Subway

I am riding the subway one night. It is very late, after the clubs have closed but before the sun has started to rise. A few people sit quietly in the jostling car. All of us, quite obviously, have indulged quite a bit in drinking, dancing, or simply prowling the streets. Once dominating the night, shaping it to our pleasures, we now surrender to it dutifully, sitting docile in the subway car. We simply want to get to bed. One of the passengers is a drag queen. Her makeup is a bit smudged, and her hair askew, but otherwise she is impeccably dressed. Now spent, she struggles to maintain her composure. At times, sleep claims her, and her head falls to the side. Then, as her head begins to sink too low, she catches herself and abruptly sits bolt upright, adjusting her wig and smoothing her dress. This struggle plays out for several minutes. Down. Up. Down. Up. Soft. Erect. We’ve all been there, I think. But never have I seen this struggle carried out with such determination. In the liminal space between night and morning, between masculine and feminine, she struggles to maintain the performance. Never has the struggle to perform the feminine — or the masculine, for that matter — been more clearly manifest. In this sleepy hour, when one would otherwise think the act was over, the labor of performing one’s identity increases. The struggle never ends. There is no audience, but there is always the potential one — the chance that at any time a glimpse might be taken of us. Should this happen, we want to be ready. Rehearsed.