The pendulum swing finally got me: I was mistaken for a Jehovah's Witness
It was 5 pm on a Friday; I was minding my business, walking to the edge of Prospect Park to pick up my first meal of the day when an older woman in a tracksuit paused her phone conversation to ask if I was a Jehovah’s Witness - RUDE. I let out a polite diminishing ‘No—?’ and shuffled across the street for a Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger with a lettuce wrap. Whenever I pick up fast food there’s always 50/50 chance on whether I’ll get what I ordered, if we jump over the hurdle of finding the ‘no bun’ option AND someone in the kitchen actually cares, they’ll often go above and beyond by removing all the calorie ladened condiments as well. I returned to the park with my mayo-less burger and sat in front of the carousel as a group of teenagers floated by. I had been in a great mood too, wrapping up a collaboration with some artists, like ‘wow the passage of time truly is not linear because here I am because of a workshop I did in 2021 and my work is still relevant!’.
Some time in the past few years I started dressing like an academic as a semi joke because duh, dress for the job you want! But still very no bra, no panties, you know? And with my current gig where I have to perform class drag1 and the crystalized misandry I carry from being followed home in my bike shorts last summer, I guess I just let the modesty take over and now I’m being accused of missionary behavior in Flatbush! I told my friend Effi about this whole ordeal while we were walking around Jackson Heights a few days later — he could see how my bangs were reading as conservative. Even though they were in fact curtain bangs, which are very stylish & of the moment(!!) …if we’re being honest, it’s like the safest bang ever as you can sweep them back & hide them, hence the popularity. I honestly am annoyed by them, I hate having my hair in my face but I wasn’t going to cut my preferred bang, microbangs2, into my brand new work wig.
I spent 30 mins searching the internet & my phone for this picture of these Mormon girls in Bushwick :
… they blend in right? Is this the horseshoe theory at work? I kind of resent it because I didn’t even have to put on the long denim skirt or something Pink Panthress-esque3 to get there. I thought my minimalist chic spin on 90s/Y2K simulacra came through loud in clear with my thin wire frame glasses, black square toe Mary Jane ballet flats, midi skirt & high neck tank but no, I’m out here giving Layla (the black one) from The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives. It doesn’t help that I was accidentally dressed as The Virgin Mary a week before. I don’t know, my friends are always talking about throwing a bible themed party so maybe it’s officially sunk into the deepest crevices of my brain.
And now that I think about it, I have been wearing my bikini tops at Riis instead of opting for my usual topless sunbathing. A few years ago, I had the best tan of my LIFE. I was wearing string thong bikini bottoms with no tops and when I stood in front of my full length mirror to make out with my reflection for a paying fetishist, the contrast of my whale tail was crisp! There’s something very erotic, very Hays code about deep tan lines. And now I’m hiding under beach canopies & umbrellas?
So umm…what the f*ck is up?
I started dressing more minimalist because I’m in my thirties now and capsule wardrobes are a good way to camouflage periods of poverty but now it’s like am I ushering in fascism?! I don’t mean in the ‘clean girl aesthetic’ way either…like that my decisions are not my decisions anymore. Like, because I KNOW I’m not xyz, then nothing I do in order to preserve my material stability is that bad in the grand scheme of things. I’m trying to eat just like everyone else, therefore I am swept up in the systems that be and dissociating my ass off.
A German Jewish historian ex of mine once told me there’s a reason that we have certain museums for certain atrocities that didn’t take place on American soil. We get to point to some murky amorphous effect of human anxieties and solidify it as an ‘other’.
I remember diverting my eyes away from the giant projection in the workspace of my MFA program as a video played of my classmate entering a shit filled enema, courtesy of her twin sister, into her own rectum. Her naked lanky frame sprawled upside down across a red vinyl couch while Face-timing said twin sister. Understandably frustrated with the systems that be the artist turned to a Facebook group to cure her mysterious ailment with the above remedy. I can’t remember if it worked for her as I was put off by an assortment of factors but if it did good for her! Love that! The issue was, she wanted sterility.
She didn’t want the performance where she spit into the mouths of her friends to create a bond associated with the AIDS epidemic. Henrietta Lacks & the Tuskegee Experiments were Black issues that brought too much baggage to her commentary on the development of immunity.
People are shocked when I tell them I don’t follow celebrities or influencers. Like, yes I’m into the spectacle but I’m way too “atypical” for that. My fascination with Real Housewives & Andy Cohen productions was but a blip in my television consumption history. I watch tv shows to escape not for cinema verite but unfortunately I am a human and my subconscious loves it deeply for all the trashy unrefined reasons everyone else that-is-not-watching-for-anthropological-reasons does. Can I tell you how unnerving it is to realize that your most comforting white noise is the shriek of an emotionally immature middle aged woman? When I started having ‘the realizations’ I made the healthy decision and stopped watching all of the genre, it was too triggering, too exploitative. That was until recently, I started reading this book Dahlia recommended to me “Cue The Sun: The Invention of Reality TV”. It was right around the time the latest season of Love Island USA premiered, yes, the one with Amaya Papaya. And with that framework I must say, my love of reality tv is back.
Oscar interrupted the start of my doom-scrolling spiral with a last minute invite for Big Freedia’s Summerstage in Herbert Von King park. Big Freedia makes ass shaking music, New Orleans Bounce4 to be specific. She’s been featured on songs with Beyonce & Drake. I threw on a black mini dress and headed off into the crowd. We drank nutcrackers and I reservedly twerked under the fading sun while the real rumpshakers competed onstage. Billows of white smoke puffed up throughout the audience; kids bounced up and down on their adults’ shoulders as the competitors stepped up one by one into the spotlight. We applauded as the performers took their final bows, the stage cleared. Freedia’s Resistance Revival Chorus poured onto the right of stage in all white and sung an acapella hymn for a Free Palestine. Within ten minutes we were transported from a juke party to a gospel show5. Duality! Billy Porter popped out of nowhere in a white & gold two piece with an oversized collar for The Holy Shuffle. The crowd thinned. I bought a nutcracker from @J***yBaddie in an effort to keep up the vibe and considered the genres birthed from gospel music.
My new therapist & I were doing a spitfire exercise on values this morning and when she asked me who I admired real or fiction, I cringed. I don’t have idols. A name came to mind. I hesitated but in the spirit of the exercise blurted out, (non-Christian) Jesus. We burst into laughter, surprised by my answer, but I think I meant it.
Sometimes labeled ‘TERF’ bangs! Not when they grace my head though. Crazy dichotomies all around
I was introduced to Bounce through my friend & NOLA native, Brittiny, during my freshman year of highschool. Bounce, like New Orleans feels especially queer & fluid, we’d watch and imitate the Youtube videos of boys dancing in jeans and basketball shorts.