A Drag Oddity

By J. Lawrence Scholer & Darren Thomas | Monday, February 12, 2001

One of our first thoughts as we walked outside was how little these dresses protected us from the cold air. It was hard to comprehend how we actually wound up in this position. We did not anticipate our Winter Carnival to include attendance at the Dartmouth Rainbow Alliance's annual drag ball, '2001: A Drag Oddity.' But a reporter's job is never done—and we were drunk. Really drunk.

Our walk to the ball was filled with stares and occasional run-ins with people we knew. The dance floor was empty when we first arrived so we went downstairs to wait, away from the paparazzi. Eventually some lookers showed up—including one hearty fellow with blue hair. He was wearing a leather leotard, stockings, stiletto heels, and he was carrying some sort of whip. It looked like a cat-o-nine-tails. For the most part, though, the amount of drag was disappointing. Most of the attendees were just girls dressed in pants, button-down shirts, and really short hair, which is a common style for women at DRA meetings.

Once a sufficient crowd showed up we decided to make our grand entrance. A DJ against the far wall was supplying the music, and we thought it would be a good idea to request the Britney Spears tune 'Lucky' to tell everyone just how we felt. The DJ gave us a strange look, like he wanted to get in on the ball. We don't remember him playing one song by a man the whole night (RuPaul?), which is kind of weird. Britney was followed by the usual repertoire of Madonna and Gloria Gaynor. The crowd went wild for 'I Will Survive'—the leather leotard fellow mounted the stage and did a little dance, waving his whip around to the beat. The lights were on him and so were the eyes of everyone in attendance. He flailed his arms and moved nimbly despite his heels. Out of breath, he continued to put on a show. He wasn't playing around.

Feeling the looks of people around us, we decided it would be best to hang back from the dance floor by the food table. The Collis crew had set out a tasty spread with fresh carrots, ribbed potato chips, and a zesty ranch dip. We tried to give off the impression that we were engaged in conversation to prevent any unwanted advance.

We started to notice some of the couples were being intimate on the dance floor. We could not discern exactly what combination of sexes the couples in question were, of course, and didn't try. The entrance of a particularly regal drag queen diverted our attention from the dancers. He was dressed in a flowing gray gown and sported a paper maché rainbow on his head; the outfit awed the crowd.

It was getting later, and the crowd was still slim. We were disappointed that the rumors of professors showing up were false. As far as we could tell, everyone there was a student.

We stepped out to the bathroom. Which one do we use—men's or women's? When we returned, the DJ had stopped spinning the hits. In his place a band with a most unusual front man was supplying the music—the singing drag queen was done up in a strange space-age outfit that did not cover his 'breasts,' which were hanging out for all to witness. It's hard to describe the vocalist, but he was large. Very large.

Just when we were really getting into the party, Larry noticed that he didn't have
his purse which contained his wallet. We went over to our jackets, shook them, but no purse dropped out. The purse, by the way, was elegant—black and white spotted fur, probably from Europe. We were missing valuable party time searching. Darren took off towards the chips while Larry anxiously searched for his purse. This was a new experience. Usually when we lose a wallet it turns up in a seldom-checked pocket. Our gowns didn't have pockets. Larry shuffled through more jackets as 'It's Raining Men' (the RuPaul version) blasted from a nearby speaker. Finally, the cow-colored purse appeared, wallet intact.

The sight of the rotund drag singer (or maybe it was just time) was starting to sober Darren up (Larry was too busy untangling the hanging streamers from his hair to notice the singer). Realizing that a drag ball is not something in which one should participate unless inebriated, we decided that it was time to retreat to a shower and a change of clothes. The staples were also falling from the back of Darren's dress, which threatened to unravel his entire ensemble. We collected our stylish purses—which were making some of the ladies jealous—and strutted out of Collis. Howling men could be heard in the distance.

Our experience at the drag ball may have been short but the memories will last a lifetime. The image of looking in a mirror at oneself as a girl is not something that is easily removed from memory. Speaking of 'remove,' we still can't get our nail polish off. If anyone has some tips, please send them to Darren Thomas and Larry Scholer c/o The Dartmouth Review, review@dartreview.com.

But, more importantly, we learned a few things. We learned that we're not 'questioning.' We learned we truly do not want to be women or act as women. And, most of all, we learned that the drag ball is a pretty dangerous place to pick up chicks.

A Drag Oddity

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