Genesis
I’m a goth. We are a dramatic breed. We’re a bit defiant of
convention, and we love to play dress-up.
We also have a certain flexibility when it comes to traditional gender
roles. This has informed my love of wearing makeup and women’s clothing. I
don’t mean smart pant-suits or sundresses.
In fact, there is nothing feminine about the clothing when I wear it. I
can put on a full-length, flowing black skirt and change it from elegant to
intimidating. I put on dark eye-shadow and become someone else, someone darker,
someone unafraid. I can move outside of myself by embracing different looks
and, in a way, personas.
My unconventional aesthetic desires started manifesting
around when I started my junior year of high school. It was 1996. I had
recently bought my first Marilyn Manson album, and was amazed by how the band
members all looked so bizarre and so interesting. The Crow movies had
come out, and I thought the male main characters looked badass in their makeup,
so why couldn’t I? Before seeing these guys wearing their makeup, it never
occurred to me that it was something that a male was allowed to do, like it
might even be against some law somewhere. However, it seemed that American
culture was moving to a place where, while it wasn’t ordinary, it was less extraordinary
to see a guy in makeup.
My problem was that, at the time, I was going to school in
Walhalla, South Carolina. The town was only a few minutes from the Chatooga
River, famous for being the river Deliverance was filmed on. The closest
shopping mall was over an hour and a half away. It was the kind of rural town
where you did your shopping at the combination pizza place/video rental/convenience
store – not exactly a hotspot of progressivism.
I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe it was
something so banal as a cry for attention. Maybe it was because I was so
disgusted with my life and the status quo. Or maybe it was just because I had
discovered that I appreciated a different aesthetic. Whatever it was, I acted.
During one otherwise average lunch period, I noticed my ex-girlfriend
Cindy reapplying her makeup. It was near the end of the period, and the clatter
of hard plastic trays had given way to the excited chatter of children who
thought they were adults.
“Can I borrow that?” I asked. She was a bit of a hellion, so
with a shit-eating grin, she gladly gave me her black eyeliner, black lipstick,
and compact. I snapped her compact open and used the tiny, powder-dusted mirror
to draw my eyeliner on. I jabbed myself in the eye a bit, but I muddled
through. I managed the lipstick slightly better – I had at least had some
experience with lip balm to fall back on. When I was done, I looked up, not
realizing the effects of my poorly-planned makeover.
The entire lunchroom had gone quiet, and everyone was
staring at me and talking in hushed voices among themselves. I really wish I
was making this up or exaggerating. This kid Chad, a ginger football player,
actually fell over one of the plastic chairs trying to get a better look at me.
I immediately regretted my decision, but refused to show it. I joked with Cindy
for a minute, trying to appear nonchalant. The other kids eventually started
talking to each other again, and after a few minutes I hurried to the bathroom
to take the makeup off.
I sat in my next class almost shaking with adrenaline. The
other kids who had shared the lunch period with me were grilling me, asking me
“Why?” All I could respond with was “Why not?” Still, I felt as if I had broken
some cosmic rule. It’s just not something that boys do. How was I able
to say “Fuck it,” and how was no one else able to? Was something wrong with me?
Was something right with me?
About halfway through the class period, a senior I didn’t
know showed up at the door and handed my teacher a note. Mr. Richards took it
and looked at me.
“David, could you go to the guidance counselor’s office?”
Shit.
Mrs. Côté and I had a perfunctory conversation in her tiny
office, in which I (falsely) assured her that everything was fine at home. She
seemed as poorly prepared for this discussion as I was. All I could think of
was the fact that for my fifth grade “How To” presentation, I taught my class
how to tie a noose, and that for my sixth grade book report, I chose Stephen
King’s IT. This was what got people’s attention? This was the big
red flag? A smudge of black around a kid’s eyes and suddenly they are “at
risk?” What utter garbage. I was always the weird kid, I was always the damaged
one, and any informed observer should have seen that as clear as day. What was
it about makeup?
The next year, I was at a different high school in a
slightly more cosmopolitan area of Florida. I wore black eye-shadow to class
every single day, and it was great. It was baffling, too, because that was when
people stopped making fun of me. I even made a few friends. People thought I
looked, well, cool.
Primping
Some people respected me for my audacity. Some did not. Some
didn’t know how they felt at all. In 2001, I was in the bathroom of the one
bedroom apartment that I shared with three other people. I was hunched over the
sink, gently pulling my eyelid out straight to put liquid eyeliner on, the cool
sensation of it tickling.
“Move it, you prissy bitch. People have to piss,” Pippin
said.
I sighed and didn’t move. “Beauty like this takes time,
jackass. But I guess you wouldn’t know.” I made him wait as I put the finishing
touches on my makeup; pale foundation, smoky black and purple eye-shadow, and
black lip-liner with purple lipstick. He was probably really high, so he sat
down at the end of Ryan’s bed and yammered on, hurling the usual insults at me.
After a while, I had
stopped caring about being called gay, or fag, or any other insult to my
masculinity. It happened so often that I couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge
each time. Whether it was some hillbilly screaming at me from his truck window
or the good-natured ribbing from my friends, I became calloused to it. The
insults were used to try to corral me into some image of heteronormativity that
I simply couldn’t be bothered with. It probably helped that wearing lots of
makeup had transformed me from an awkward weirdo to a somewhat savvy ladies’
man. For some reason, girls really seemed to like it, which was pretty great.
I usually didn’t wear skirts, but when I was getting ready
to go out to a club that night, I decided to borrow one from my roommate,
Kristen. It was a loose, black Lycra affair, and it matched my skin-tight Lycra
short-sleeved turtleneck. I had pulled my long hair back severely, and completed
the outfit with a pair of stompy boots. I thought I looked cool. Not everyone
would agree.
Crazy James happened to be hanging out in the living room,
and he stepped into the back room to see what we were doing. He immediately
became very agitated.
“Aw, God, David. Why would you wear that?”
“Wear what in particular, James?” I replied innocently,
pressing my lips on the edge of a tissue to remove the excess lipstick.
“The - the skirt. That’s just wrong.” He kept averting his
eyes and then looking back at me strangely. He held his arms tightly around his
chest and paced around the cramped room. His tension was palpable, I had no
idea what he was going to do. Pippin was watching him with a confused grin on
his face.
“Why?” I said. “Because the fabric isn’t divided between my
legs? I’m covering just as much as I normally would. Besides, the dance floor
gets hot, and it’s July. This is way more comfortable.” I tried to be reductive
and sensible. James walked out of the room muttering to himself angrily.
Pippin chuckled. “You remember that time James said ‘I have
gay thoughts like everybody, but I suppress them like a good Christian?’ I
think you almost made his head explode. I don’t know if he wanted to fight you
or fuck you.”
It was not for nothing that we called him Crazy James.
Meg
On the other hand, dressing in an unconventional way may
have saved my ass. October of 2012, I was at the Chameleon Club in Lancaster,
PA. It was Shadowland, the monthly goth night, and a costume night in honor of
Halloween as well. I know just about everyone there, and we are exceptionally
tight-knit. I also know most of the bouncers and bartenders, so I felt
comfortable going out dressed as Meg Griffin from the TV show Family Guy.
I looked ridiculous, everyone got a great laugh, and I won “Funniest Costume.”
It was a great night.
Towards the end of the night, though, something bad
happened. I saw a stranger punch my friend Grace in the face and grab a handful
of her hair. I didn’t stop to think. I immediately ran to break up the fight. I
grabbed the offending girl and tried to subdue her. There was a scuffle, more
people got involved, and I ended up on the bottom of a six-person pileup. A few
minutes after everyone got pulled apart, the bartender, Brenton, asked me if I
could talk to the cops.
Dressed as Meg Griffin.
I was a thirty-two year old man with broad shoulders and,
I’ve been told, an intimidating appearance. I had just roughly and physically
subdued a small young woman. I might normally have faced some repercussions for
this.
The cop could barely keep a straight face while I was
talking to him.
Sure, it helped that the bouncers were in my corner and very
appreciative of the help, but I can’t help but feel that if I were dressed normally,
something bad might have happened. Any time fights break out between genders,
the guys usually get the brunt of the legal action. However, when the police
officer saw me holding my pink crocheted cap in my hands, I immediately gave
him the first impression that I was a funny, light-hearted guy who probably
didn’t rough girls up for fun.
Also, I got to break up a bar fight while cross-dressing as
Meg Griffin. I have to doubt that anyone else in the world can say the same
thing, and I will treasure that memory until the day I die.
Progress
Over
the years, perception of wearing makeup and women’s clothing has changed. It
has been a long time since anyone has yelled obscenities out of their cars at
me. Of course I still get dirty looks, but it wouldn’t be as much fun if I
didn’t. Part of the allure is being confrontational, getting in people’s faces
and forcing them to assess their traditions. That doesn’t always work out well
for everyone.
In
2007, in Lancashire, England, a young goth couple was attacked. Sophie
Lancaster, a beautiful girl with black and red dreadlocks and a lip ring, was
beaten to the ground and kicked to death. The perpetrators’ only reasons were
based on the couple’s appearance.
Sophie Lancaster is a name we know in the goth community.
Her death acted as a rallying cry. Her death was a result from ridiculous
prejudices, but ones that are slowly eroding. As a direct result of this
incident, in April of 2013, the Greater Manchester police added Subculture to
the list of protected groups in the case of hate crimes.
The world is slowly growing to accept us playful deviants.
The relative fearlessness of my youth has declined as I’ve aged, but I’ve had
less cause to be afraid. I would still wear whatever the hell I wanted to wear,
but that wouldn’t change my anxiety. Today, I’m known and (apparently) liked in
my town. I’ve managed businesses and made connections with many professionals.
I am respected and involved, and I play dress up. I’m not ashamed of it.
Every time that someone who has learned to respect me learns
of my unconventional style, they start with the questions. “Why?” they say. I
still haven’t come up with a better answer than “Why not?” However, I feel
stronger about the philosophy behind the question. Why shouldn’t I wear a what
I like to wear? Many cultures throughout time have allowed or expected it. An
ancient Egyptian man wouldn’t have been caught dead without eyeliner. Even if
there were no historical allowances made, what difference would it make if the
garments I wear on my lower half are split into two sections or not?
My petty rebellion won’t change the world, but it might
broaden a few people’s perspective on what traditional appearances mean, and
why we cling to them. That, and it gets the ladies.
Sexy Beast
It’s Saturday night and we’re going out. My wife Angie and I
are in our tiny, cluttered bathroom
trying to use the mirror at the same time. I’m prying my eyes open to slip in
my red contact lenses and she’s applying some feathered fake eyelashes. I blink
away the extra moisture and grab my black eyeliner pencil. The tip is dull.
“Sharpener?” I say. She passes it to me. I sit on the toilet
lid and grind the pencil to a point, shaking the moist shavings into the trash
can. When I stand up, she’s using spirit gum to apply rhinestones along her
cheekbones. I cover the inner lids of my eyes with kohl, giving them a
dramatic, smoldering look. Angie finishes up and goes to find her boots,
leaving me with some elbow room. I pour some foundation onto a makeup sponge and
begin applying it to my face, using special care around my beard. I have to get
the makeup as close to the hair as possible without getting any on the facial
hair so as to avoid any lines or hair discoloration – a problem that I feel
very few people have. Satisfied, I stand back and examine my face at a few
angles. I look into my red eyes lined with black and I smile. I look like a
sexy beast.
