Page 102 of The Black Flamingo

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It’s my turn. I don’t know what to say.

I can’t explain what brought me here today

apart from that poster; I don’t know

if the people on the poster are the same people

here in this room; no one is in costume.

I don’t want to assume, I feel too shy to ask,

but when I saw that poster I simply knew

that Drag Soc was something I had to do.

I didn’t realize I would need to decide

my character as I stepped through the door.

Only one name comes to mind. It’s like

I’ve said it before: “I am The Black Flamingo

and my pronouns are he and him,” I declare.

I’m sure of this for the first time ever.

They look at each other, then at me.

Then Mzz B asks, “So are you a king,

a queen, or . . . ?”

“Neither,” I say. “I’m just a man and I want

to wear a dress and makeup onstage.

I want to know how it feels to publicly

express a side of me I’ve only felt privately

when playing with my Barbie as a boy.

It was only at home that I’d play with that toy;

I knew Mum loved me more than

anyone else and with her I could be myself.

I didn’t think boys could do ballet, certainly

not a black boy and definitely not me.

I was already suspicious that people were

nice to me despite me being different.

I never wanted to take my difference too far.”

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