Drag was, in my lifetime, acceptable. Men were allowed to pretend to be women, for entertainment. Men’s organizations played with it often, even ritually. Old photos appear now on the internet of famous men (J.D. Vance for instance) coyly posing in makeup and wigs.
Of course there was the gay version, sort of underground, sort of private, sort of not for straight viewing. We were allowed to nod at this behavior as long as it was play, but not, as it sometimes is now, gender fluidity.
I was in my twenties when I realized that I, too, dressed in drag. Let me be clear, I was fine being female, never wanted to be a boy, was not even a tomboy. Though I did covet some of the boy privileges I was beginning to recognize.
But, all that dressing! The makeup, the short skirts, the high heels, the stockings, the done hair. It was work. It was expensive. It was not, physically, comfortable. I know now that I pulled it off, but I did not know that then. One can never be pretty enough.
And with gender — my gender — came other expectations. Marriage, motherhood, sweetness, compliance. These I failed at. These I never wanted, and even if I did, I hadn’t the talent. Boys, of course, had their own demands, on themselves, and on us.
This is the third of a series on Gender. The others are:
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