The first drag show I ever attended was at a gay nightclub in Little Rock, Arkansas.
I was new to the area and convinced a co-worker to join me at the midnight performance, offering to pay her cover. I told her we were attending for research; I was what you’d call a “baby gay,” having just discovered I was a queer woman two years prior, and needed to survey the LGBTQ+ scene in my new home (I had moved there for a job). Arkansas wasn’t exactly highlighted for its gay inclusivity, at least online, so I opted to search for hidden rainbow corners of the red state.
Discovery Nightclub (which the locals call “Disco”) was split into three rooms — a Latin room, the main dance floor, and bar and a drag room, complete with a mock proscenium arch and a stage protruding in the audience at three places. The show had already begun by the time we arrived, so in the dark room lit by phone screens and the back glow of a spotlight following one of the performers, we sat at a small round table. An ashtray was placed on every table; smoking was allowed indoors. The smell of cigarettes never bothered me — I grew up with a mom and grandmother who were pack-a-day smokers, and despite their best efforts to keep the habit away from me, secondhand smoke subconsciously became a comfort throughout my childhood. So in a very loose and objectively unhealthy way, the club already felt like home.
I had no reason to expect the spectacle that was laid before me in the often forgotten Southern capitol. But the moment fog machines erupted as a drag queen named Princess entered the room — wearing over-the-knee leather boots, a black bodysuit and the largest fabric boa I’ve ever seen — I was entranced. I had no idea how captivating a lip-synched performance to Lady Gaga’s “Monster” could be.
The audience cheered as Princess worked the stage with alluring dance moves and an invisible lasso that pulled tippers towards her. Excitement overcame me as I rushed from my seat waving a dollar bill that joined a pool of 5s, 10s and 20s floating in the air before the queen could grab them. When I returned to my table mid-performance, even my unwitting co-worker was hooping and hollering. We were having a blast.
The crowd took a minute to settle after Princess performed, giving the night’s emcee — who was also a drag queen — a chance to walk on stage and make an announcement.
“Who in here likes Cher?” she asked. The host was greeted with a room full of hands and eager fans. “We are going to give away two tickets to Cher’s farewell tour to whoever can perform the best lip-synch to one of her songs. I need six audience volunteers to come on stage and compete.”
As electric as I felt at that moment, I still didn’t raise my hand. So the queen picked five strangers to perform, and I watched them climb onstage with jealousy, but not enough confidence to actually take action. Before picking the final performer, the emcee asked for a lesbian to volunteer. My co-worker — bless her supportive heart — insisted I go up. Unbeknownst to her, I wasn’t actually sure I’d use the term “lesbian” to label my sexuality at the time, but with Cher tickets on the line, details of the inner conflict regarding my orientation would have to wait.
Little did I know then just how many opportunities I’d have to explore that inner conflict within supportive LGBTQ+ spaces over the next two years. That night’s performance at Disco was the first of dozens of fabulous drag shows I attended in Central and Northwest areas of the state — shows that made me laugh, shows that made me cry, shows embedded in the foundation of some of my closest friendships, shows I saw on dates, shows I’ll never forget, and shows I only remember through context clues strung together from blurry photos and videos in my Snapchat camera roll.
That night at Disco afforded me opportunities to befriend the men behind the wigs and waistcoats — fathers, politicians and businessmen who are as talented at the intricate art of drag as they are spirited leaders to all Arkansans, not just the LGBTQ+ community. One of my fondest memories was serving as the only female judge for the 2021 Miss Gay Arkansas America competition and crowning MD Hunter — whose stage name is Athena Sinclair — one day, then watching him lead Black Lives Matter rallies the next. Hunter later became a top 10 finalist for the 2022 Miss Gay America competition.
That night at Disco was also my introduction to Arkansas’ surprisingly involved queer history. The natural state (a nickname for Arkansas) is home to the very first Miss Gay America competition winner, Norman Jones, whose stage name is Norma Kristie. Jones was crowned female impersonation victor in 1973 and later became the owner of the illustrious Discovery Nightclub. Additionally, Arkansas set a reformist example as one of the only Southern states to strike down legislation attacking queer individuals in the early 2000s, before the Supreme Court federally declared sodomy law unconstitutional in the landmark 2003 Lawrence v. Texas ruling.
Arkansas proved itself to not only be home to the dynamic queer community I was searching for, but to the queer community I needed to fully embrace this part of myself. It’s the home state of a woman I met who is now my best friend and partner, and it’s the first place that taught me the importance of queer and intersectional representation in a place stigmatized by a white, heteronormative paragon.
I think that’s why I feel so guilty watching state leaders burn it to the ground from the comfort of the Los Angeles bubble I’ve been living in for the past eight months.
While I bask in a state that has championed queer liberation since the 1970s, my queer family in Arkansas is fighting two of the most damning pieces of anti-LGBTQ+ legislation introduced in the United States. HB1156, a bill complicating transgender students’ ability to attend some school-sponsored events, is one of the latest legal write-ups placing a target on the back of children who just want to exist comfortably in their bodies without politicians breathing down their necks. Meanwhile, SB43, a bill redefining drag performance as an “adult-oriented business,” is a cover for a much broader attack on transgender, non-binary and gender-nonconforming individuals, as well as drag performers.
While I’m invited to attend sapphic art openings, drag brunches and queer event after queer event in L.A., some of my closest friends who are drag queens, artists, allies, sex educators and students are rallying at the Arkansas state capitol. They’re waving pride flags with desperation and shouting reasons why queer existence should be valued in hopes to defer the enactment of harmful statues such as the incorrectly labeled “anti-drag” bill, which passed through Senate and House floors with little effort.
And Arkansas isn’t alone. While I write for a publication that reaches audiences who value my queer voice, the ACLU is tracking 184 anti-LGBTQ+ bills designed to silence queer individuals in 28 states.
I want to brood in the guilt I feel from leaving behind the community that shaped my queer identity, but I recognize the privilege I’ve gained by living somewhere queer people are celebrated. So instead of sulking, I’m searching for ways that I and anyone who lives in progressive corners of the country can show up for our LGBTQ+ family, even when we can’t stand with them in person.
Here’s what I’ve come up with so far:
- The greatest weapon we have is our voice — publish articles, post on social media, make TikToks and spread the word about the active persecution of LGBTQ+ people in various parts of the country. The more people talk about the issues at hand, the closer we are to finding ways to stop the abuse.
- If you have the financial means, donate to organizations that support the LGBTQ+ community under attack. In Arkansas, Intransitive and Lucie’s Place are two organizations dedicated to queer youth. Both organizations have been active in the fight against HB1156 and SB43.
- If you’re comfortable with it, open your home to LGBTQ+ individuals seeking refuge or make it a safe place to have gender-affirming medications delivered that you can later mail to them.
- If all else fails, be a compassionate ear for loved ones facing anti-LGBTQ+ campaigns. Let them know they have advocates far and wide.
I believe the only reason I was picked to lip-sync that first night at Disco was how unsuspecting I looked wearing ripped jeans, a hoodie and a ball cap. But I put my years of unused high school theatre training to work, and my performance to “Believe” won me the crowd and the Cher tickets.
Looking back at the video I have of the event on my phone reminds me that the COVID pandemic robbed me from ever actually attending the concert, but I ended up gaining so much more than a live rendition of “Woman’s World” that night. My introduction to drag ultimately led me to the fiercest queer family, one that fostered a safe place to embrace the queer parts of myself and offered a home unlike any other place I’ve ever been. The Arkansas LGBTQ+ community instilled in me a devotion to stand against nonsensical anti-queer legislation, such as HB1156 and SB43 and the other 182 bills attacking a group that doesn’t deserve such treatment.
So to my Arkansas queers: I may not be with you, but I’m with you. Until I’m home, I’ll do whatever I can, from wherever I can, to help.