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You’re looking past her
avoiding her eyes, the eyes of the woman in the front line of the protest the one who reminds you of your mother or your mother in law or your grandmother or all of them together. You don’t need to look at her, don’t need to meet the challenge of her eyes, you have the power you have the choice to look past her. Fingers of smoke unspool across the hillside, reaching up to gunmetal clouds above. Charred, sunken beams mark the place where the roof of Boyd Whitefield’s house once stood, blackened giant’s ribs collapsing onto cold soil. In disbelief, I stand in silence; unable to comprehend the ash-covered scene. A shiver of guilt moves through me, and I pull my thin woollen shawl around my shoulders—perhaps, in another scenario, people might stare and say it’s unwise for a young girl to be out on her own, unaccompanied, but the flock of sleep-deprived neighbours peer instead at the decimated building, worrying that a stray cinder might jump from the wreckage and ignite one of their homes. The exhausted firefighters have nearly finished extinguishing the last remaining embers, which sizzle and hiss in protest.
Renata’s family picture showed parents, two kids, and a pet elephant. She invited me to visit her family’s house and I agreed because they lived by a beautiful lake. They owned hotels which gave them the opportunity to socialize with foreigners. Sona, their elephant took daily baths at the lake except in winter, when instead, water was heated and poured over her. All visitors went home with stories of the majestic yet friendly elephant.
“Is it true that elephants never forget anything?” I asked Renata on the train. The emotions I suppressed were forcing themselves through flashbacks. No, she was a girl, it couldn’t be real. “No, it’s just a common myth. Although they do have strong memories” she said. I can count the number of times I’ve done something right on my fingers. The number is zero.
Actually, can nothing be counted? Do you count zero or do you count from zero? I suppose it would depend on the perspective… My protective shell was ripped away. The energy I had built to the brink of explosion—suicidal supernova—surged out. I ought to have been angry, but to be unconfined, feeling the space I flew through again, was glorious.
Alshain? Tarazed? Vega? I called. Who in my family had missed me enough to force contact? I would not forgive them right away, of course, but to finally be accepted… My light was caught as it left my surface, tangled and wound together like the gravity-birth of a star. Not my family missing me then—this could only be the Celestial. You are too late, I said. I pleaded last century. Leave me be. Crafting a compelling drag persona is not about idealizing or mocking the opposite gender. It's a fusion of one-part flash and two-parts ego, a character designed to become a living legend—the captivating stranger you'd eagerly encounter during a night of revelry, where memories are both forged and sometimes forgotten.
While not every Arkansan may entertain the thought of spending a night with a drag queen or a drag king, Eureka Springs stands out as a community that fully embraces diverse and inclusive experiences. The renowned establishment, The Black Catastrophe, draws a significant portion of the gay community to Eureka's main street. Within these vibrant walls, the drinks are skillfully crafted by none other than Diva Demise, given name Walter Cousins, the original winner of Ms. Fierce Arkansas back in '89. As long as she was behind the bar, she was always in costume: a jet-black bouffant, porcelain foundation, and a velvet nightgown with little bat wings on the back. |