I'm sorry. My life is crazy right now. At this stage I'm just putting today's makeup over yesterday's and my feet are twice the size from all the walking everywhere I've been doing.
I wasn't expecting to be writing a blog right now (01:39, Sunday morning) but I now feel compelled to, having had the idea bubbling away. Here is my guide to not being a complete dick at the Edinburgh Fringe (and maybe also in life):
1. Fundamentally, I am a man. In a wig. This is quite obvious, as in daily life a lot of people who identify as women don't have square jawlines, don't often stand at over seven feet tall, and don't frequently have their beards poking through their makeup. I look like a drag queen, which is what I am. I honestly don't know what I can do to make this more obvious. Now, the punchline is that I am a man, but I look like a beautiful woman. One of the reasons I do drag is to send up societal expectations of women, extrapolating the misogyny of demanding beautiful faces, perfect curves and legs 4 dayz. I won't get into that because it is now 01:45, Sunday morning and I can't be bothered. Anyway, the joke is that it's a man underneath all of this, and nobody likes a punchline ruiner, so it's best to keep that to yourself. We all know it, me, you and literally almost everyone that looks at my face - Jesus, you can even see where the lace starts on my wig - but the joke is better when we play along. You don't need to stare at me for a while and whisper/shout across the street to your friend that 'it's a man!' We know. More on this later.
2. Take the flyer. Just take it.
3. Taking pictures is fine, but be cool about it. Seriously. I'm on the Royal Mile to give out flyers to people that might look interested or up for a laugh with (not at) me. I'm not there to be photographed; it's just a thing I do on the side. I'm not on the mile to have my picture taken, and as such, I'd rather it was done quickly, or maybe from afar (see my Facebook/Instagram for these), catching me candidly in my natural element. Some of the best pictures have been taken like this, once the photographer has asked permission and taken a few steps back. Oh yeah, ask. Always ask. The number of people who see me as the same as that church they just snapped, and not as a human being, is staggering. Chances are if you ask me for a photo I'll say yes, but please do it quickly and preferably during a quiet moment, because I could miss out on flyering a stream of perfect audience members, just because you couldn't work out the flash. And don't direct me. I will place my leg where I wish. Also, speaking of photos:
4. Don't touch me anywhere you wouldn't touch a stranger. Very often I am a stranger, so do check yourself. An arm round the waist is fine; feeling my backside is not. Touching a breast without permission is another no-no. They might be foam, but touching my hips, bum and boobs without even asking is just fucking weird, and comes back to the thing of WE ALL KNOW IT'S A SHAM, AND YOU DON'T HAVE TO PROVE IT. More on this later.
5. 'Tranny', 'shemale' and 'ladyboy' are now, as they always have been, offensive. Both to me and my trans sisters. Stop using them. Alternatives include 'drag queen', 'beautiful woman' and 'Kate Butch, the Comic Sans of Drag'. Why not give those a go?
6. Take a fucking flyer. Especially if you're gay. We need to look out for each other.
7. Even though I look like a superhuman beauty, I still have feelings. I think we, as a culture, see drag queens as being those perpetually entertaining, always on top (cheeky), unshakeable goddesses. Think Lily Savage, that kind of thing. We're wrong. I thought of myself as an unshakeable goddess, until I was shaken. It's a sign of my male privilege that before this month, none of what has happened to me had happened to me, but here it is.
I have lost count of the number of men who have shouted at me from their cars as they have driven past me. I've heard the words described in point number 5, I've been told to suck someone's dick, I've been told that I'm going to be killed. I have persevered.
I have lost count of the number of men who have joked to their friends that one of them would be into someone like me. I think: someone with three A Grade A Levels, a first class degree from a Russell Group University, and a Grade 8 in the flute? They don't mean that. They mean that their friend is gay and that is bad. But somehow, SOMEHOW, the friend is still not the joke. It's me. 4 A*s and 6 As at GCSE me, who just wants people to come to this show he's worked so hard on.
I know the number of people who have touched my genitals today. It's two. This afternoon, when flyering, a child comes up to me and tells me that I am a man. Rule number one, young friend. I joke around that a man couldn't wear heels like this (he could, FYI) and he tells me that a man wouldn't have breasts. I break one of the highest drag rules and take out my foam insert for him to see, in an attempt to make him question gender roles and society's expectations. Perhaps he is too young. Unconvinced, he decides to find out for himself and prods me where he knows a man should have a penis and a woman a vagina. A few feet away his parents stand there laughing, tickled by the fact that their child has spoken to a transvestite.
If nothing changes, that boy grows into the man I met tonight.
After the high of such a great show tonight (Saturday, sort of), I go down to do my guest spot at Club Sol Party, at which I had such a great time a week and a bit ago. Club Sol Party is in a room upstairs at the Free Sisters, and the only way to get there is through a courtyard which becomes something of a bustling club at night. I make my way through towards the stairs, with the usual 'excuse me' and occasional tap on the shoulder to request a brief sidestep. As I'm making my way through the crowd, the stairs in sight, a man I have asked to excuse me does the opposite. Blocking my path, he stares at my face, with a look of confusion creeping across his. He clearly hasn't met a woman with neon yellow hair and broad shoulders. Man shoulders. I feel his hand around my crotch - as I'm wearing a petticoat and am frequently in drag for 8+ hours I haven't bothered to tuck - 'just to check' he sneers at me. His grip is tighter than his younger counterpart and I find it more difficult to bat him off. And then I go and sing Sk8er Boi to the tune of I Dreamed a Dream like none of this has happened, hoping that there is a way out of the venue that doesn't involve the courtyard. There isn't.
It is 02:28 and now is the first chance I've had to process today's proceedings. I feel angry at myself for crying, thinking that this happens daily for people who actually identify as women and that avoiding this kind of harassment is only a makeup wipe away. I'm trapped between the feelings that what has happened to me is only the tip of the iceberg of what could have been, and does happen to people, and the knowledge that suffering doesn't negate suffering. I don't want to think of this year's fringe as the one where I first experienced sexual assault, but even during my wig change at Club Sol, it was all I thought about. I want to remind myself that this was the fringe where I, a twenty-one year old recent graduate, wrote, performed and produced a solo show that people love, and I can't wait to see what I do next.
8. If you've liked my show, fucking tweet me please.