I don't know if there's really any sort of "drag queen initiation." The walk is my idea any resemblance to any actual practice is purely coincidental. By the way, drag queens are referred to as "she" when in drag and "he" when not in drag.
At Eighteen
I wait backstage for my grand entrance. I've gotten to be such an old pro at this that sometimes I surprise myself.
"And now," announces Miz Sherese, "please join me in welcoming our youngest and brightest performer…Miz Angel!" I get to keep my real name since Sherese thinks it suits me so well.
I walk out onstage wearing a blue mini-dress, blue thigh-high stockings and blue stilettos. On my head is a jet black bob wig. I know I look good. The crowd goes wild.
I launch into Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time" and the crowd just goes ga-ga. I was made for this!
I make the rounds at the edge of the stage, shaking hands and blowing kisses.
I remember the first time I did this. It was nearly a year ago and I was terrified. I started out playing the drums in the backup band, but Sherese kept bugging me to become a performer.
"Angel Baby, you got the face, the voice, the figure and the youth. Don't let it all go to waste," she used to tell me.
My first performance was terrifying. The song I sang was "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." It was the only song I was any good at.
In fact, it was the song I auditioned with to get into the High School of Performing Arts. Sherese convinced me to audition for the second semester of my junior year and I got in.
I'm a senior now and I love that school. No one beats me up. No one calls me a freak. I'm friends with almost everyone in that school, including teachers.
They all know about my night job and they don't hold it against me. Sherese Bradley and Ernesto Garica are listed in my school records as my aunt and uncle as well as my legal guardians. The school officials don't know that Sherese is really Sherwin Bradley and that he and Ernesto aren't even related to me.
My first performance was less than stellar. I received a polite applause and ran off stage. I was greeted in the wings by Sherese and another drag queen.
"Angel Baby," said Sherese, "I want you to meet my best girlfriend, Mama Rose."
"By day, I'm Ross Feinman," the queen says, shaking my hand. "By night, I'm Mama Rose Fine."
"Nice to meet you," I said, shaking hands.
"Now," said Sherese. "We've been discussing your performance."
"Sorry kid," said Mama Rose, "but it needs work."
"I know," I said, looking down.
"First," said Mama Rose, "change that song. It's religious in nature and it offends us Jews." Sherese hit him upside the head.
"The song is fine," she told Mama Rose. "He needs to build up his confidence."
"That he does," said Rose. "He needs to do the walk."
"That he does," said Sherese. "That he does."
"The walk?" I asked "What's that?"
"Tomorrow, you need to go out in the neighborhood in drag to get used to how people react to you," said Sherese.
"You're kidding!" I gasp.
"Uh uh," she insisted.
On the next day, a Saturday, I had to go outside in drag to see if anyone reacted favorably to what they saw. I didn't see how this was going to help me being as neither Sherese nor Rose were the least bit convincing in drag.
I put on the outfit Sherese picked out for me. A black miniskirt, a red top, a black leather jacket, red tights and black stiletto boots. On my head, I wore a long black curly wig.
The minute I stepped outside, some guy whistled at me. Another guy accidentally bumped into me.
"Oh, excuse me, Miss," he said.
A little boy came running up to me. I was afraid he was going to see right through my disguise. However, instead of taunting me, he asked me a question.
"Hey lady," he said, "got a nickel?" I was so relieved and so flattered that I opened my purse, took out a quarter and gave to him.
"Thanks lady," he said and ran off.
My God, they all thought I was really a girl!
I wanted to run home and tell Sherese. But I couldn't run in my high-heeled shoes, so I walked fast. A cabbie leaned out of the window of his cab.
"Hey baby," he said, "I can take you where ya wanna go."
"No thank you, Sugar," I said in my best girl voice. I didn't even know I had one, especially one that convincing.
When I got home, I took off my shoes and ran up the stairs. I couldn't wait to tell Sherese the good news.
"Hey, be quiet, nene," hissed Ernesto as soon as I threw open the door. He was sitting in his recliner reading a newspaper.
"Sorry Tío," I said. "Where's Sherese? I need to tell him something."
"Oh yea, Sherwin told me about you're little game of dress up," he said. Ernesto and I are kind of distant. I think he still resents Sherese for letting me live with them.
"You and your strays, Sherwin," he said on my first night there, when he thought I was asleep. "When's it gonna stop? We got no room, let someone else play foster mother."
"So where is she?" I asked again, as I plop down on the sofa. I began rubbing my feet as I waited for an answer.
"Sherwin isn't feeling well," he said after some hesitation. "He's sleeping. Don't go waking him up."
"Oh, sorry to hear it," I said. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong!" snapped Ernesto.
"Okay, okay," I said. "I'll just wait 'til he wakes up to tell him the good news."
"Sorry, nene," said Ernesto. "It's just the flu, that's all. Now what's your good news?"
"I managed convince damn near everyone on the block that I was a real girl."
"Que bueno," said Ernesto unenthusiastically, "Sherwin will be happy to hear it."
"But I'll wait til she wakes up," I said. I opened some drawers on the dresser that was in the living room and pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I walked toward the bathroom but then something dawned on me. I turned around to face Ernesto.
"Ernesto," I said, "you know, Sherese has had that nasty cough for a while now. Over a month it seems. Are you sure it's just the flu?" Ernesto didn't' answer right away. He just stared at me for a moment.
"It's just the flu," he said solemnly.
"Okay," I sighed and went into the bathroom to change.
That was six months ago and Sherese still has that nasty cough. No medicine can seem to get rid of it. Lately I've noticed that she's lost some weight. And she's also sleeping a lot more.
But I try not to worry too much. After all, I'm helping Sherese and Ernie make money. Half my tips go to help pay the bills. Ernie and I get along fine, now.
My second performance took off like a rocket. I sang the same song, but with my new-found confidence, I brought the house down.
During my performance, a young black woman came to the edge of the stage and swayed her arms. At least I thought it was a woman until he/she spoke.
"Halleluja, let's have some church!" said a very masculine voice coming from a very feminine face.
The audience demanded an encore, so I sang the song again, twice.
Afterwards, Christopher, a fellow performer who performs under the name Christina, let me pick some new songs out of his collection of sheet music.
That's where the Cher song came from. My other showstopper is "Vision of Love" by Mariah Carey.
Sherese was beside herself when I started to develop a following.
"See, Sugar," she gushed. "I told you that you were made for this!"
Some of the other performers gave me their old dresses, shoes, wigs and accessories. I was now a drag queen and proud of it.
After yet another rendition of "If I Could Turn Back Time," I go backstage. I'm looking for Sherese, I want to give him his share of my tips. When I don't see him, I knock on his office door. Rose answers.
"Rose, have you seen Sherese?" I ask, "I want to give her her cut." I hold up the brandy snifter full of cash for Rose to see.
"Honey," he says, "Sherese is real sick. I just called 911. They're sending an ambulance."
"Oh, no! Can I see her?"
"Afraid not, Angel. She's real sick."
"But what's wrong?"
"You don't know?"
"Well, she's had the flu for the longest."
"The flu? That's what she told you she had?" Rose looks at me in disbelief.
"Well, yea. You mean it's not the flu?" I'm getting confused.
"No, Sonny, it's not the flu," sighs Rose.
"Then what is it?"
Rose looks at me for a moment and then heaves a deep sigh.
"I'll let Sherese explain it to you when she's feeling better."
Two days later, I was able to see Sherese in the hospital. I hate to say it, but she looked awful. She was pale and weak and skinny. The Sherese I knew and loved was chubby and vibrant.
"Angel Baby," she cries when he sees me. He throws open his arms and I go running into them.
"How have you been?" she asks me. "Still singing pretty?"
"Ya know it," I tell her. "I miss you. When are you coming home?"
Sherese doesn't answer, she just sighs. Just then Rose, dressed as Ross, comes in.
"Hello Angel," he says.
"Hey Rose," I reply.
"Remember," he says, "when I'm dressed like this, it's Ross."
"Sorry."
"Look, Angel," says Ross. "Would you mind giving Sherwin and me some time alone? We need to discuss some legal things." Ross was Sherese and Ernie's lawyer.
"Sure," I say and I go wait out in the hall.
"So, Sherwin," I hear Ross say. "Did you tell Angel yet what's wrong with you?"
"Not yet, Ross," says Sherese.
"You're gonna hafta tell him soon," says Ross. "The kid thinks it's the flu."
"That's what Ernie and I have been tellin' him. So he wouldn't worry."
"Tell him it's AIDS, Sherwin," insists Ross.
AIDS? I learned about AIDS in school, but I never thought it would affect anyone I knew.
Ross steps out into the hall and looks at me.
"Angel," he says, "please come back into the room. Sherwin and I have something to tell you." I nod and follow him back into the room.
Sherese looks like she's been crying.
"Angel Baby," she says, "I don't know no other way to tell you this."
"Just tell him," urges Ross.
"I got AIDS, baby. I'm probably going to die in this here hospital."
I nod my head solemnly and tell Sherese I understand. I tell him that I'll pray for her.
"I could always use prayers, Sugar," she says, smiling. "Thank you."
On the bus ride home, I start to cry. The elderly woman next to me puts her hand on my shoulder.
"What's wrong, son?" she asks.
"I just found out my Aunty is very sick," I tell her, "she's dying."
"Well, son," she says, "everything is according to God's plan. You're Aunty is going to a better place."
I thank her and then get off at my stop. I know she means well, but how dare she say that God wants Sherese to die?
I'm awakened in the middle of the night by Ernie.
"Angel, wake up," he grunts. I rub my eyes and sit up on the sofa.
"What is it?"
"Sherwin died a half hour ago."
The funeral is simple but elegant. It's held at the Unitarian church that Sherese belonged to. There sure are a lot of people there. It doesn't surprise me though. Sherese was loved by the gay community and the arts community.
After the burial, I follow Ernie to the corner where he hails a cab. He ignores me the whole time we're walking. But when we reach the corner, he turns to me and glares.
"Go away!" he shouts.
"But I'm coming home with you," I tell him.
"It's not your home no more," he hisses. "Now that Sherwin is gone, there's no reason for me to baby sit you."
"But Ernie…"
"Save your cute little pout," he snaps. "You're eighteen fucking years old. It's time you learned how to take care of yourself. Instead of relying on old queers to take care of you. 'Cause, nene, there is nothing sadder than an old queer who can't take care of himself."
He sticks his hand in the air and a cab pulls up. Not knowing what else to do, I try to climb into the cab with him. But he pushes me out and slams the door.
I must look pretty pathetic right now, sitting on the sidewalk in a dark suit bawling my eyes out. A car pulls up and honks its horn. The driver rolls down the window. It's Ross.
"Get up off your ass and get in the car," he orders. I do as I'm told.
"Ernie doesn't want me to stay with him," I sniff.
"I know," says Ross. "But he was too chicken-shit to tell you sooner. Had to wait 'til you were at your worst."
"He never liked me," I reason.
"Join the club, kiddo," Ross laughs. "He doesn't like anyone. I don't know how Sherwin put up with him as long as he did."
"But what am I going to do?" I ask. "I have no where else to go."
"Yea ya do," says Ross. "You'll stay with your grandma."
"Grandma?"
"Me," Ross says smiling.
"But Ernie says I need to learn to take care of myself," I protest.
"Fuck what Ernie says," Ross chuckles. "The reason he's so damn bitter is 'cause that's how he grew up under Bautista's regime."
"Who's Bautista?"
"The dictator of Cuba before Castro."
"I didn't know Ernie was Cuban. I thought he was Puerto Rican."
"Ernie is an asshole, that's what he is."
I notice that Ross has pulled up in front of the House O' Drag.
"Come on, Angel," says Ross. "We got work to do."
"Oh, don't make me go up there," I plead.
"You need to get your stuff," Ross says. "Ernie hasn't been able to wear your size since well, ever."
We get to the door of the apartment and Ross bangs on the door hard.
"Who the hell is it?" screams Ernie from inside.
"You're gonna let us in you pathetic windbag," shouts Ross. Ernie shuffles to the door and opens it.
"What!" he shouts at Ross.
"You're gonna let the kid get his stuff," says Ross. "It's not like you'll be able to wear it, ya know."
"He gonna stay with you?"
"Yes!"
"It must be nice to be young and cute and have everybody kiss your little butt," Ernie hisses at me.
"Oh it is Ernie," I tease. Now where did the attitude come from?
As Ross helps me gather my clothes, Ernie stands there making smart ass comments.
"Don't forget your stinkin' hair spray, Princess," he snaps. I pick up the can from the dresser and shake it.
"Oh, but this can's empty," I tell him. "Will you dispose of it properly for me?" I throw it at him and it bounces off his fat belly. For a minute, I regret doing that, but he just stands there staring at me.
There's only two weeks until I graduate from school. I'm going to miss that place. Ross says he'll help me find a job after graduation. Meanwhile, the two of us are trying to keep the House O' Drag afloat.
It's my first performance since Sherese died. I'm wearing black to honor her memory. The song I chose is "One Sweet Day" by Boyz II Men with Mariah Carey. I bought the sheet music last week and worked on it day and night.
I make it about halfway through the song and then stop singing. I burst out crying and collapse on stage. The room is silent. Mama Rose comes out and taps my shoulder.
"Angel, get up," she says. I try to but I can't. She puts his hands under my arms and pulls me up.
"Is Angel going to be okay?" asks Monique, the convincing drag queen with the masculine voice.
"Yea, yea," Rose assures her. "Time for intermission, folks."
As Rose leads me offstage, Monique leads the crowd in singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." Her baritone voice shakes the rafters.