Hello everyone.
One day I will write a post that has nothing to do with Paul’s death, but today is not that day. While I no longer feel like I’m going to die, or like I’m going actually insane (although I did have one of those days recently, and I got through it), I still feel consumed by his absence.
(If you are reading this and do not know who Paul is, put simply, he raised me as a single caretaker after my bio-parents both died of AIDS-related illness when I was a kid. We were not biologically related, and I called him by his first name my entire life. There is no widely legible language for our relationship to one another; you can read a fuller explanation here. He was gay, a drag queen, an actor, a theatre director, makeup designer, and costumer. He died in June at the age of 75.)
Given the myriad existential threats to democracy, the planet, and human life itself, my own personal grief is, counterintuitively, quite welcome. Grief is really all about love, and being consumed by it has made me feel awake and alive, which is better than numb.
Below are some things I’ve been up to. After that, an essay on Halloween, grief, and transformation, and after that, a political lesson from ABBA.
some things that happened
I was so lucky to read at two events that fell during the same week in September: An Ocean of Rainbow Static #2, curated by Gabe Raines, and Goodie House, curated by Shine Goodie. Both nights felt hopeful and resolute, yet gauzy and freeformed. And what a feeling to be included alongside so many writers and artists I love and admire.
While this newsletter edition very much centers my continued grief, I DID somehow manage to write about something else!!!! I am super proud to have a guest essay in Mental Hellth, one of my favorite Substack newsletters ever, founded by P.E. Moskowitz. “Your Parasocial Dream Girl Won’t Save You” is about how our identities, communities, and possibilities for collective action are all flattened when we sit back on our digital laurels and let algorithms do our representation politics for us.
some things happening soon
On the topic of grief: On November 14th at 7pm, at Granite City Art & Design District, The Changeling Queer Reading Series is back for our last event of the year. We’re so excited to welcome poet Cass Donish, who will be reading from their recently published Your Dazzling Death. Meg Cass will also be reading from their short story collection on grief, and yours truly will be leading a collective grief/release ritual. Come prepare for hibernation season with us.
On Friday, December 6th at 6pm, I’ll be reading with Maurice Tracy at the Pulitzer Arts Foundation, in conjunction with the current Scott Burton: Shape Shift exhibition. The event is also in coordination with Day With(out) Art on December 1st, happening next door at the Contemporary Art Museum St. Louis.
crying at the makeup counter
I can’t believe that it hadn’t occurred to me how hard the first Halloween season without Paul would be. If Halloween is the gay Christmas, its equivalent to Santa Claus would be Paul Pearson. I don’t mean “equivalent” like the fantasy holiday world of The Nightmare Before Christmas; he was not a spooky-ooky-spoopy-creepy Jack Skellington type (although he loved that stuff). I mean a playful, larger-than-life man with a wicked grin, the biggest full-body laugh you ever heard, and who deeply understood the possibility, power, and wonder of playing dress up. Whether you wanted to celebrate the night as a monster, a showgirl, a super esoteric reference hardly anyone at the party would understand, or a concept that relied entirely on a groan-worthy pun, Paul made your make-believe dreams come true. He was the face who greeted customers at Fringe and Tassel Costumes for 20 years.
It wasn’t the kind of costume shop that most might immediately think of. Unlike Spirit Halloween or Spencer’s, which deal out cheap, mass produced, shrink-wrapped retail pieces from within dying malls and suburban shopping centers, Fringe and Tassel’s primary source of revenue came from rentals. Open year-round, schools, churches, theatres, and other community groups turned to Fringe and Tassel for gorgeous handmade, high quality costumes that you couldn’t find anywhere else. While they had a decent inventory of retail accessories–top hats, wigs of all kinds, rubber chickens, squirting flowers, feather boas, mardi gras masks, and the like–their second biggest source of revenue was premium stage and special effects makeup, which Paul curated.
Paul worked all areas of the shop except for major sewing projects. All year round, he did the grunt work–the laundry, inventory, answered the phones–but he was most known as the presence standing behind the counter as soon as you walked in, and the person who was so excited to help you explore the vast selection and transform yourself.
During Halloween season, things ran a little differently. Seasonal staff were hired to do more of the grunt work. Santa Claus may have had his magical sleigh, but Paul had the front counter of the shop. He was the ringleader of the mayhem. He somehow managed to defy physics and time itself as he welcomed new customers who walked in the door, ran credit cards on the old school manual imprinter machine, handwrote the next person in line’s rental slip and contract, and do any number of special effects makeup demos with perfectly clear step-by-step instructions, all at the same time. And while Santa would keep a running Naughty or Nice list throughout the year, Paul dealt with bad behavior in the moment as it presented itself. Countless times, he would look white frat boys dead in the eye, who had approached the counter holding sombreros and ponchos, and he would bellow, “Are you boys REALLY sure that’s a good idea?” When they sheepishly mumbled some non-answer and wished to proceed, he’d announce to the room, with a shake of the head and a click of the tongue, “well there you have it, folks, the white boys are going as nameless Mexican people!” as he filled out their rental slips and collected their payment.
As a kid, I spent countless hours at Fringe and Tassel, or what Paul and I usually referred to as simply “Fringe” in everyday conversation. I didn’t have many friends, so I’d spend endless summer days wandering through the racks and trying things on. Sometimes Phyllis, the owner, would pay me five bucks to put something ridiculous on and wander around downtown and hand out quarter sheet flyers, an effective publicity strategy in the pre-internet nineties. When I got tired of changing in and out of clothes, I’d hang out in the upstairs employees-only section and chat with Paul while he washed, combed, and styled a batch of recently returned rental wigs, or crack jokes with the amazing Dorothy, the full-time sewer who created new costumes and repaired old ones. If Paul was Halloween’s version of Santa Claus, Dorothy was the Lead Elf, working tirelessly behind the scenes, her arthritic hands somehow still nimble enough to carry out the most intricate needlework. Other employees came and went here and there, but Paul and Dorothy were there the longest, other than Phyllis.
By the time I was in high school, I at last had friends, so I no longer spent the majority of my summers there. However, I needed money, so I worked several Halloween seasons. I helped customers find the sections they were looking for (which became easier once I learned to accept that most people don’t really know the aesthetic differences between, say for instance, the Elizabethan and Victorian eras, nor do they care, they just want to wear beautiful things), took huge armloads of costumes from the dressing rooms and replaced them on their dedicated racks organized by category and time period, and restocked the retail shelves and racks at the end of the night. The whole month of October was intense, but the last full week always brought a kind of exhaustion that was at once absurd and exhilarating; no one really needed anything we rented or sold, but our lives were all better and more fun for it, and that meant something. It was often exasperating to repeat for the tenth time in one day that yes, I’m sure, there are no more blue and orange “Dumb and Dumber” tuxedo sets available for rent, and no I don’t know where else you can find one in time for your party tonight, but it was more than made up for when someone came in with an openness and curiosity to create something with whatever remained. Even on Halloween day itself, there was always plenty to still choose from, but customers usually had to let go of what their heart had been set on. In fact, sometimes the dregs of whatever was left prompted the joining of disparate, unrelated pieces to create something totally new on the spot, an exercise in quick wit. Sorry, all the flapper dresses are claimed. No, there aren’t any hiding in the back. How about this Godzilla mask and this… 1950s prom dress? You could be… Sadie Hawkins’ Revenge?!
Once I moved away for college in 2005 and was left to my own devices to celebrate Halloween, sans the resources of an entire costume shop at my fingertips, I gradually let the celebration of it all slip away. Each year that passed, the less effort I put into Halloween, up until I stopped doing anything for it at all. Distancing myself from the spectacle, the unnecessariness of it all was my own way of differentiating myself from Paul and his infatuation with fantastical excess. It wasn’t that I rejected it by any means. In fact it was one thing I loved about him most. I just didn’t need to live it the way he did.
By the time he died, he hadn’t worked at the shop in 8 years–unable to keep up with big box stores and online outlets taking over more of the market share each year, the doors closed permanently in 2016. As his health continued to decline, he could no longer celebrate Halloween out in the world, much less leave the house much at all. Yet he still managed to make it fun. How could he not? He kept Halloween decorations out, all over the house, all year round. He would text me costume ideas he thought of while taking his meds that morning, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t facilitate making them happen–it was the idea itself he was excited about. Over the years, he’s shared memories of his favorite regular customers, and how every Halloween he couldn’t wait to see what ideas they’d walk in with. Halloween followed him everywhere, even to his more frequent and increasingly long stays in the hospital. Inevitably, a nurse, janitor, or respiratory therapist would say something like Hey, I know you… you rented me and my best friend a two-person horse costume one year!
The whole month of October has felt so different, so empty without him alive. And so, it was decided: I would actually do Halloween this year. I let it slip away, and now I wanted nothing more than to find my way back to it, and to him. And I had the perfect costume, inspired by a packed-house September screening of “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” at the local micro-cinema. Baby Jane Hudson was an icon in our house growing up. (What I would give for a recording of Paul saying, one last time, But you ARE Blanche, you ARE in that chair!) Paul and my’s shared love of the film aside, after watching it as an adult deep in the throes of my own grief, I found I relate to Baby Jane. While there’s uh… a lot going on with her, to put it mildly (no spoilers, just see the movie), I ultimately see her as someone who loses her mind to grief and loss, and on bad days, I felt like I was losing mine too. My Halloween costume mission was clear.
Despite my resolve, and my experience to know better, I am embarrassed to say that I was a last minute Halloween shopper. I had cobbled together what I needed, costume-wise, between my own closet and a thrift shop, but I needed very specific makeup supplies and a wig, and it hit me that I had two days to track it all down in time for the party I was attending. I swallowed my pride and made my way to Johnnie Brock’s Dungeon Party Warehouse, which is local, but not mom-and-pop local. While they have quality rental stock and serve the St. Louis metro area across three locations year-round, during Halloween their flagship location feels more like a Spirit Halloween pop-up. The aisles are jam-packed with pre-packaged, cookie-cutter retail costumes and accessories, with lots of “one size fits most” polyester costumes that would probably melt into your skin, rather than catch on fire, if you got too close to a jack-o-lantern.
The energy was different from what I remembered as a teenager working at Fringe and Tassel in the early aughts, and it wasn’t just the material differences of what they stocked. The aisles teemed with wild-eyed frenzy. Grown adults were literally running from one aisle to the next, flipping through things, getting discouraged, and whipping their heads the other direction and moving on to their next frantic search. Desperation was in the air. Some seemed to know what they were looking for, but simply couldn't find it. Others seemed clueless and in a daze, at a loss what to do or where to go, so they just searched through everything.
The largest number of employees I recall ever working at Fringe & Tassel at once, even during Halloween season, was maybe five or six. Johnnie Brocks had a veritable army of employees, all wearing matching t-shirts and equipped with special utility belts and walkie talkies. While they weren’t carrying armloads of heavy one-of-a-kind costumes, they were hauling boxes, slicing them open, and squatting, stretching, and climbing ladders to restock pre-packaged costumes. While the energy was different among customers, there was a familiar adrenaline among the staff that I recognized immediately: none of this is necessary, but gosh is it wanted, and I am here to make silly dreams come true.
I wandered the maze-like aisles. A blonde middle aged woman in uniform approached me and asked if she could help me find anything. I showed her a close-up picture of Baby Jane Hudson that showed the shape and color of the wig I sought. She led me through massive displays of wigs in plastic packages. She’d remove several at a time from a long metal hook, flip through them, only to discover that the style was right, but the color was wrong, to which she’d say, “Oh! Wait, let me try a different brand” and we would run-walk, almost gallop, to the next wall of synthetic hair. After several minutes of this, we had no luck.
She shook her head with an exaggerated shrug and said “I’m sorry, every year… you think you have everything, but you don’t have the one thing, you know?”
I knew. I gulped and held back tears. I wasn’t upset about the wig. This was something much deeper. I felt like a little kid devastated to learn that Santa is not only absolutely real, but Santa is fucking dead. I told her it was okay, I had family in the costume business, and I thanked her for all her help.
“I’m so sorry I don’t have what you need.”
What I need. What we all need. As we parted ways, I went back to digging through wigs on my own to find something that would be close enough. I felt the frenetic pulse of everyone in the store move through me. I knew what this week felt like in a costume shop. I knew what it felt like to feel urgency over total frivolity.
But this Halloween was not like most. Early voting had already started, and in less than two weeks, we would learn if abortion access would be restored in Missouri, or not–and even if so, there would be lots of strings still attached. We would learn whether the effort to raise the minimum wage in Missouri was passed, or not. We would come closer to knowing who was elected President, with few of us feeling good, or even okay, about any possible outcome–maybe slight relief if Kamala Harris won, but even that would only be short-lived.
And despite it all I need–yes, need–a shoulder length blonde sausage curl wig, because for one night, I need to forget myself. I need to forget this life and imagine a different one. I need, just for a night, to step into a new continuum of reality. Paul knew this need all along. He knew the power of committing to your vision, no matter how outrageous or far-fetched it seemed. Through costume and makeup, he opened portals to transformation, and even though they were only temporary, it mattered that they could even be imagined in the first place, and that you took the time and energy to step through them.
I found a wig that would suffice. Loose spirals instead of sausage curls, and I’d have to cut a few inches off to make it shoulder length, but the color was just right. It was in service of my vision, and it would have to do this time around. I wandered to the makeup counter to find a sickly-looking off-white base, a garish blush, and translucent setting powder.
A young teenage girl was running the counter. It was three times as long as Fringe and Tassel’s, stocked with towers of Ben Nye and Mehron palettes, Graftobian glitter in every color, and more. I thought of Paul and how he would come home at the end of a long day, both of his arms covered in a patchwork of makeup demos from throughout the day. Some glitter, some swipes of fluorescent dayglo. Maybe some gashes, a bullet hole, or a werewolf bite. The employee in front of me wore long-sleeves under her employee t-shirt. No tutorials here.
My turn came and I stepped up. I held up my phone with the Baby Jane photo, but I could barely get any words out. She leaned forward a bit and asked me if I was okay. I finally let the tears stream down my face as I told her about my “dad” who worked at a costume shop for twenty years. How he worked in every area of the shop, but the makeup counter was his true domain. I told her that her work matters to me.
She smiled, touched, and expressed thanks. With a slight laugh, she said, “Wow, I’ve never had someone cry at the makeup counter before.”
The makeup counter. The voting booth. The mutual aid volunteer meeting. The poetry reading. The fundraiser for families in Gaza. The direct actions. We need to face these portals that carry us into our uncertain futures, and we need to cry. We need to ask ourselves and each other, Who do you want to be this year? What is your vision? Can I help you find it?, and we need to commit to that vision, no matter how outrageous or far-fetched.
At the same time, we need to accept that we will have to be creative and make new things out of whatever is left behind and in front of us now. Whether we’ve been planning and organizing for this our whole lives, or whether we’ve arrived late, unprepared and in a daze, unsure of what we’re even looking for–we need to roll up our sleeves and extend our exhausted and overworked arms out to each other and find the glitter, even the tiniest specks, among the ferocious inevitable wounds. This is not frivolous. This is survival.
one more thing: a political lesson from ABBA
ABBA is my ultimate comfort music. When I’m feeling good, it makes me feel even better, and when I’m feeling bad, it makes me remember that it’s possible to feel good again. Not quite rock, not quite disco… Just pure, perfectly produced and engineered campy pop. Of course, it helps that I was raised on it, too.
Lately, I’ve been listening nonstop to Angeleyes, one of their most underrated songs, IMHO. It’s got it all–the seamless vocal agility of Anni-Fryd Lyngstad and Agnetha Fältskog as they transition between verse and chorus, nailing all the harmonies along the way. And the key changes–goddess, those key changes!
The lyrics tell the story of a woman warning a “young girl” about a deceitful man who makes all the right moves, but will ultimately break your heart. The woman tries to warn the girl by sharing her own experience, with the chorus summing up the danger: You'll think you're in paradise / Then one day you'll find out he wears a disguise / Don't look too deep into his angel eyes.
It dawned on me a couple of weeks ago that this song could be heard as an allegory for one of the million winding threads of this current moment. We can imagine this woman’s warning to the young girl as a stand-in for something we see everywhere lately: More seasoned, experienced leftists warning emerging progressives about the pitfalls of the liberal political theater. Leftists everywhere have been calling out the pageantry of the DNC and official campaign rallies as things that might feel temporarily good, but are ultimately smoke screens that shroud all the false promises and spineless cowardice.
At one point, the woman asks And I wonder, does it have to be the same? She knows she needs to move on toward something better and heal from the harm this man caused her, just as leftists everywhere know that the Democratic party is not their political home. And yet, a nuance that presents itself if we listen closely: the woman isn’t telling the young girl to look away entirely from the man’s angel eyes. Instead she implores the girl, over and over again, not to look too deep into them. In other words, she’s basically saying: yeah, you can fuck with him, but be aware of what you’re really getting into.
So, yes, I voted for Kamala. I hope you did too, or plan to tomorrow. Or maybe you live in a swing state and swapped your vote to send the message that we are watching, but still stave off a Trump presidency. Whatever–whatever! People have made up their minds and I’m beyond hand-wringing about it. Looking ahead, if Kamala is elected (keyword if), she’s not going anywhere for at least four years. Sure, we can fuck with her, but none of us can say we weren’t warned. Don’t look too deep into her “angel eyes,” aka the neoliberal wielding of her identity as a woman of color to distract you from a lot of fucked up things our government will continue to do.
ONE MORE one more thing
Speaking of ABBA, here’s one of my favorite photos of Paul (right) and my bio-Dad in drag (left) just before they hit the road from Lincoln to go see ABBA in Omaha in 1979. My mom snapped the picture.
As Paul always told it to me: After the show, on the way back to Lincoln, the two of them, plus our friend who everyone called Zoot, pulled over so my dad could pee, and a cop car pulled up. They were held on the shoulder of I-80 for a long time, facing lots of questions about “why” and “how often” my dad dressed like that, and if he had any “aliases.” Overwhelmed and unsure what to do, the cop who questioned them even called for back up. They were ultimately let go—and this was just one of several close calls with police they both experienced over the years. Paul kept his ticket stub in his wallet up until the day he died.
