I spent five years of my life (ages
19-24) as a female impersonator. My
adventures during this time could fill a small novel; however, for brevity's
sake, I’ll chronicle only the most significant events.
Not long after I had walked through the
doors of Club 216, a drag queen by the name of Ryan Colby approached me and
stated that I’d make a beautiful woman.
Well, I had been reared in a back holler in Greene County, Virginia, and,
effeminate though I may have been, I thought this idea of a man dressing as a
woman was for the insane. Yet, week after
week, Ryan kept pestering me; she said it was so easy; all I had to do was sit
in a chair, and she would take care of the transformation. Eventually I grew weary of the struggle and
acquiesced.
The day Ryan made me up to be a woman was the first time in my existence I saw a beautiful person in the reflection of a mirror. I had been beaten and belittled to such an extent in high school that I had no self-confidence. The blonde goddess staring back at me defied belittlement.
I was instantly in
love with her; she was a trap into which I threw myself. The masculine portion of
my identity ceased to matter, and Eclipse
E’ternale (pronounced “A-ter-nal”) became the sovereign of my
life. Maintaining that illusion of
newfound beauty became my only priority. I bought clothes for her while I went without; I spent a king’s
ransom in jewelry, wigs, and make-up to assure that she was as perfect a
vision as any that could be conceived.
Admittedly though, in the beginning, I
was not the most beautiful presence onstage.
I had so much pain internalized from my adolescence with which I had
never dealt. It seemed ideal that
Eclipse should be a tragedian and serve as an outlet for my anguish; thus, I gave her the
moniker of “Mistress of Sorrows”. I would take to the stage and perform such
songs as “Total Eclipse Of The Heart” and literally
weep my way through them. Soon, people
in the club started placing bets on when I would kill myself.
Clyde Cooper, the club manager, took me
into his office after my second show and said I couldn’t continue in that
vein; people came to be
entertained, not depressed. That
left me in an awkward position, because (not having any natural rhythm) I couldn’t
dance like most of the other queens.
I rationalized to Clyde that by crying, I was proving myself an artist,
an actress so to speak; yet, he remained insistent that I cheer up or take the
act elsewhere.
Further complicating the entire matter
was the fact that I had fallen out with Ryan.
I had repeatedly been asking her to teach me how to properly apply
make-up, and, on each request, she had steadfastly refused. One evening before a show, I attempted to
paint my own face, and when I showed Ryan, she said I looked like trailer trash
and would never be anything without her. She wanted me to depend on her for everything, and even then,
at an early age, I instinctively knew that was an unwise course. The resulting act was that I disowned her as
my ‘mother’.
Not long thereafter, a very beautiful
queen named Celeste Royale took an interest in me. She said I hadn’t achieved my potential, and that I could be far more beautiful
and become a better performer under her tutelage.
The beauty of Eclipse was an addiction for me, so I was thrilled to have
Celeste adopt me.
Shortly thereafter, in June 1998, I
entered the “Miss Gay Charlottesville” pageant. For the talent portion of the contest, I ‘performed’ a club
version of “I Believe I Can Fly”. I commenced in a wheelchair (something the
audience expected of “The Mistress of Sorrows”), but when the song took an
upbeat turn, I pushed myself out of that wheelchair (making it look like a
struggle) and ripped into that song, crying at the triumph of leaving the
pain of the past behind me. The
audience and the judges were astounded at the transformation, and to my utter
disbelief, I won the pageant.
I was Miss Gay Charlottesville, and I
couldn’t even paint my own face.
This lack of experience came to haunt me.
Celeste and I had intermingled sex with
our friendship, which led to us having a falling out shortly
after the pageant; consequently, I was a title-holder who wasn’t the least bit
self-reliant. I started trying to learn
the craft in earnest, but to little avail.
Only at the end of the year was I ready to wear the crown, but it came too late
to salvage my lackluster reign.
Later in my ‘career’ after I had established myself as a reliable, self-sufficient performer, I was made show director of Club 216. Believing female impersonation to be but a few steps removed from soap opera, I began to outline plots for storylines, devising fake rivalries between queens, and choreographing numbers that would leave the audience with their mouths agape. Then, came the impassable roadblock: the other queens wouldn’t take part in it. They said I was being disrespectful to their art.
Hurdling
the impasse, I decided I would just write storylines for myself.
My first act was to crown myself
Empress, and I became,
as one audience member stated, “Carol Channing on crack”. I had killer clowns chasing me to the theme
of “Tainted Love”; I performed as a bulimic to Liza Minnelli’s “Sara Lee”,
stuffing my face with pastries, faking vomiting in a potted plant, and ending
face down in a cake I was trying to devour.
I shot lovers, ran amuck, and introduced myself with the phrase,
“Straight from the asylum,”. I was the
portrait of an anorexic white girl with no rhythm dancing on tabletops to the
tune of “Proud Mary”. And the truth is,
I had a hell of a time doing it. The
audience, too, loved the outlandish nature of my time on stage.
This period of Eclipse’s existence
occurred when Marc Slyman was manger of the club. Clyde had retired, which meant I could get away with such rampant
displays of insanity. Under Marc’s
management, it was the reign of the queens at 216. And our reign came to an abrupt end one weekend when the
employees tried to cash their checks, only to have them bounce. Marc had bankrupted the club, mainly due to
the hundreds of dollars (plus hotel expenses) he was paying the out of town female
impersonators.
The club was in dire straights, so Clyde
returned to put it back in the black.
Although it took many months, the club eventually regained solvency.
Clyde ran a tight ship, and he expected everything his way without argument. I had known him for years, but in the time that Marc had run the club, I had changed, having become more outspoken and aggressive. What’s more relevant to this story is that Eclipse had changed. She certainly wasn’t the blushing wallflower anymore. Many years before, Clyde had asked for her to undergo a transformation, and he had certainly gotten his wish, albeit in the most extreme manner. Clyde was very temperament towards drag; he didn't care for the practice, and censored what words could be used onstage. For this reason, the first show I did under Clyde’s renewed management was also to be my last.
My second number of the evening was to
be a mock séance. I came on stage
and announced that I had lost my pussy and was going to contact the
spirit world to see if someone from the 'other side' could assist me in locating
it. I sat down at a table with a
crystal ball; the lights dimmed, and I said, “If there is anyone out there
tonight who can help me find my lost pussy, then make yourself known to me!” A
few seconds passed, I made some awful face, and confessed that I felt a spirit trying to possess me. And then the DJ
kicked on a recording of La Wanda Page (who played ‘Aunt Esther’ on Sanford and
Son). It was from one of her live
comedy routines, and she had one of the filthiest mouths ever burned to a cd. She was talking about the whores
going to church and one of the lines of dialogue was, “That’s right, bitch,
fuck em all!”. And through it all,
Clyde was in the office steaming.
If channeling La Wanda wasn’t my kiss of
death, my next act was. Before my number, the
show had just resumed after a fifteen minute intermission. With my
performance, twenty minutes had passed for the other girls to get ready. Well,
I announced the next performer, and she
yelled back to state she wasn’t ready. I
went backstage, and she said she needed five more minutes. I said I couldn’t stall that long, that we
had just come off an intermission, and she had sworn she was ready before I went
onstage. I then asked the performer after her if she was ready. She replied "Bitch, we're sick of you managing us; we're
going to be managing you tonight, and we're telling you to take another
intermission. None of us are going back onstage until you do."
In reply, I walked onto the stage and told the audience,
“Not one of the girls is professional enough to get her act together,
so I’m ending the show. Thank you for
your attendance tonight.”
When I went back to the office to
explain what had occurred,
Clyde said it was the most unprofessional show he had ever seen. I tried to tell him that I had been set up, but my
performing such a ribald number (which the audience had loved) had made me lose
all credibility in his eyes. He stated I was fired; I replied that I was beyond
caring; I was sick of the queens, of the
cost of maintaining the illusion, and of him micromanaging how I performed
onstage.
And that was the end of The Empress Eclipse E'ternale for about five years. Then, in 2006, as my thirtieth birthday neared, it seemed that, with my having reached such a milestone birthday, that it would be appropriate to collect all the pieces of my life.
It was time for the old broad to make a comeback.
I wrote Clyde, and asked if I could have a show. He replied I would have to ask the show director. Upon contacting 'her', I was told that the club had gone to a 'Show Cast' system, and only the members of the cast were allowed to perform onstage. If I wanted to perform, I would have to audition when the show cast had a vacancy. I replied that I had long ago proven myself and had moved beyond any sort of audition process; I reminded her that I had cast her in shows as an unknown, when no one would give her a chance otherwise. Eventually, she acquiesced and gave me my own show.
I held my drag birthday bash, had a marvelous time, and afterward felt as though I had reclaimed a lost part of myself. A few days later, I e-mailed Clyde, expressed that sentiment, and went on to state that I wanted to organize a holiday charity show with proceeds from the night going to the local AIDS Services Organization. Incredulously, given the nature of the request, the e-mail went unanswered, and the show never took place.
A few months later, when I learned of the club Christmas party, I wrote Clyde, stating that it would be a very festive touch to have a female impersonator perform at the event. I said I could perform two Christmas carols, and I'd offer my services for free. He wrote back, stating it was a wonderful idea. The night of the party, I performed Barbra Streisand's ninety mile per hour version of "Jingle Bells" and Brenda Lee's "Rocking Around The Christmas Tree." My performance was well received by both the club-goers and Clyde.
I felt as though I had come home. However, the warm welcome was soon revoked. I learned that a new show director had been named, and it was the queen who had set me up for a fall all those years ago. More troubling, I was told the show cast system would be more thoroughly enforced, so that shows such as my birthday bash would permanently become things of the past.
Either you bowed before the show director and took her abuse, or you were blacklisted from the stage.
I was a thirty year old man who wasn't about to bow before a toothless monstrosity, who could more successfully imitate Jabba The Hut than any member of the male or female species. Yet, I wanted to leave on my terms and not give that thing the satisfaction of saying she had done away with me.
I knew Clyde was retiring and his circumventing the show director's will on my behalf was not going to be an option for much longer. So, I wrote Clyde and asked if I could be granted one final show, entitled, "The Last One Night Stand", which would honor his accomplishments in much the same way Bette Midler had for Johnny Carson on his penultimate night of "The Tonight Show".
The e-mail went unanswered. Infuriated by the hot and cold nature of his relationship towards me and disgusted by the cliquish Show Cast system of 216, I wrote a letter to Clyde and the club's Board of Directors. Before, I post the letter, as it is quite lengthy, I will state its effect. Upon reading my words, Clyde blacklisted me from the stage, stating I had always gone out of my way to be different from the other queens and to alienate myself towards them. I replied that if being different meant that I possessed some measure of intelligence, didn't perform drunk or high, actually respected the audience and refused to berate them, then I was proud to be blacklisted for my lack of conformity.
The letter that ended Eclipse E'ternale's existence is posted here in its entirety.
In the summer of 2006, after a four-year absence from the stage, I
contacted you and asked if I could book a drag show.
I was surprised when you replied the decision wasn’t yours to make…that I would have to ask permission of the show director to have or appear in a show.
Per those instructions, I contacted Kevin Gentry. When I asked if I could book a show, he stated I could perhaps be in a show, but as for having my own show, that was no longer done. He explained there was now a show cast, and if one wanted to be in a show, one had to audition for the ‘privilege’.
I replied that I was a former Miss Gay Charlottesville and went on to reminded Kevin that I had been kind to him when he was a newcomer, booking him in shows when no one else would give him the opportunity. I said I had been a performer for five years, had hosted numerous shows, and that I didn’t feel I needed to audition to be in a show or to be granted my own show. In the end, after hearing my rationalizations, Kevin acquiesced.
However, this entire business of a show cast troubled me; it reminded me of the system which had ended just before I began drag. Back in the early 1990’s, there was an audition process for female impersonation shows; however, it became so corrupt and filled with favoritisms that it was done away with…yourself, Clyde, among those who eventually condemned it.
Now, it seemed there had been a return to that system.
Yet more troubling, among the members of the show cast was Ladonna Spaulding, one of the Richmond queens Marc Slyman (former club manager) had let (against all regulations) run for…and consequently win…the title of Miss 216. I’ve always understood Club 216 to be a members-only club whose purpose was to serve local gay, lesbian, and transgendered individuals…not to offer performance opportunities for drag queens from distant localities.
However, I put all this into the back of my mind; I didn’t dare speak out at the time because I knew my show would get pulled.
That night, though the audience was small in number, I felt as though those present enjoyed themselves. I was smiling through each and every number, and you can watch video proof of this on my website.
I can guarantee you’ve never seen another performer channel such joy while onstage.
Personally that night, I felt as though I had reclaimed a lost piece of myself, and I looked forward to having more returns to the stage.
However, as the months have gone by, that thought seems to have been more than presumptuous.
A few weeks after my show, in the middle of November, I e-mailed you, Clyde, and asked if I could have a charity benefit show for the AIDS Services Group. You never responded to that e-mail.
Then, I learned of the members’ Christmas dinner, and I thought it would be a nice, gay touch to have a female impersonator to entertain at the event. I asked if I could do two numbers (for which I would receive no financial compensation), and you were kind enough to grant me permission.
The December show a week prior had been Jennifer D’ville’s, and when I saw the January show description, it read “Jennifer Dville and her Divas of Illusion”. Two shows back to back by the same host…it could only indicate one thing…that she had become show director.
That was back in early January; shortly thereafter, I re-read the show description for that month, and I noticed that one of the featured performers was Miss Gay Cincinnati. Once again, an out of town performer had been granted a spot that should have been reserved for a local performer. The same exclusions that were rampant under the old show cast system are still present to this day, and you, Clyde, are allowing them to fester.
Three weeks ago, I e-mailed you in request to be granted a show before you left the office of manager. In this e-mail, I stated I would do the show for free…that I expected no compensation from the club. Therefore, there was nothing for the club to lose in granting my request. Once again, like the request for the Aids Services Group show back in December, the e-mail went ignored.
Clyde, I’ve proven myself time and time again on that stage, and I shouldn’t have to come begging for the right to perform.
I’m copying this letter to members of the Board, not in an effort to circumvent your authority, but instead for the cause that your time as manager is nearing its end. I want this entire business of exclusionary practices dealt with, not only by you, but also by the board so that a ruling stands that is fair and just to all members of Club 216.
Guidelines should be set in place, whereby all performers, regardless of experience or petty favoritisms, are pooled into a lottery system. To get into this pool, one MUST be a member of Club 216 and reside within an area not extending beyond two counties in any direction outside of Albemarle. University of Virginia students who are members of the club will be allowed into the lottery, since they spend three quarters of the year in Charlottesville, even though the location of their homes may be in another state or (in rare instances) country. This stringent policy will prevent Richmond, Roanoke, and Washington D.C. (along with individuals like Miss Gay Cincinnati) from being booked into shows.
The only exceptions to this lottery will be for the show director, the current reigning Miss Gay Charlottesville and Miss Club 216; those three individuals will (if they so choose) be in every show. (However, once a title-holder’s reign has ended, she will go into the lottery pool with the rest of the performers.)
All other performance slots will be filled by a lottery drawing, whereby names will be randomly selected until all the names from the pool have been drawn. (Meaning multiple shows will be booked from one lottery drawing, so that the practice has to occur infrequently). Upon the occasion when all performers in the pool have been dealt a spot in a future show, then…and only then…will the process start anew. If a prospective performer emerges after the lottery has been completed, that individual’s name will be placed in the pool for the next lottery.
Should a cancellation occur for any spot in a show, those queens booked furthest out in the calendar will have their names put in a pool…and from that pool, the replacement will be selected. Then, the individual who cancelled will be scheduled into the later performance date.
As for who conducts the lottery, I nominate myself as a candidate for overseer. I have no friends in the drag community, and consequently, I have no reason to grant favoritism to anyone. Furthermore, I would never seek to exclude anyone who wished to be a performer, even if she and I were anathemas to one another. I am no longer a frequent club-goer, and I can do the lottery without interfering in the operation of shows. Once the lottery is complete, I will submit a list of the performers’ names for each show to the manager and show director, and from this list, the checks will be cut. In this way, no one can slip in under cover of night and assert themselves into a show when they are not scheduled to perform…because only the six performers on the manager’s list will be paid.
One might argue that such matters should be in the hands of the show director, but that is the problem with the system as is. Too much power gets concentrated in one individual, and (as the saying goes) absolute power corrupts absolutely.
I’m proposing that power be split into the hands of two individuals, the lottery overseer and the show director. The PTS Board of Directors will appoint the lottery overseer, while the club manager will appoint the show director.
The lottery overseer will perform the actual lottery, but will not be present at every show, except perhaps as a performer or spectator.
As for the role of the show director, she will act only as a facilitator (i.e. she will open the bar for the performers, collect the music, and host the show, etc.)…and will not in any way, decide who is to perform. The lottery will be the sole decider in this regard. This will prevent favoritism from entering into the process.
However, the lottery process will not apply to the Miss Club 216 or the Miss Gay Charlottesville pageants. It is tradition that the outgoing title-holder has the right to choose her ‘court’, thereby surrounding herself with those who have shown the most loyalty throughout her reign. ONLY during these two shows should out of town performers be allowed to perform on the Club 216 stage.
As for the logistics of each show, there will be six performers, each doing three numbers, for a total of eighteen numbers per show. The budget for each show is $300; split between six individuals, the financial restitution for each would be $50. And it should be mandatory that every performer in the show be paid the same amount.
Some might argue that the show director should take the lion’s share of the budget, but the perk of the show director is to perform in every show, not to take a large sum of the show budget and leave the rest of the performers with no financial restitution.
As for posters or advertising for the shows, this amount cannot exceed $50, because the show director has to pay for the posters out of her show pay and then be reimbursed by the club manager. It would be a much more fair system if the club paid for the advertising upfront. After all, a drag show is a club event, just like an Open House dance event. The latter’s posters are paid for by the club, and posters for a drag show should be no different. That $300 budget should consist only of performers fees.
One tricky issue concerning performers is the fact (as mentioned above) that former club manager, Marc Slyman, allowed queens from Washington D.C. and Richmond to compete (and, consequently, to emerge victorious) in our local pageants. To the best of my knowledge (which may not be comprehensive in this area), those performers are LaCountress Farrington, Kristina Kelly (both of D.C.), and Ladonna Spaulding (out of Richmond).
I can almost guarantee that, at the writing of this letter, not one of these individuals is a club member. (However, Ladonna may be a member by default because of the symbiotic membership system Club 216 shares with Fielden’s in Richmond.)
I do not feel that these performers should be included in the lottery pool because of their geographic proximity to major metropolitan areas. They have ample venues in which to perform; I state again that Club 216 should exist solely as a venue for local performers who are members of the club.
In closing, let me remind you that Club 216 is a members’ club, where all members are equal to one another. There is enough discrimination outside the club’s door; we need not add to the injustice that confronts our kind by discriminating against one another within the club’s walls.
I am now in my 30’s; my time in the realm of drag is sorely limited. I am not proposing these policies as a means by which to promote myself. I am instead watching out for the interests of those who are new to the arena of drag and who may not be given an opportunity to better themselves at the craft…or to those who have been excluded because they are not well-liked by the other performers.
After all, if we cannot establish a system of
fairness and justice within our own walls, how can we ever expect to be greeted
with fairness and justice outside them?
I thank you for your time and
consideration in this matter.
Most sincerely,
Clayton Kinnelon Greiman