There was a page in our family photo album of six-year-old me dressed in all sorts of drag: an oversized gown, a flamenco dress, beehive wigs—all worn with a big smile. In my teens, I frantically tore this page out and shredded the images to dispel suspicions that I might be a homo. I was terrified that if anyone found out my secret, I would be utterly destroyed. I did whatever it took (dating girls, playing football) to stay below the radar. By age twenty-five, I felt like a dam with a thousand cracks, and I finally came out to my friends and family. It was the best move that I ever made.
Today I live in New York City with the love of my life (my husband of five years) and our two dogs. I wouldn’t change a thing, but I do wish I still had those great photos. Last year I found one stray drag photo in my parents’ attic, and now it’s proudly framed in our apartment for all to see. It’s a daily reminder to be true to yourself, that there is no “normal,” and what you fear most in yourself can one day become your greatest gift and source of strength.
