San Francisco Sentinel
July 12, 1990
Street Talk
Hideous Old Queen
By Doris Fish
For once I don’t mean Miss X; I’m referring to the Queen I see in the mirror. Yes, I admit it, I’m no spring chicken.
It doesn’t seem that long ago. I was carelessly calling anyone who criticized me “hideous old Queen”. It was usually devastating when it hit its mark – an old Queen who was often drunk and foolish enough to voice her own feelings by attacking us young wild things.
It was thrilling to be young and daring, to be spearheading the wave of chaotic Drag Art. Having our shows raided by the police (lots of nudity — even in the audience) while simultaneously being featured in prestigious Art magazines.
We were ‘it’, we were ‘hip’ and we were very popular except with those few who couldn’t grasp the appeal of this new revolutionary gay scene, where Drag Queens could be ugly and even hairy, boys could wear cocktail dresses over their jeans and blue nail polish. Of course, it was just a gay generation gap.
My friend Jackie could demoralize any opposition with a few curt words. Her outfits were the most innovative on the scene; sweaters worn as skits, gowns piled high on her head and sometimes trash or toilet paper (painted gold) as jewelry. To her critics she would simply say, “This is what the young people are wearing these days,” and the emphasis would not be missed, even by a comatose shut-in. What could they reply? They were old, we were young. (Jackie is now a highly respected and successful artist in Paris.)
There’s a new version of that scene except that I am now part of the older generation looking with amazement at the wild young things. I catch myself thinking, ‘don’t they know how awful they look? Doesn’t she own a hairbrush/mirror? That’s not clothing; that’s trash!’ Oops! I’m thinking like an old Queen. I could give advice, but it would be ignored or worse, denigrated. “People will tell you where they’ve gone / They’ll tell you where to go / But ‘til you get there yourself, you never really know’ — Joni Mitchell. That means, of course, that you can’t tell anybody anything. They have to learn it all by themselves. You can read about Life, you can hear about it, but experience is the only real teacher, so it is with amused fascination that I’m witnessing these young ones relishing their existence.
Diet Popstitute called Sunday night to invite me to an “Outlaw” party under the Bay Bridge, complete with glitter Queens from NYC and go-go cages. “We’ll probably be able to dance on cars for about half an hour before the police break it up,” she said with anarchistic enthusiasm. I declined.
It doesn’t come as a complete surprise that I’ve gotten older; I was aware even while hurling the insult “Hideous old Queen,” that one day I would be eligible to receive it. Though it does seem to have come a little sooner than expected.
The photographs are still quite flattering (most of them), my girlish figure is still attractive (and in a pile under my bed), even the wrinkles can be easily minimized (heavy lower lashes) but my idea of ‘fun’ is definitely geriatric. A great night out for me is to be passed out by 10 p.m. at home, alone.
Breeders see the years go by in their kids; I somehow didn’t feel it. Others my age are becoming grandparents while I’m still nursing my go-go boots.
I’m not really old, I’m just not a kid anymore. I’m starting the next cycle of my life and it’s marvelous. My prejudices have softened, my values have mellowed, and my ambitions are being realized. Plus, I have an inkling of the Meaning of Life. (I could share it with you, but you still have to find your own.)
Anyways, I can still walk without assistance and will be participating in the AIDS walk next week. Thanks to those of you who have already sent in your contributions but there’s still time to sponsor me. Make out those $10, $20 (or more) checks to AIDS WALK SF, and send them to me! See old Doris hobble those ten kilometers!
