There was a hula hooper, a juggler, a mime artist and a cartoon character on our 2015 Christmas cabaret tour, as well as a striptease. Mine was known as the “hot dog act.” Every night, in full drag, I would stagger onto a stage in a room full of complete strangers with a jar of 10-inch hot dogs, and shove them up my nose, down my throat, into the air, to music. I aped the burlesque style and turned what could seem sensual into something completely grotesque. You’ll have a hard time believing me, but during this period of my life I took myself – and my work – debilitatingly seriously.
There was a lot of baggage on that tour bus: suitcases full of costumes, yes, but also the emotional variety. Each of us went through the wringer – breakups, failures, crises galore. I know, how festive. My mental health was in the pits and it had been six or seven months since I had spoken to my family. I was in self-destruct mode. We have built a bond through our collective pain. If you live and work together on the road, there is no escape. Before the show, our dressing room became a group therapy room. And after a performance, full of adrenaline, we continued to share problems and too much merlot. One of the other artists read a book that argued that being born is traumatic and that to heal you have to reenact it. We talked about logistics, but I never got around to reliving my own delivery.
Christmas can be a difficult time for gay people: not all of us are welcomed into our families or the places where we grew up. It can be a reminder of traumatic times. I’m lucky this isn’t my story. I grew up in a warm, supportive environment in rural County Durham. Running and messing around in the fields, I had a loving and uncomplicated childhood. As a child I performed a lot: youth theater, am-dram, a clown performance in a nearby theme park. I gave magic shows at the local library and puppet shows from behind the living room couch, often to an audience of none. I floated about foolishly and carelessly; Dressing up, messing around and fooling around, unbound by masculinity, that’s what came naturally.
I floated about foolishly and carelessly; dressing up, messing around and fooling around
But as I got older, I realized I was gay. I had no idea how to deal with it. I didn’t know any other strange people. In class, this was the worst insult you could make. The teacher? Weather? Math homework? Gay, gay, gay. And mine was a Catholic school where there was never any queer sexuality. The media was no better. On screen, the only gay storylines were those of trauma and pain – there was no positive story. Once I understood that this was my identity too, I didn’t tell anyone anymore. I was afraid of what people would think of me if I came out. What would happen if I was discovered? And so I quickly buried all that foolishness. Everything I had been taught that would make me less of a man was abolished. I felt unworthy, ashamed of who I was. For years I shut down that whole part of myself.
This 2015 tour changed my world. As a student in Newcastle, that security guard started coming down. I came out and even started dragging. As part of my course, I had written a straight radio play about the women I grew up with in the Northeast. To get it flagged, it had to be recorded. I didn’t know any actresses and didn’t have the budget to pay, so I put in a voice and did it myself. Soon I was playing it for a small live audience. After graduating, I moved to London with a now ex-boyfriend. He had pursued his dream of becoming a musical theater star, and I had begun my actual drag career. I had found my people, yes, but I was still ashamed of who I had become, even though I exuded confidence and self-acceptance on stage. That strange shame was unwavering. So I worked hard and partied harder, suppressing all that internalized hatred.
For years I feared that if that foolishness seeped into my personal life, I would be seen as untrustworthy, unworthy, and unprofessional. There was still that child inside me that desperately wanted to keep my true self hidden. That’s why I think I also lost contact with my parents and brothers and sisters in 2015. I convinced myself that this meant I could break away from those difficult times. They are the people who knew me best. Disappearing felt easier than trying to find the words to communicate what was happening. The longer it went on, the more distant I felt. Finding a route to reconnect became increasingly out of reach.
Why was I, a literal clown, bogged down in misery? My problems had all felt so heavy and enormous
That is, until one afternoon in Edinburgh, the last stop of our tour, when something happened. In the dressing room, as we – the cast – were all pushing our punches, we found ourselves in one of our deeply personal conversations. I bared my soul and forgot where I was for a moment. After opening up, I turned back to the mirror and saw myself – one eyebrow, wig crooked, makeup half full. My reflection in the mirror was so ridiculous that as I looked into my own eyes I had to laugh. Why was I, a literal clown, bogged down in misery? My problems had all felt so heavy and enormous, but as I stared at my crazy reflection in the mirror, it all suddenly felt so strange. With a wig and heels, I was a professional Frankfurter swallower; The day before, I had considered reenacting my own bloody birth. It was so ridiculous. A deep, rich belly laugh kept coming.
Through Ginger Johnson, my drag persona, I was no stranger to channeling my unbridled ridiculousness. I sang a duet with a talking poop I met in a sewer; performed paranormal surgery while dressed as a Victorian widow; made love with a talking custard pie; has swallowed the swords so far that they have appeared on the other side. But offstage I had hidden my inner clown. In the world of academic clowning, there is a concept called the “clown in trouble” syndrome. It is a term coined by John Wright, teacher, theater maker and author of Why is that so funny? He writes about how becoming a total idiot can be an exercise in self-improvement. When you find yourself in a difficult situation, humor is the most ridiculous and ridiculous route. He meant, I think, for this to be a mantra for the stage. There in the locker room, I realized that Wright’s ideas could apply to my own life. Not just when I was performing. For years I had imagined my life as a tragedy unfolding – why not reframe it as a comedy?
Seven years later, this is how I see the world. When you treat every day as a ridiculous endeavor, life feels easier. When something goes wrong, I look for the punch line. Most of us pretend all the time, putting on a mask and trying to function properly, when in reality we are baby-brained idiots. I just decided to embrace it.
When it feels like things are falling apart, I think of the most ridiculous, disastrous ending to the situation I’m in
So I decided to call my parents – and called from Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh. Mom answered. We sat on the phone in silence for a while. Then we started repairing and rebuilding. It couldn’t have gone better. It was light when I got there, but pitch black by the time – hours later – we finally said goodbye and goodbye. Immediately after one of the most important conversations of my life, I had to quickly scramble down a mountain in the dark because I was late because I had put on a flashy dress and had saveloys thrown in my face.
I always had an internal monologue that was constantly saying, “Oh God, how awful.” I catastrophized. Now I express those thoughts. It’s easier to realize you’ve lost the plot when you hear yourself speaking nonsense. When it feels like things are falling apart, I think about the most ridiculous, disastrous ending to the situation I’m in. It offers some perspective.
Last night I had a festive performance. It was a disaster. The technology went wrong from the start; my backing track is messed up. As I trotted from one side of the room to the other, my stiletto heel got stuck in a floorboard and I fell over completely. The old me would have been mortified: I would have thought my career was over, I would never be booked again. But as I lay there flat on the floor – wig askew, dress in my face and bunny-shaped shoes flying through the air – I started to chuckle. The crowd joined in.
There are many reasons why I drag. It is my creative outlet – how I express my ideas and politics. I’m performing children’s stories I wrote for children, full of cheerful LGBTQ+ characters – creating what I didn’t have when I was younger. Mostly, Ginger is my way of spreading the foolishness and stupidity that set me free. When I’m the most ridiculous thing in the room, no one else feels like there are eyes on them; it gives the audience the freedom to let down their guard and experience the restorative power of the ridiculous. Ginger has helped me find a way to exist in the world. Now she allows others to do the same. If that fails, there is always rebirth.
As told to Michael Segalov
Ginger Johnson: Ginger all the way! runs until January 6 at London’s Soho Theatre