Drag or Not?

                                                                                                                    The Economist  

I have never liked goodbyes. He could never learn that I, too, have been an admirer. A cheerful woman with big curly hair was talking in the bedroom on cold evenings during my childhood years while I watched TV with my mom. The years which went by have distanced me a great deal from watching TV but his memory stayed. It was a he or a she: the very first time my mother had explained to me that he was not a woman, I had found it difficult to believe her (mom). She had insisted, and I sort of accepted that that was true. As a child, I had never seen a man dressed as a woman before. Neither had I seen the opposite where they had raised me (although women dressing as men can be a brief snapshot from women silently asking for equality in some male dominant professions in 2020).

I remember feeling joy while we were watching her with my mom, with a sense of contentment and not that I think about it as an adult, with a sense of mild suspension: of not knowing exactly when I was going to laugh. When you did, it was unstoppable. The Grumpy had his/her own way of untangling the emotion out of you; perhaps in the kindest possible way. 

Why did we dress the way we did, really? Men and women seem to have chosen the 'right' clothes for centuries, and failing to do so had resulted in ostracisms of sorts. Why did we put ourselves within these categories, and how much did we like them while we inhabited the boxes? The Grumpy Virgin ('Huysuz Virjin' in Turkish) was a character who filled the screen, the stage and the hearts of many people. He created his own genre of performance arts: he was a stand up comedian and a drag queen at the same time. He shared social satire about the norms of the everyday life and the mores of a historical tradition. All that we have accepted unwittingly before his careful, funny but sensitive lens being placed before an idea, seemed to shine as the most simple truth right there. He had given life to a woman who was critical and real: merely pronouncing the truth about gender habits, of married couples for instance, was enough to get us to laugh. Why did we laugh at the hidden truths?

Huysuz did not like hidden things. He took them out and placed them right where they ought to be: in public. Discussing his subjects of the show with his guests, he had always formed a dialogue combining art with social satire. 

The lipstick around his lips took a life of its own and spoke. It told us what we did not want to know, it told us what was there but we had no idea about. It gave an image and a life to the loud and cheerful character whom nobody could disagree with easily. His obituary states that he was, in his own words, 'ugly to others but beautiful to himself'. That's the most important friend we always have, one which never leaves us. Betray her and you will be cursed, love her and you will be rewarded. I sometimes fail to love mine as I should, but it takes time to be her: the Self.

                                                                          For 'Huysuz'