It was Halloween, and I was getting dressed for one of the biggest Portland gay society events of the year. After many debates, I rejected my old standards: the vampy thirties-woman, the standard goth, and the hippie-chick. Prompted by my recent knowledge of the how-tos of female-to-male drag, I instead decided to go as a man. My drug-store supplies tucked in a plastic shopping bag, I entered the bathroom as my normal female self, prepared to emerge as a nineteenth-century man.
I pulled on a pair of tight control-top pantyhose to flatten out my round hips, pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, and squeezed myself into a white tank top. I wrapped an ace bandage around my chest over the confining tank top as my GLBTQA co-workers instructed, completely flattening my breasts. I pulled on white knee socks, breeches, and a floppy white shirt that laced at the chest. I looked in the mirror sideways, startled at my new figure. I hadn’t realized how much of my identity is tied into my womanly shape. I pulled my short hair into a ponytail, used eyeliner to darken my eyebrows and shadow my jaw line, and applied cover-up to pale my lips. Next came the facial hair; I outlined a goatee around my mouth with eyelash glue and applied tiny clippings of my own hair to the sticky parts. Finally, I stuffed a rolled sock between the boxers and the pantyhose and looked in the mirror. The effect was uncanny. From a short distance, I looked like an older brother I’d never had.
On the way to the party, a male friend gave me tips on how to walk more like a guy. “Keep your hips still,” he instructed, “and take bigger steps. Square your shoulders. Take up space.” I did my best to follow his instructions, but I found it almost impossible to undo years of walking to emphasize my femaleness. But I enjoyed experiencing my body in this new way. I found that holding my elbows out made me feel bigger, and that walking with my legs further apart gave my stride more power. The closest I got to the “man walk,” as I called it that night, was a sort of menacing swagger that I suspect was funnier than it was convincing.
But I found the process instructive and attractive. I enjoyed the comments made about my costume at the ball. One of Maine’s well known gay political figures sashayed over to me, tossed her hair, and said, “I like that. Is she or isn’t he?” The comment gave me a thrill I still can’t define. Maybe it was the eternal attraction of the masquerade–appearing as someone else, especially in a small community like Portland, is freeing. It was also somehow more than a costume: it was experiencing, in a small way, a piece of life to which I ordinarily have no access.
Drag is a fantastic way to try on the physicality of another gender. Men dressing as women can feel the confinement of pantyhose, bras, and high heels. Women dressing as men can try out the difficulties of sipping a drink though a moustache and the way having a “package” alters walking. Although it is not an authentic cross-gender experience, drag emphasizes how a person’s physical appearance can be at odds with the person’s true self. Best of all, drag exposes how the attributes that are synonymous with gender identity are superficial. If I can put on a moustache and shoulder pads and be called “sir” by a convenience store clerk, there is nothing innately natural or biological about gender construction.