Drag will Save Us
I can't sleep at my parents' house anymore. My parents are perfectly lovely, and their house is gorgeous, prairie-style and full of honey-colored wood. The problem is not surface level but rather is rooted under the skin, in the subliminal texture. At first, I thought I was the only one that noticed it. As a queer person raised in an orthodox faith, I assumed I was just experiencing painful reminders of past trauma. But when I started bringing friends over, they could feel it too. Even my toddler nephew was unable to sleep well in my childhood bedroom. That room is the core of it all. It sits at the northeast corner of the top floor. Especially at night, with the warm lighting casting the walls a rancid yellow, there is an unmistakable, suffocating wrongness about it.
My childhood room is just one example of a larger phenomenon. Just as toxic, synthetic chemicals build up in fatty, organic tissue, so does trauma in the non-living world. It is as if the drywall, the carpets, the piles of clothes, the picture frames, and bookshelves act as giant, invisible sponge. The body keeps the score, but so do the walls. There's a concept in parapsychology – the pseudoscientific study of the supernatural – known as residual haunting which occurs when a deeply traumatic event happens in a specific place and remains unresolved. The haunting is basically a visual or auditory loop of the event itself that repeats in the location until an intervention is made.
While my parents’ house has been a container for a significant volume of trauma, it pales in comparison to BYU campus. Sometimes as I walk through campus, I feel the same suffocation I do at home, as if the halls could collapse on me at any moment. Instead of a sick yellow, the harsh fluorescent light bulbs reek of a sterilized hospital. I feel like I am stuck in a residual haunting–not one that I can see or hear, but feel.
BYU has never, to date, released a real apology for past wrongdoing – hardly surprising considering the same is true of the Church. How many people have been deeply damaged at BYU and received not even so much as a recognition of wrongdoing? I think of all of the victims of the BYU electroshock therapy program. When questioned, Dallin Oaks, who was the university president during a portion of the program, had the audacity to claim he never knew about it. I also think of the victims of sexual violence that were suspended or expelled for Honor Code violations. Or the generations of students of color that faced (and continue to face) deeply ingrained discrimination. I am aware that many of these horrific practices have been discontinued and discredited. But who has apologized?
So what are we supposed to do? There has to be a way to take control in the face of institutional indifference. While I might not have any specific answers, I got a glimpse of possibility several weeks ago. Over Labor Day weekend during Fall semester 2022, the RaYnbow Collective ran their Back-to-School Pride Night for the second year. In an audacious move, organizers decided to end the night with a drag show. Expectedly, chaos ensued. Several groups decided to protest the event on grounds of protecting children and preventing the “evil groomers” (queer people) from invading their community. In an inspired act, volunteers donned large angel wing costumes (inspired by pro-queer activists of the Matthew Shepherd murder aftermath) in order to protect the drag show audience and performers.
The performance was eventful in a variety of ways, but I want to focus on the unseen spiritual work I recognized. Drag, at its core, is about celebration, family, joy, and community. As I stood to the side, looking at the people around me and the setting sun, I broke down in tears of gratitude. Behind me, activists held up massive rainbow flags to obscure the hateful signs of protestors. In front of me, I saw children sitting in front of the stage, giggling, their eyes lit up with delight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.
Activist and social organizer adrienne maree brown coined the term "pleasure activism," defined as the following: "[It is] making justice and liberation the most pleasurable experiences we can have. Learning that pleasure gets lost under the weight of oppression, and it is liberatory work to reclaim it." It might sound saccharine to suggest that the best cure for unresolved institutional trauma might be pleasure, but if you think about it, it is truly the greatest form of protest. I couldn't tell you how this practice might apply to the wide spectrum of traumatic histories that remain unaccounted for and ignored at BYU. But after seeing that drag show, I knew that pleasure is not only what we deserve. It is our greatest tool. As we engage in the endless work of healing ourselves and our community, I hope that we remember to keep pleasure at the core.
Recent developments in my personal life have necessitated my return to my parent's house. I live in the basement, just a few floors away from my childhood bedroom. As of writing this, I have slept well. What has changed? I'm lucky in that my parents both apologized long ago. Besides that, it's quite simple. I spend much of my time sitting outside watching the hummingbirds service the flowers and the chickadees pick messily through the birdseed. Healing, I've found, comes in finding pleasure in the world again.