The Diva Rules Read online

  I knew my city-smart mom, thanks to her Brooklyn childhood, was right about the clubs. Everything that seemed to be happening in New York was happening downtown. Deejays such as Junior Vasquez, David Morales, and Frankie Knuckles were suddenly becoming world-famous, and since I couldn’t get my foot into the stage door, I decided that the club door would have to do.

  One day, I’d heard some kids at school talking about this club called The Underground off Union Square, and I recruited my drama-school bestie, Aurea, to go there with me one night. It must’ve been eleven o’clock when we arrived, and there was this massive bouncer at the door perched on a stool in a black leather jacket. I was so scared when I approached him that my hands were literally shaking. Anybody who laid eyes on me (and my white-frosted hair) would’ve known instantly that I was a Jersey girl (in NYC we were called the “Bridge and Tunnel” crowd, and we were not the favored elite). The moment I opened my mouth, the Jersey shore poured out. I came prepared, though, having memorized everything about my new identity: “Howdy! I’m twenty-one, a Gemini, from Podunk, Texas. Oh yeah, I love UT. Go Longhorns! And if you don’t believe me, here’s my birth certificate, pardner.” Despite my obvious fraud, the bouncer, who, like all bouncers in the city, would later become my friend, got a kick out of me and let me in. Aurea and I quickly made our way down the narrow stairs, past the coat-check girl, and into this cavernous room where the bass was pumping, and so were the bodies. I had arrived. And it was there, in those dark, sweaty, legendary dance halls at The Underground, as well as the Palladium, the Copa, the World, and Tracks, that I started working it every night, and where I made all the connections that would lead me to where I am today.

  In a sense, going to the clubs became my job. Even if none of my friends wanted to go with me, I’d go by myself, because I wasn’t there to party. I was there to get noticed. By the end of my first semester, I dropped my guidette look and transformed myself into a wild drag child. I went for sexy all the time. My uniform: leggings, combat boots, a black bra, and hair extensions. The long blond ponytail was part of my signature look. And trust me, there were some nights when I would’ve rather stayed home and watched 21 Jump Street, but I knew if I wanted to make a name for myself, I couldn’t do it on my futon in the Hotel Beacon.

  rule no. 5:

  FIND YOUR SCENE.

  Every single day I get emails from people all over the world, and there’s always at least one from someone who feels lost or lonely. They feel like they don’t fit in or like they have no community or like they’ll always be kept down, simply because they don’t follow the unwritten rules of how they should look (boring) or act (boring). And you know what? I write back to every single one of those sweet souls, because I know in my heart what it feels like to be completely surrounded by people and yet still feel lonely. I know that ache. And here’s what I say to them (and to you and to my own daughters too): If you’re not liking the people around you, it’s up to you to change your surroundings and find new people. And keep an open mind, because you never know who will become your next BFF.

  Take me, for example: The underground queer scene of New York City doesn’t exactly sound like home for a straight, white, teenaged female drama nerd from Jersey, but after I moved to Manhattan at the tender age of seventeen, it soon became mine. When my parents dropped me off at my hotel-room-turned-dorm at the Hotel Beacon on the Upper West Side, I didn’t know a single one of the eight million people who lived in the city. I’d hoped to meet some kindred spirits at my drama school, but unfortunately, I learned within the first few weeks that my particular college drew more former-pageant-queen types than future-drag-queen types. I was a foul-mouthed, tough-talking Jersey girl among Southern belles and socialites, and after my mom forbade me to come home, I felt more alone than ever.

  And then I was rescued. Or maybe I should say, I got myself rescued, because I wasn’t just bobbing around, waiting for someone to come and be my friend. I went out searching for like-minded people, and on my first night at The Underground, I found them. I was there in that dark, crowded club to get noticed, so I was dancing my little ass off to Janet Jackson, Information Society, Rob Base, and whatever thumping house/freestyle music the DJ spun. Having spent nearly every single night of my high school years in the teen clubs in New Jersey, I had moves that could put the Solid Gold dancers to shame, and I was seriously throwing down when this queen named David approached. He leaned into my ear and yelled over the music, “Girl, you are fierce! What’s your name?” I told him. We danced together for a song or two, and then, he grabbed my hand and led me through the gyrating, sweaty masses into this back room, where he introduced me to the biggest group of misfits I’d ever had the privilege to behold. Boys, girls, straight, gay, black, white—they all had their hair straightened and shellacked with so much Aqua Net that it looked like they had LP records resting at a 45-degree angle on their heads. Then, “Love is a Message” by MFSB came on and, as if on cue, they all started doing something I’d never seen before in my entire life. I froze. My jaw was on the floor. I could hardly breathe. They were Vogueing. What was it? To put it in layman’s terms: Vogueing is a campy, stylized version of runway modeling that has flourished for decades in Harlem and made its way mainstream through gay nightlife.

  “What is that? I want to try it!” I squealed, giddy at the sight of them. And I watched and learned, and they taught me, and then every night I’d go home to my dorm room and practice more in front of my mirror, where my two prissy roommates would sneer at me, “What the hell are you doing?” Honestly, I wasn’t even exactly sure myself, but I knew I loved it, and even more, I knew I wanted to be a part of this magnificent group of freaks. Among them were two legends: Cesar Valentino, the now-famous choreographer, who became not only my dance mentor but also one of my best friends; and Willi Ninja, who, upon his death in 2006, would be called “The Grandfather of Vogue” by the New York Times.

  From The Underground, we branched out into other clubs: the World, the Palladium, Tracks. Those long, sweaty nights of dancing would almost always include Vogue battles, where everyone would circle up and two dancers would walk into the center to compete. I was good, and I knew it, because the legends not only told me so, they also taught me all of my moves. So I’d strut into those circles and face off, usually against some fierce femme queens, who were ladyboys or transitioning girls. I’m not lying when I tell you this: I never lost a single battle. Never. I ruled those competitions, and eventually I was featured on the nightly news and won a dance contest with Cesar on a TV show called The Latin Connection, where we introduced Vogueing to America (and also, I guess, to Madonna, but that’s another story).

  Until this point, I could count on one hand the number of gay people I’d met in my life. There was Glen, the dandy, who was bullied in high school. And then there was this one punk-rock Jewish girl who got me drunk on Everclear and seduced me in her car in the parking lot at JFTY (Jewish Federation of Temple Youth) dance when I was a junior in high school. (Yeah, I went, I just didn’t stay inside.) Cesar, Willi, David, and my other friend, Max, introduced me not only to a new kind of dance but also to a world unlike any I’d ever known. We started hanging out all the time, and when we weren’t in the clubs, we would meet up on the piers that dotted the Hudson River in the West Village.

  The pier culture was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in my life, and it’s where I learned everything I know about gay culture and gay history. I remember one night, leaning on the railing with Mother Angie Xtravaganza, who was one of the first trans girls I ever met, learning all about her family, her children. Most of these kids came from nothing. Many were homeless, not by cruel acts of God but by crueler acts of their parents (or, more often, parent or maybe just grandmother), who kicked them out for being queer. With no money to speak of (and despite the growing AIDS crisis), many would turn tricks in order to get by—and smoke dust in order to forget.

  THE

  YOUR FRIENDS MAY NOT BE WHO YOU EXPECT
THEM TO BE. Look at me: I wanted to be a Broadway actor, so when I moved to New York, I thought I was going to be hanging with other theater people, not the world’s most fabulous poor homeless kids on the piers and in the clubs. But if I’d closed myself off to them, just because they weren’t in line with my expectations, I would have missed out on some of the most meaningful friendships of my life. If you haven’t found your home yet, know that you do have one out there. You just have to look for it. You have to put yourself out there in order to make new friends, and that can be scary, but there’s no getting around it. Go to parties. Ask a coworker out for drinks or coffee. If you’re a churchgoer, or Kabbalah follower, or a freaking Jedi knight, get involved with your house of worship. If you like to dance, go to clubs or classes. If you like to cook, hang out in the cookbook aisle at Barnes & Noble and start talking to people there. You won’t look like a creep if you chat somebody up in a bookstore, especially if you’re holding my book in your hand. Ting! Wherever you go, you’ve just got to open your mouth and talk. If you go out but speak to no one, what’s the point? Besides, most people are not going to be rude to you for introducing yourself, and if they are, screw them. You don’t want them in your life anyway. Act the way you’d like your friends to act, and I promise they will come to you and you will find the love you deserve.

  Of course, that wasn’t me. I was blessed with a loving, middle-class family, and yet I always felt different. And perhaps sensing that I had no other place to go, these gorgeous, sparkly, fabulous, open-hearted queens on the piers and in the clubs took me in, not even just as a friend, but as one of them. They became my surrogate family. Almost everybody in these gay clubs at the time was part of a “house,” essentially an acquired family made up of a mother, usually a drag queen, a very femme man, or a trans woman; a father, who was often more butch; and about twenty to thirty children. My closest friends, were in the house known as The Magnifiques, and my BFF/mentor Cesar, was the father of the house. There were many other houses and some of the major players were (and still are): The Xtravaganzas, who were the most fabulous and everyone wanted to be a part of; The Ninjas, of which I was an honorary member; the House of Pendavis, where my baby Jerome was the house’s legendary Voguer; the House of La Beija, and dozens more. I never questioned them and they never questioned me. We just knew we loved each other and belonged together. Someone would bring a boom box, and we’d Vogue on the Hudson as the giant freighters and their tugboats passed by. We’d sit around on the railings having reading sessions, where we’d all spit truths at each other for entertainment. This is where I learned to throw serious shade. It’s where I mastered my side-eye, a look that even today carries even more weight than words. And every night, all night, we’d just hang together, arm in arm, and kiki. And it was there, under the light of the moon, where I’d finally found my people and my place in the world. I was home.

  rule no. 6:

  GIVE GOOD FACE.

  This may come as a shocker to you, or maybe it’ll just be a relief: No diva feels beautiful every single moment of every single day. I don’t care if you’re Gisele and your legs are five miles long, there will be times when self-doubt creeps into your psyche and just clobbers the shit out of you. Believe me, I’ve been there. And what’s so maddening about that split second when your self-confidence just up and vanishes is that it’s so often triggered by something so small and stupid: a zit, frizzy hair, an unflattering picture, a stumble, or the feeling that you have nothing decent to wear. Divas, you cannot let those silly little saboteurs wreck you. Do not give up and hand over your power so easily. Instead, dig your acrylics in—break one if you must, *gasp*—and hang on with all of your might to this real and unchangeable truth: You are beautiful as you are. You woke up like that. And once you understand that simple truth, you don’t have to be scared of letting your true face, your true emotions, your true self show. And that’s giving good face.

  I never knew that I was beautiful when I was growing up. Hell, I couldn’t get a boy’s attention if my life depended on it (and from the sixth grade on I tried, I mean realllllly tried). I felt invisible. After I moved to New York City upon graduation and became friends with the queens in the clubs, my attitude toward myself began to change. They simply loved me for my natural look: my cheekbones, my skin, my green eyes, even the crazy bump on my nose. It was a total and complete revelation to me. I could be beautiful just by being me. And with that discovery and their support, my confidence grew by leaps and bounds.

  Believing I was gorgeous is what made me so fierce. It’s part of what gave me the confidence to enter into Vogue battles against any other queen who dared to step up against me. It allowed me to open myself up to other people for the first time, because I no longer felt threatened by anyone else. And please don’t get me wrong here. I’m not saying I felt better or prettier than anyone else. I didn’t think that, and I still sure as hell don’t. I’m saying that when I realized I had beauty to offer just by being me, I also understood that everyone else did too. We were all freaks, geeks, and weird, wild messes, and we all bared our hearts (and often way more than that) in those clubs. We were in this together, dancing, loving, living, and sometimes just barely surviving. The beauty of it all was spectacular. I spent most of my time with the Magnifiques. When we weren’t downtown dancing in the clubs or hanging on the piers, we were way, way, way uptown in Harlem, competing in what were known as “balls.” They were part beauty pageant, part dance competition, part fashion show, and all party.

  Before I ever went to my first ball, my crew thoroughly schooled me on what to expect. When a ball was scheduled, usually once a month, the host family would post flyers on the walls outside of the clubs downtown to alert other houses. On the flyers, they’d list the categories of the competition, and then each house would meet together in someone’s apartment in order to prepare for the event. This was always an issue for me, since most of the Magnifiques lived in Spanish Harlem, and I was already terrified to travel above Eightieth Street, let alone into Harlem. Even if I had the money for a cab, none of the cabbies wanted to venture into those parts of town, so I had no choice but to brave the train . . . alone. Anyway, at our monthly meetings, we’d plan who would walk which category and what costumes each of us would have to sew. The categories would include titles such as Femme Queen Realness, Butch Queen First Time in Heels, European Runway, Face with a Flaw, Vogueing, and dozens more. The biggest sin you could make at a ball (and, I’d argue, also in life) was to be boring, so we held nothing back.

  My first ball was hosted by the Xtravaganzas, a family made up of the most fabulous queens in the city. Based on their attitudes, they knew they had it going on too. Everybody, including me, secretly wanted to be an Xtravaganza. The balls would begin around eleven o’clock at night in a random rental hall somewhere in the five boroughs, depending on the house. Like at a debutante or royal ball, each house was announced upon its entrance, so the Magnifiques would meet outside at a corner bodega or another nearby place so we could all walk in, hand in hand, and make a dramatic entrance together. Family.

  There had to have been several hundred queens at this ball, most of them black or Latino and all of them fierce. There was a makeshift runway in the center of the room, and at the end of the runway was the Holy Grail: the judges’ table. The judges were usually prominent figures in the community: house mothers or fathers and sometimes even a local journalist such as Michael Musto. An announcer would call the categories and name the competitors, and a DJ would play music, usually off someone’s borrowed boom box. Each competitor would walk not only for a title, but also a trophy, a giant golden monument of plastic that bestowed bragging rights on its holder. If you snatched a trophy, you were officially the shit. After a certain amount of trophies, you achieved the ultimate status: Legendary.

  I had no plans to walk in that first ball, or any ball really. I was there to be supportive and for the fun and the experience. I spent most of that night taking it all in and cheering fo
r all the queens from the sidelines. But when the announcer called the Vogue category, Cesar literally put his hands behind my back, shoved me out onto the runway, and yelled, “Get the f*ck out there now!” And so I did. I Vogued my ass off just as I had so many nights in the clubs. It was the scariest, most exhilarating moment of my life, and everyone in that hall was screaming for me, Michelle Magnifique. I was the first biological woman ever to walk the Vogue category in a ball, and I killed it. When I snatched that trophy, everyone started hooting and hollering for me, this skinny white girl from Jersey. There was no shade, just love. Pure, open-armed love.

  I competed in a few other balls after that one, and every time I walked in the Vogue category, I snatched that trophy. And soon, at the urging of the other Magnifiques, I branched out into another category known simply as “Face.” But there was nothing simple about the Face category, as all the queens were beautiful. It became a battle of wits. You had to get the judges to look at YOU, not the other queens. If they spent too long looking at someone else, it meant they could fall in love with them and you would risk losing. Now, when you walk the Face category, it’s because your face is flawless, though not by the dictionary definition, but by our definition in the community. It’s all about your bone structure and skin. It’s about walking the runway like a model, laying your face on the judges’ table, and giving them the sort of pure beauty realness. When I walked the category, I’d cover my entire face with Pond’s white cold cream, strut to the judges’ table, dramatically take a white tissue out of somewhere in my barely there ensemble, and wipe off the cream in a grand gesture of, “Who needs makeup when their face is this flawless?” I won that category too.