In Defence of Drag Queens

John Corvino, one of my favourite philosophers, defends the drag queen and remembers a special one:

If I were a drag queen, I might break into a La Cage aux Folles number right now. Instead, I want to conclude on a note of gratitude—to a particular drag queen whose name I’ve long forgotten.

I was quite young when I ventured into my first gay bar. I was clearly out of my element. Noticing my nervousness as I stood alone against the wall, a drag queen approached me. “How old are you, honey?”

“Nineteen,” I replied sheepishly.

“Honey, there are hairpieces in this bar that are older than that!” she quipped back.

She made me laugh, and so I began to relax. Then she introduced me to several other patrons—including other young nervous preppy boys like me. I’m sure she realised I could relate to them more easily than to her. It was a simple act of kindness, and I recall it warmly.

I must confess that I was quite hostile to the whole drag queen thing in the mid-1990s. At the time, I thought gay men should try to copy straight men. I have never been effeminate myself and couldn’t identify with men dressing up as women. But I now realise that I was completely wrong about it all. While “straight-acting gays” hide behind their anonymous looks, drag queens are the real troupers of our subculture.