BEGIN AGAIN is a series of A+ personal essays running in the first half of November 2023 where writers were asked to explore a transition, a move, grief, a breakup, repeating patterns or breaking patterns, cycles and rebirth, remaking yourself, or laying out plans for the future while standing in the ashes of something you thought was forever. And wow, how they responded. We hope you enjoy these vulnerable, sensitive, always deep but sometimes surprisingly funny works, and we’re grateful for your support that allows us to continue to publish new work from our community. These essays and paying queer and trans writers for their work are things that are made possible by A+ members like you. Queer media isn’t free to make, and we’re now and always grateful that you’re an A+ member.
-Nico
I am sitting on the couch in another drag king’s apartment, script in hand and dice-rolling app on my phone. We’re rehearsing for a “Dungeons and Drag” themed showcase they’re putting on, where I am the Dungeon Master. The king, Big Al, talks in the opening speech about how D&D & drag are fundamentally both about playing pretend with your friends. I joke that D&D gives people the opportunity to flirt with their friends (“So does drag,” choruses the room) and use performance as a substitute for therapy (“So does drag!” choruses the room).
What I don’t say, in this room full of wonderful, funny, creative performers I am still getting to know, is that drag and D&D have been two sides of the same coin for me in another way — that the act of slipping into a character, a role, at the table or at the bar, is helping me come back to myself following the end of my marriage.
My ex-wife, Una, and I met at a Pride party in 2012. If there are any Chicago queers reading this right now, yes, it was at Backlot Bash, and yes, I can hear the sigh you just emitted from here. On the first night of Pride Month a decade later, we went to a kickoff drag show, and then the next morning, she told me that despite our best efforts — a four-month trial separation, couples counseling with multiple different therapists and methods, and more that I want to keep between the two of us — it wasn’t working out, and she wanted us to end our marriage.
The end wasn’t a terrible shock. Once I moved back in after our trial separation, we got along great, but our dynamic was one that felt more like chummy roommates than intimate partners. Still, part of me was caught off guard. I thought we were making progress. We weren’t fighting nearly as much. Our therapist was patient and thoughtful and encouraged us to be, too. After particularly difficult sessions, we would go to the 7-Eleven on the way home and get Slurpees, a way to ground and reconnect while engaging in the all-important millennial ritual of “getting a little treat as a reward for doing a hard thing.”
We told our group chats first, and what I didn’t find out until months later was that our best friend called our other best friend immediately after getting the text to unpack fears about what this all would mean for our friend group.
I felt all the usual feelings in the first few weeks: grief congealing in the base of my stomach, the slow-moving heartbreak, the dazed shock of attempting to do my Silly Little Job and my Silly Little Tasks while careening towards a future wildly different from the one I had known, while still building the vehicle to get me there.
But mostly, I felt guilt and shame. My guilt came from all the times I acted out of carelessness or selfishness or cowardice over the decade we were together, all the times I chose not to make our relationship a priority, or the times I didn’t care for Una the way she deserved. The shame was for being the kind of person who would do all of those things. Although I know now, as an older, wiser self, that holding together a loving, happy partnership for the better part of 10 years, let alone maintaining a strong friendship in the wake of ending that marriage, is hardly a “failed” relationship, I still felt like an undeniable failure.
Una and I faced at least one of the same problems, and one that we would have to figure out for each of ourselves. For both of us, our senses of self had been deeply wrapped up in the relationship, in the marriage. Now, it was up to both of us to figure out who we were outside of it.
To find my way back to myself, I became other people.
My Dungeons & Dragons games become my primary conduit for exploring the kind of person I want to be. Through my multi-level marketing warlock, I unpacked my fear of disappointing people. As my Real Housewives-inspired High Elf Barbarian, I gave myself permission to be strong and independent, take what I want. As a Dungeon Master, I slipped into seven or eight different roles in one session, focused on the enjoyment of the players at the table. I learned to accept uncertainty and embrace the delight of the campaign going off the rails. I set up elaborate snack spreads and brunch for my players, and focused on making my apartment — the first living space I have not shared with someone else in nine years — feel cozy and welcoming.
***
I found Chicago performer Po’Chop’s “Drag King 101” class while scrolling Instagram in a procrastination haze. Before I could process what I’d done, I signed up. I had been an admirer of drag for years, first as a fan of RuPaul’s Drag Race and then getting to know Chicago’s incredible local scene. I saw drag as an art form rooted in creativity, irreverence and joy, all things I both needed more of in my life and wanted to spread, things I think we could all use more of.
We begin the class with basic movement. I feel like a newborn calf, or maybe a freshly caught salmon, flopping on the deck of a boat. Many of my classmates are seasoned dancers, improvisers, and burlesque performers. My body is soft and awkward and does not always move in the direction I want it to. Moving in front of a giant mirror, faced with all the ways I am significantly less graceful than everyone else, is a stomach-churning nightmare.
Why did you agree to this, again, ask the meaner parts of my brain. Was the past year not enough failure or embarrassment for you? Now you have to flop around in front of all these queers who are much cooler and hotter than you will ever be?
When Po’Chop asks us why we’re here, I’m able to come back to myself. Still nervous, I ramble about drag as a source of creativity and joy, and while I am still burning with self-consciousness, I at least can remember what brought me there in the first place.
Po’Chop asks us to list adjectives we associate with masculinity. I think of men I want to emulate — Stanley Tucci, Mandy Patinkin, my dad. We pace and pose with these adjectives in mind, cheer each other on through acting out these poses. It’s the most I have thought about existing in my body in a long time, and the awkwardness starts to give way to appreciation, and even a bit of confidence.
In the third week, Po’Chop generously, patiently, walks us through makeup and the application of facial hair. Snipping tiny hairs off the cheap blonde hair piece feels therapeutic. I am terrified I am making a mess. We crowd in front of the mirror, and I watch as my classmates don mustaches and sideburns, the excitement radiating as their faces transform. I attempt to adhesive a blonde dad ‘stache to my upper lip. I cut the hairs too long. It looks like straw, arranged haphazardly, like a child’s art project that is now stuck to my face. My classmates compliment me and at first I’m suspicious, assuming they’re just being kind, but maybe it does look passable from afar. I am still trying to let go of the part of myself that wants to crumble over not instantly excelling at certain aspects of drag (mostly makeup, especially makeup), to embrace the messiness and pleasure in trying, to explore the wide, wonderful gulf between “success” and “failure.”
Watching the trial numbers come together is the greatest joy. Dom Draper dons a harness and does his best George Michael. Mx. Halo-Halo asks to borrow another classmate’s baseball cap and immediately launches into the most spirited rendition of the Pokémon theme song I have ever seen. At first, the intimidation rises in my gut again watching these self-assured kings move with confidence and sex appeal, fully embodying their personas.
When it comes to my underprepared ass, I know that pure sex appeal is not going to be my strongest suit. I opt to get silly with it, and ham it up for my peers to Michael Bolton’s lite-rock staple “How Am I Supposed to Live Without You?” When I see my classmates start to sing along to the chorus, I have to fight a smile to stay in character.
When class ends, I play with names. Russ N. Daughters. Billith Fair. Around the time I start seriously submitting for drag shows, Tears of the Kingdom drops, and with it comes the name I settle on — Rusty Broadsword. I love a winky, geeky, if-ya-know-ya-know reference that also sounds like it could be a sex thing, but also I love that it’s a name that feels equal parts Midwest dad and swashbuckling fantasy.
Rusty will honor parts of myself that I have made small or suppressed out of embarrassment, self-consciousness or feeling somehow unable or unworthy of claiming them. These parts included a love of high fantasy that I tucked away, treated as a guilty pleasure, until I cracked open the D&D Player’s Handbook in quarantine. The name’s a promise to myself to love what I love and pursue what brings me joy without apology or qualification or self-consciousness. And like the low-level weapon from the recent Legend of Zelda games, a Rusty Broadsword doesn’t seem like much, but when imbued with the right power, it can become radiant.
I make an Instagram account for Rusty. It sits dormant for months.
I go with another classmate, Tool Osco, to see Dom make his drag debut in a packed-to-the-gills black box theater. He is a vision in leather, exuding Daddy, commanding the crowd, who shower him in dollars and admiration. It’s a thrill to see this sweet, bubbly person transform into this swaggering bad-boy icon. He makes it look effortless. On Instagram, he talks about spending hours practicing his contouring. The old me would have seen that and immediately gotten intimidated and discouraged, but now I just want to learn.
I begin designing looks in my head and adding songs to a secret Spotify playlist where I dream up numbers for Rusty. This is all starting to feel more possible. This exploration of gender expression and aesthetic feeds into my everyday wear, and I start to feel more at ease in my own body and clothes.
My brother gets married in June of 2023. I wear a short suit to the happy hour my parents host the day before the ceremony. I realize that framing this as progress is going to make me sound like Temu-brand Nora Ephron, but I promise it is. Of all the things I could have in common with Kim Kardashian, instead of billions of dollars or an attraction to Pete Davidson, I have chronic psoriasis, an autoimmune skin condition that led me to avoid wearing shorts for nearly 20 years. I am very into this suit, and while I am certainly out of drag, I am channeling how Rusty makes me feel at the party. I work the room with my head held high, greet family friends with enthusiasm and hold court. I feel like a better, hotter, more assured version of myself.
My mom does not stop telling me how everyone at the party kept commenting on how happy and confident I was. I appreciated this—after all, I was excited for the festivities and happy to be there and feeling good about myself in the moment—but it also gave me pause. There was a subtext I detected in there, a “she seems so happy which is good because i was worried about her because we are at a wedding and her marriage recently imploded!!!”
I crashed at Una’s apartment (my old apartment) the night before we went to the Renaissance Faire. It’s my second time going out in public in drag, this time as a Barbie-inspired barbarian. When the look comes together, my chest stirs and expands with warmth. I am giddy. I did not expect the euphoria of the long hair / beard combo, the subtly contoured cheeks, the way I would feel powerful carrying a bedazzled, Barbie-pink plastic ax. Una, wearing a poet shirt in a closet-cosplay of her D&D character, is also into it. I can’t stop smiling.
Two weeks later, I have my first gig as Rusty.
When I throw back the curtain and begin stepping into the light as Right Said Fred begins to play, I look out and see Una, sitting with our other friends, grinning. She hands me dollars and is a trooper when I, in time with the music, shake my booty in front of her. I can hear Po’Chop’s voice in the back of my head, reminding me to think of those adjectives you want to embody. The rest of the performance itself is a joyous blackout — I skulk and preen and lip sync at the tables and toss dollars into the air. I do not remember anything except the faces of the people I love and the voice that says “don’t worry, keep going.”
When it’s over, Una drives me home, dutifully stopping at Wendy’s because I have forgotten to eat in my nervousness. I am wired upon getting home. My empty apartment feels different now. I can feel, in the depths of my chest, the warm, encompassing love of my chosen family cheering me on, including Una, the gratitude of them, of her, being in my life in this way. I remind myself there and then to file this feeling away when the loneliness, the self-doubt, the fear of abandonment, the need to become smaller all rear their heads.
And sure, the validation feels amazing (sorry, I’m a Leo!!!!), but something else is happening too. Even in nervous-joy-blackout, I knew it wasn’t the perfect performance. I slipped up. My sash fell off mid-song. I didn’t prepare nearly enough choreography. I would see much better, more polished, more game-accurate drag king Ganondorfs (Ganondorves?) in the weeks to come. But I didn’t crumple the second it felt like too much of a challenge, didn’t wither at the prospect of looking silly. This wasn’t Lindsay, who was terrified of isolation and failure, but Rusty Broadsword, swaggering and self-assured, all beard and bravado, a force only made more powerful by your cheers and dollars.
Every time another performer greets me at a show with “Hey, Rusty,” my heart still skips a beat.
Before every show, I take a selfie in my look for the night. I post it, and share it in a few group chats. The likes and compliments are nice, the support from family and friends wonderful, but I’ve realized that this entire time, I’ve been taking them for me, because becoming Rusty, in all his forms, brings me joy and self-confidence. I’m realizing that I am worthy of being my own biggest fan. I am worth rooting for, even when I fail or am not perfect, in any form and with any face, and so is my ex-wife, and so are you.
I love this!