Drag queens fascinate me. How can men be more comfortable in a woman’s body than I am?

During a performance, four brides-to-be in the audience, and their all-women entourages, celebrated with male inspired table décor. I’m an old married person, so I thought young brides-to-be enjoyed bachelorette parties with live male entertainment of a different kind. Why did our audience of heterosexual women have an appetite for this art form? The show’s effect on me explained why.

As a teen, I walked and took public transit around Philadelphia. Daily, men and teen boys hooted, whistled, and yelled comments from corners and cars. I felt threatened on my way to school, especially in the early morning when men threw open car doors and, “Need a ride, baby?” echoed from inside. It crushed me with powerlessness. Harassment and disrespect from strangers added to my male biology teacher wanting to photograph me. Another teacher congratulated me on my engagement ring with raised eyebrows and a grin saying, “There’s only one reason why you won’t wait to get married. But that can work. It’s enough to keep some people together.” These experiences rocked my fragile self-confidence. On elevated trains, and buses, I ignored someone standing over me looking down my blouse and the creepy nods and leers as eyes scanned my body. Towering over me, someone penned me in by putting his knee between mine as I sat in a sideways-facing bus seat. I said, “Excuse me.” He must have thought I was getting up for my stop. “Of course,” he said, and moved to let me get up. I switched to a forward-facing seat. That bus wasn’t crowded.

This backstory may be why seeing a man dressed as a woman has always struck a sensitive chord. The drag show’s fun music and comedy kept me from crying as I watched men allowing themselves the same vulnerability as women. In exaggerated hair, make-up and body suits, their message, This isn’t real. There’s more to a person than what you see, was refreshing coming from males. Its novelty rocked me.    

The queens spoke to that scared girl on her way to the pharmacy for her disabled grandmother. In tight jeans that were comfortable and stylish, I blamed myself when someone pinched me from behind and ducked into an alley before I turned around. Drag theatrics shout how ridiculous it was to be ashamed of cleavage or height, or to have enjoyed make-up I bought with my transit and lunch monies to feel like the woman I was becoming, with hopes of being respected by appearing older.

I felt more dignity dancing along with men dressed as women than I did around men dressed as men. I wanted to hug the performing artists like other woman did who held out money to get the dancers to come within reach. The queens’ fun exaggerations celebrated me and the other women. No one laughed when Brittany Spears entered the stage in a parochial school-girl uniform. Her girth exposed not only female sexual stereotypes, but also body bias.  

The next show I attend, I won’t hug a performer, even though I’ll ache to do so. I’ll simply hold out a ten and say, “Thank you” and try not to cry.

Daily, my home phone rings with nuisance calls from various states and local numbers. Mailings are worse.

My husband received a statement dated April 9^th from AssetRecovery Solutions, LLC saying he owed $4,79.68, and that the account had been referred to their agency for collections. Friends cautioned me to follow up on it.  

I worried the erroneous bill would affect our credit rating, so I went to our local police station. An officer took my name, listened to my complaint, and went into the back of the station, probably to run a check on me. He returned for the mailing. The second time he came back into the lobby, he asked, “What year is your car?”

“Two thousand twelve,” I said.

He left again and returned a third time. “Are you leasing a car?”

“No,” I replied. “We bought our Focus at Rice & Holman, but it’s paid off. We bought my husband’s truck from a friend.”

He sat down at the table in the lobby next to me. As he scanned at the back of the mailing, I said, “We’ve never had any dealings with Providian Bank or those other companies.” Thirteen businesses were listed under Resurgent Companies.

The officer said, “You should call them.”

“I didn’t call because I don’t want them to have my phone number or any more information about us.” I was tired of scammers, spammers and incorrect billings.

He stood up and said, “Come with me.” I followed him into the back and accepted the seat opposite him at his desk. “If you call from here, they won’t get your number.”

While looking at the mailing, he punched at the old school phone with extra buttons on his desk, then turned the dinosaur around to me. It rang without me touching it. It was on speaker-not so old school.

I was put on hold and expected to be sitting in a police station for the rest of the morning. But, after two seconds, someone answered. I told them what I had told the officer. The person asked for my hubby’s name and the ID number on the mailing. Then said, “Do you know the last four digits of your husband’s social security number?”

I looked over at the officer typing on his computer. He shook his head.

“No,” I lied.

“Is your husband’s birthday April 9^th -?” I didn’t pay attention to the year.

“That is incorrect.” No lie.

“We must have the wrong person. I apologize for the mistake. You won’t receive any more mailings regarding this.”

The officer hung up, and I said, “Thank you so much for your help. If my mother had received that mailing, she’d be very upset.”

He turned his desk phone back around to face him. “That’s a problem. Older people sometimes pay it.”

I said, “I get calls all the time too.” Could the officer do anything about those?!

“Everyone does.”

I guess that was his way of telling me he couldn’t stop the calls. He added, “Never put money on a card and mail it to a solicitor. Ignore IRS calls. They’d just take what you owe them from your account.” I appreciated his concern, even though his information wasn’t new.

Had the police station come up on AssetRecovery Solutions, LLC’s caller ID? Maybe that’s why they didn’t put me on hold for long. Thinking over this possibility, I left the police station empowered.

Until I got home. Diagnostic Pathology Consultants had sent me another erroneous bill. I picked up our home phone and called my health insurance company, again.