On this earthly plane, in this very timeline, many different versions of us will exist. Past selves give way to future selves; older parts are shed to make room for who we are today. There are versions of us that made mistakes, versions of us that dated questionable people, versions of us whose behavior we might never understand and versions of us only few others remember. For many of us, especially as queer people, many versions of ourself exist throughout our days, ebbing and flowing out of us as we navigate our life. Sometimes we don’t realize how we change throughout the day, as some versions might only show themselves in specific environments, under certain circumstances, or around certain people. In some cases, these other versions of us are rooted in a creative outlet. It’s not science fiction nor fantasy, it is very real. For many, including myself, these different versions aren’t just a type of performance, they are a means of adaptation and survival.

“Code-switching” is the practice of adjusting how you express yourself in different contexts, such as changing your language, accent, tone of voice, style of dress, and/or behavior. Some code-switching is intentional, and at other times, we don’t even realize it’s happening. We code-switch to better blend in, or at least be better accepted by the majority of people around us. Whether used to downplay a racial or cultural difference or to be noticed and acknowledged by others, code-switching is a very real part of the queer experience. Oftentimes, folks think of code-switching as something negative, as something disingenuous. “You don’t usually talk like that,” or “why do you act that way around your friends and not me?”. I like to think of code-switching as an artform that many of us must learn to master with age.

Being a Queer Chicano in Kentucky, I’ve done my fair share of code-switching throughout my lifetime-whether or not I wanted to. I have no doubt that you have as well. It should be to no one’s surprise that code-switching is exhausting work, both physically and mentally. It’s a form of mental gymnastics that takes up so much mental real estate. We try our best to dress “appropriately” or act “appropriately” based on the people around us and the situations we are in. This background work goes wildly unnoticed by our co-workers, our family, and even our other queer friends as we try our best to avoid the conflict that can come from showing our truest selves. It is no wonder why so many LGBTQIA folks, myself included, are always fucking exhausted.  

The queer experience is boundless, and our resilience is quite remarkable despite it all. We adapt to a world that wasn’t built for us. We adapt the best way we can because we have to. And yet, that softness we hold, that thing that many find so threatening – can’t be hidden no matter how hard we try. When should I hide the most vulnerable side of me? When is it safe to express it? I certainly don’t wake up every morning and think “What a beautiful day… I am very queer.” Unfortunately, this heteronormative world is obsessed with what people like me are doing with their life and have been trying their damnest to erase us. Because of this, our life experiences are often vastly different than those of our cis, straight, and often white peers who do not understand our struggle.

As queer artists, our identities are often at the root of what and why we create. It is a byproduct of being pushed to think about who we are at every moment, at every step of the day. I find it fascinating how our art pisses off conservatives-as if we do it to be obnoxious-yet I can’t even imagine what a life where I don’t question my every move would feel like. Instead, I have externalized the internal parts of me as many other queers do by changing my outward appearance, creating sound, or curating experiences through nightlife and art installations. Our Drag-our wearable art, our hair, tattoos, and even our hanky codes aren’t just an expression, it is a language that we use to be able to communicate with other queers. While our art is often seen as just entertainment, it is an incredibly important part of our queer experience, our means of storytelling, of expressing our grief, of showcasing our joy. It is our culture.

I often compare being queer to being an ocean animal. Pods of whales sing songs that only others of their kind can understand. Creatures of the deep use bioluminesce in the darkest of places to ward off danger and find love. Fish will school because staying together helps ward off danger-and they all know far too well how vulnerable they are when alone. The ocean, as Kentucky once used to be, is a huge source of inspiration and expression of my own queerness in mind and through my creations. 

As we get older, it is important for us to understand why so many different versions of us exist. We should understand how those parts of us have adapted, how they have helped us perform and navigate our jobs, romantic relationships, sexual partners, and familial relationships. It can be strange to think about, because we don’t always have a clear picture of how someone else may perceive us. It is truly something we cannot control, and how could we in a world unfit for us? It is no surprise that we will never be shocked when the people who have known us the longest do not know, nor understand- the realest, purest version of ourselves. Sometimes we choose to keep it that way because that feels safest. On one hand, having to change who we are in order to make it through the day feels unfair. On another hand, those of us that survive learn to do so in ways that help us thrive, even if it is behind closed doors, and it is up to us to teach the younger queers how to navigate this too. 

The realest version of me wouldn’t have been able to survive cosmetology school, working on political campaigns or training dogs for over a decade.. but today’s version of me feels genuine and real. It is present in my everyday life now as I am able to live through and from my art. For the first time in my life I can say that it feels good and that is a privilege. My work is a physical manifestation of the versions of me I have hidden throughout my life, the mental armor I had to wear to protect myself that is now forming as external wear. Some of my pieces are an expression of the monster that others used to make me believe I was, and some expressions touch on the softer, more feminine side of me that I have finally allowed to blossom over the years. I feel safe enough in my own community to share those versions of me. That too is a privilege. In many ways, my work is an outward expression of my queerness and my connection to this planet. It is a testament to my wildness, my chaos, my sense of being that encompasses various growth patterns. My work even expresses the most non-human side of me, the part that still feels safer blending in with the root systems and insects like I did as a kid. 

Queer art, like queer people, hold a mixture of power, resilience, and pain. Finding an outlet to express this has drastically changed something in me, but I don’t think I fully understand what that is yet. Maybe a future version of me will know and will reflect back on these years. Maybe that’s what they mean when they say your mid 30’s are your prime. Perhaps I will finally become a version of myself that realizes I never owed strangers comfort by trying to hide away my queerness in so many different circumstances. Despite the danger, maybe it really is ok that I let others uncomfortably shift in the presence of my existence and what it means to stand in my own power. After all, most are choosing to feel that way instead of accepting us as we have to most others. Perhaps this means I have survived long enough to become the bioluminescent, ever shifting fruiting body I was meant to be.