born this way

It is not easy being me.  I have tried to accept myself and understand why I am- who I am.  Part of this I feel is nature.  Just like the Lady GaGa song, I was born this way.  I am gay.  I can’t change that.  The choice comes in the way I express myself.  I enjoy being a drag queen. There is a place in my life for it. Drag has a purpose.  It is my outlet for self expression, creativity, and a way to increase my self esteem.  I believe drag is an art.  Drag makes me feel happy.  Some gay men are put off by it and never try dressing up.  Some men may try it for awhile, but don’t take it too seriously.  Others, like me, continue to do it for years because it brings benefit to our lives. 

There are costs to being this type of performance artist.  Not just monetary.  There are emotional cost, physical hardships and sacrifices.  To me, an emotional roller coaster is the hardest to deal with.  I have been called names, made fun of on the street, spit upon, beat up, had a gun pulled on me, and robbed.  Once I even had eggs thrown at me while getting in my car after a show.  These things occurred all because of my gay life, including the drag. Some people will always hate my sort of person.  It may seem the logical thing would be to eliminate the drag aspect of my life.  That would be one less reason to be harassed, right?   What is normal gay anyway?  It sounds bland. 

When I was in elementary, I thought I was like everyone else in my class.  I was I wrong. The other kids wore good clothes while I wore  clothes my mom got at the thrift store.  I didn’t know we were poor.  I thought everyone lived in a house with no air conditioner, no phone, no cable and every Christmas, the nearby churches brought you food and new clothes.  I thought that the only gifts you received were homemade.  My mom could make the prettiest scarves that she would crochet by hand.  In fact I still have one.  I was not used to Christmas gifts from a store.  Then one year I figured it out. The other kids from school got new bikes and more toys and video games. You see, my parents were the working poor.  Working poor is class that is sometimes overlooked in society.  It was not unusual to postpone Christmas because the light bill needed to be paid.  They worked hard, but it was not easy for a Mexican family with 6 kids to make it.  (Just to be fair, we were never on welfare or food stamps like other poor families. My parents did the best they could.) It is a sad day when a kid sees the reality of being poor.  It is hard to find hope when all you can see is your parents struggling to feed you.  The early years were tough on us all.  Our family life would improve as my siblings and I got older and able to work too. 

I also remember how tough it was realizing that I did not look like the kids in my grade.  I had grown up with my brothers and sisters.  We were our own friends. They would always play with me not matter what I looked like.   As I entered school, the kids seemed so nice.  I was naive. I was mama’s special boy.   My mom held my hand and told me it was going to be great in school.  She said I would meet other kids, play and make friends.  So in kindergarten, I thought everyone was a potential friend.  I loved to talk to them.  I would get in trouble to talking too much.  Mama didn’t tell me I would have to be made fun of.  The other kids were white with the exception of a few black kids.  They stuck together.  Even in the early eighties, they were made to sit in the back.  I was in 3^nd grade.  I was the only Mexican kid in my class.  I was one of only three in my grade.  I didn’t know why I didn’t fit in, I just knew I didn’t.  There were bullies that picked on me.  I was called me names like ‘dirty Mexican” and “wetback”.   All I could do was endure their abuse.  One kid taunted me every day.  This went on all year.  It was February.  The class was planning a valentine’s party.   We each had to decorate a bag in which Valentines cards would be placed.  It was like a valentine’s mail box for kids.  Everyone in the class would buy packs of cards from the store. I took special care to pick out the cutest ones for my classmates.  I wanted to be liked.   Many had cartoons and friendly sayings on them.  Then at the party, everyone would open them, play games and enjoy cake with ice cream.  It was meant to be a social experience.  For me it would turn out to be a nightmare.  I remember taking my decorated mailbox bag off the wall.  It was full of cards from each of my class mates, plus candy from the teacher.  Everyone started opening cards.  Many were just happy valentines wishes and the like.  I pulled out the one from the kid who didn’t like me.  I thought wow, he actually gave me one. I was impressed.  It was a cute cartoon pig.  It had “you’re a winner” printed on it. I smiled.  He had even underlined the word winner with a pen.  The pain came when I turned it over …it said  ‘in a FAT contest’.  I pushed back the tears.  But it was too much.  I broke.  I left the room visibly upset.  I went to the school office to call my mom at work. I don’t know what happened to the rest of my unopened cards.  I suppose they were thrown away.   I was crying uncontrollably.  I lied and said I was deathly sick and needed to go home.  She left work to come get me.  She could not console me.  She never knew how much pain I was in.  I knew for the first time…The rest of my life would be a struggle.  Even my mom, could not help me anymore.  I would have to deal with this torture for years.  Part of the torture was not knowing how to accept myself.  It has taken me a life time to accept myself, including all my flaws. I found my identity in the world.  I have made a life for myself in and out of drag.  I may slip into self doubt at times, but I resist the temptation to give up.   As an adult, I try to avoid people who may hurt me. I try to self-heal, learn and keep moving on.  I have found comfort in gay friends.  Some have been through their own struggles.  I don’t know what ever happened to that mean kid.  Honestly he is probably still a bully.  But I am no longer that weak boy from 3^rd grade.  True, I am not perfect.  I am a man, who is doing his best to live a good life and be a good person.  That makes me a winner.