter like seeds in the wind. Usually, we’re distant islands in a dangerous ocean. Tonight, we are the ocean. We share a memoir written in a secret language. We stand on an icy sidewalk waiting for our rides. A queen hits on me. Is she hitting on me? She looked taller on stage. Still, beautiful. The streetlight reveals her vulnerability. Her long fake lashes catch the light like star dust. When she was on stage, she was completely liberated. No one can take it away from her, because I’ll keep her performance rent free in my head.

She makes a hasty exit into the back of a yellow cab. It careens into the empty street on an early Toronto morning. Our group jay walks to the car, eager for its warmth. My throat is parched. The world spins in the aftermath of our fairy party.

Goodbye, I’ll remember you all for the rest of my life. When I’ve found my person, you’re all invited to the wedding.

Our car’s rear-view mirror reflects the city’s lights. I watch them fade. Toronto is dimmer, but a power lingers. Queer kids don’t cry. They do drag instead.

My sister sucks at hiding the happiness on her face. She’s usually good at that. I not-so-secretly hope that the only dresses in her house are on her wife’s side of the closet. I’ll whisper to her “you’re my hero” as she stands under the wedding arch she built for her future wife.

Off in the distance, I swear I hear a ringing bell.