‘Drag queens are not a threat to our children’

I HAVE a confession. For some time now I have been wearing men’s clothes.

I’ve been doing it at home. I’ve been doing it in bed. Sometimes I’ve been doing it in public. I’ve done it at work and it’s been endorsed by my employer. I’ve had to wear men’s clothes because, blessed with the ample that I have, women’s sizes just can’t take the strain.

Like a tight-fitting ladies’ polo shirt, it feels so good to finally get that off my chest. I’m not alone, of course, and it’s not an issue, but play switcheroo with the genders and suddenly it’s pitchfork-wielding time.

The recent news of a man in women’s clothes (in the Guille-Alles library of all places!) has lit up the pages of Facebook. Flaming torches are burning on the streets of Guernsey at the horror (the HORROR!) of a drag queen reading a book to children. It’s a one-way street to Sodom and Gomorrah. There’ll be a run on sequins and glitter as all those teeny tiny innocents decide there and then to take up a life of vice as a lip-syncing glamazon.

I can’t lie. I’m angry about it too – but not at the welcome sight of a man in a dress in the Guille-Alles, but at the utter nonsense of untruths and fear-mongering that spreads because of it.

Reading through the Guernsey Press Facebook comments, it strikes me that the problem isn’t just intolerance, it’s sheer ignorance. The negative commenters aren’t saying, ‘I understand what all this is about, I just disagree with it’. They are making huge whoopsies with distinguishing between sexuality, gender, fetish and a fun hobby.

So let me clear this up.

A drag queen is a man who dresses up as a woman for the purpose of art and entertainment. We see them on the telly, or if you are very lucky, at a live gig. It’s not a sexual thing and it’s not a sexuality thing, although by far the majority of drag queens are gay men, their sexuality has nothing to do with it. Being a gay man does not automatically make you want to find a pair of size 11 stilettos and sashay that walk. Being a drag queen is a performance. And when it’s done, there is untucking to do and a great deal of make-up to wipe off.

Drag queens, contrary to some of the comments on Facebook, are not more likely to be paedophiles than any other group of people. And they most certainly don’t do it as a sexual kink. There is not a career on this planet less suited to sexual arousal on the job. Just Google ‘how to tuck’ and you’ll see what I mean.

Drag queens are not transgender and nor are they mocking women. When the contestants of RuPaul’s Drag Race use terms like drag mother, sisters and girlfriend they are not deriding those concepts but celebrating the feminine side of themselves and all the nurturing loveliness that motherhood and sisterhood can bring.

Sure, the mesh-front wigs go flying from time to time, just like most contestants on reality shows. But if you want to find a group of people who know what it’s like to feel bullied or put down or isolated, if you want to find a group of people who can show children that it’s okay to be yourself, that you can find your place and fit in, then it’s a group of drag queens (I think the collective noun is a sparkle).

I pay special attention to these types of stories because I have a child who has struggled to fit in. When I see ignorance and hatred spiralling each other on Facebook I tend to get super-protective. Because four years ago my child told me she was transgender.

She had seemed down for months until she got the courage to talk to me about feeling ‘different’. She was worried I wouldn’t love her any more.

It was the eve of her 16th birthday. We lay together on her bed and she told me how she did not feel right with parts of her body. Up until that point it never occurred to me that my child might be struggling with gender identity. I had given birth to a son. I had raised a boy. But all that was about to change.

She wasn’t ready to tell anyone else at that point, so we carried it between us. Slowly making plans about what to do next. Telling family was hard. Telling friends was harder. But without exception we received nothing but love and acceptance.

When the time came for us to tell her school, it was a very weepy phone call between me and a teacher at Elizabeth College. He was brilliant. He was kind, caring, and said, ‘Leave it with me’.

A few months later, just before the whole year group left for GCSE study leave, there was an announcement in the year assembly. News of her transition from male to female was given by the principal to the whole year, after which there was a spontaneous round of applause, hugging and hand shakes. They just accepted it, celebrated her bravery and then went off to do their exams.

In the four years since, my daughter, who at 6ft 3in. is not hard to spot in the crowd, has not had one negative comment come her way. Through school and into employment she has been surrounded by acceptance and tolerance and understanding.

This is the side of Guernsey we need to recognise, not the haters on Facebook.

As Taylor Swift so ably puts it, haters gonna hate, but that’s not the experience we have had. Just as we are told to look for the helpers when there is a tragedy, let’s look for the embracers when there is difference. Attitudes are changing. Minds are broadening.

Sexuality is who you fancy, gender is who you are. Clothes are just bits of fabric meant to keep us warm and hide our modesty. That they can be assigned only to one gender is a laughable concept if you really think about it.

Drag queens are not a threat to our children, but ignorance, intolerance and bigotry really are.