If the most overused pickup line was once “What’s your sign?”, the current top contender in the Atlanta bar scene has gotta be “Where you from?”. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but pretty much nobody’s actually from here. Some gay men came to our fair city from other bustling metropolitan areas that were overflowing with arts and culture they now bemoan losing.
“The bars here suck,” whines the big city transplant. “This isn’t how things were back home.”
As I once saw on a bumper sticker on Peachtree Street, “We don’t care how you did it in New York.”
But a large portion of our gay populace came here from small towns throughout the Southeast- idyllic little hamlets with town squares, children on bicycles, bake sales, the whole shebang.
At some point, these small town boys reached a moment of decision that would determine their fate. I’m not referring to when they realized they didn’t fit in. That generally happens very early on and is confirmed incessantly over the years. I speak of the instant they realized they didn’t want to fit in. They wanted to leave.
For me, that moment arrived courtesy of our church secretary.
In my Mississippi hometown, the highlight of the year is the annual Easter pageant, “His Last Days”, presented by the Methodist church. Thousands of people from throughout the state come to see the outdoor drama, starring the entire congregation in Biblical drag. The climactic moment is Jesus ascending to Heaven in one of those cherry pickers like the phone company uses, amid a flurry of strobe lights and fog. It’s awesome.
It is, of course, the story of Jesus, but when I was growing up, the real star of the Easter pageant was Miss Ginger, the church secretary. Miss Ginger played the role of Claudia, wife of Pontius Pilate. Claudia’s a fairly minor character in the Bible, scoring one line in the Book of Matthew regarding a dream she had about Jesus. But Miss Ginger managed to take that one line and turn it into something utterly fabulous.
All of the members of the cast had costumes and makeup done by a group of volunteers from the church, except for Claudia, whose signature look was created by Judy from the Hairport.
“The bars here suck,” whines the big city transplant. “This isn’t how things were back home.”
As I once saw on a bumper sticker on Peachtree Street, “We don’t care how you did it in New York.”
But a large portion of our gay populace came here from small towns throughout the Southeast- idyllic little hamlets with town squares, children on bicycles, bake sales, the whole shebang.
At some point, these small town boys reached a moment of decision that would determine their fate. I’m not referring to when they realized they didn’t fit in. That generally happens very early on and is confirmed incessantly over the years. I speak of the instant they realized they didn’t want to fit in. They wanted to leave.
For me, that moment arrived courtesy of our church secretary.
In my Mississippi hometown, the highlight of the year is the annual Easter pageant, “His Last Days”, presented by the Methodist church. Thousands of people from throughout the state come to see the outdoor drama, starring the entire congregation in Biblical drag. The climactic moment is Jesus ascending to Heaven in one of those cherry pickers like the phone company uses, amid a flurry of strobe lights and fog. It’s awesome.
It is, of course, the story of Jesus, but when I was growing up, the real star of the Easter pageant was Miss Ginger, the church secretary. Miss Ginger played the role of Claudia, wife of Pontius Pilate. Claudia’s a fairly minor character in the Bible, scoring one line in the Book of Matthew regarding a dream she had about Jesus. But Miss Ginger managed to take that one line and turn it into something utterly fabulous.
All of the members of the cast had costumes and makeup done by a group of volunteers from the church, except for Claudia, whose signature look was created by Judy from the Hairport.
It was like those old movies where the credits list “Joan Crawford’s gowns by Adrian”.
With supreme care, Miss Ginger would be fitted with a hairpiece, draped in gold lame and purple silk, and adorned with bangles and baubles on every available inch of her body. Her makeup was quintessential 1980s overstatement- the New Testament meets Dynasty. When the process was complete, our mild-mannered church secretary had been transformed into a glorious vision of glamour.
I would stand in the street with bated breath, waiting for her big scene. Claudia would make a grand entrance, robes sweeping, bracelets jangling, as she descended the stairs.
“Pilate,” she would command. “Do not become involved in these people’s guilt!”
Later, I would sneak into my mother’s Christmas closet and retrieve supplies. I’d stand in my bathroom mirror with silver garland on my arms, draped in the velvet tree skirt, striking an imperious pose.
“I have had a dream about this man,” I’d say with dramatic flair. “This… Jesus.”
It was amazing. Miss Ginger was this nice, conservative lady who made homemade pickles. But for three performances each Spring, she was transformed into what I would later learn was called “A diva”. This was obviously the person she was meant to be. She should be wearing a crown to the grocery store. How could she hang up this garb and go back to jumpers and sensible shoes after Easter passed?
Gazing at my reflection, a pudgy young boy covered in tinsel, I realized I couldn’t live in a place that only let people be fabulous three nights a year. I wanted to live gloriously, and make a grand entrance everywhere I go. So I came here, like so many others. And like the big city transplants, we might also look around a bar and say, “This isn’t how things were back home.” But when we say it, we mean it as a compliment.
I would stand in the street with bated breath, waiting for her big scene. Claudia would make a grand entrance, robes sweeping, bracelets jangling, as she descended the stairs.
“Pilate,” she would command. “Do not become involved in these people’s guilt!”
Later, I would sneak into my mother’s Christmas closet and retrieve supplies. I’d stand in my bathroom mirror with silver garland on my arms, draped in the velvet tree skirt, striking an imperious pose.
“I have had a dream about this man,” I’d say with dramatic flair. “This… Jesus.”
It was amazing. Miss Ginger was this nice, conservative lady who made homemade pickles. But for three performances each Spring, she was transformed into what I would later learn was called “A diva”. This was obviously the person she was meant to be. She should be wearing a crown to the grocery store. How could she hang up this garb and go back to jumpers and sensible shoes after Easter passed?
Gazing at my reflection, a pudgy young boy covered in tinsel, I realized I couldn’t live in a place that only let people be fabulous three nights a year. I wanted to live gloriously, and make a grand entrance everywhere I go. So I came here, like so many others. And like the big city transplants, we might also look around a bar and say, “This isn’t how things were back home.” But when we say it, we mean it as a compliment.
