On the morning of June 12, 2016 I woke
up to my iPhone displaying seemingly endless numbers of tweets and
news notifications about what would become the deadliest mass
shooting in modern US history and a symbol of hate crimes that target
our LGBTQ community.
This tragedy was juxtaposed with the
night before when I, along with several other representatives of
Greater Cleveland’s LGBTQ community, ventured out on a beautiful
sunset cruise off the shores of Lake Erie to support a local LGBTQ
program. Cheers from other boaters and from patrons lining the bars
and restaurants along Cleveland’s Cuyahoga River were heard as our
big gay cruise ship floated by. Gallantly displayed on the bow of the
ship was the pride flag. Many look to our flag for a sense of pride,
diversity, and the social movement. However, there is another symbol
within our community that is also inspiring: Our own version of
Uncle Sam, the drag queen.
That morning when my iPhone was abuzz,
I was overwhelmed with an array of emotions. What could I do to find
solace, comfort, and meaning in the face of this tragedy from my
little studio apartment in Cleveland? It was then that I reached out
to social media to find some solace and understanding from my
non-gender conforming symbols of Pride. And there they were: Drag
queens from across the nation were sharing their sense of grief,
resources, Equality Florida’s Go Fund Me page, and information on
questions from “How can I volunteer?” to “Can I donate blood?”
These queens are strong pillars of the LGBTQ community in any city.
In the days following the Orlando
tragedy, many of us visited our local gay bars to stand up in
defiance of terror and hate crimes. However, in addition to going to
the bar, I needed to find my own way to cope. Again, I turned to my
gender bending Uncle Sam and immersed myself in reruns of RuPaul’s
Drag Race. It was through these episodes that my gay identity was
reinforced. This coping, coupled with the pop-up events going on in
Cleveland to support the victims of Pulse Night Club, reaffirmed my
sense of a united LGBTQ community.
So I am sharing this narrative to shine
a light on how drag queens and any other queer that tucks, duct
tapes, breast binds, and harnesses up, has a voice. These are the
unsung leaders within our community that in times of crisis and
challenge, we can rely on to help lift us up and instill a sense of
pride and endurance in our community. As my drag queen friend
Manuela Love would say, “When I paint my face, it is like I am
preparing for battle. This is my war paint.”
(Editor's note: Kyle Znamenak is a
research associate and a PhD student in Adult Education at Cleveland
State University. He is a diversity specialist and is active in
making Cleveland's communities more inclusive.)