Join Queer Kentucky for their latest print edition featuring original stories, gorgeous photography, and exclusive interviews with Zack Wickham of Bravo’s The Valley, award-winning singer S.G. Goodman, and Chappell Roan’s makeup artist Andrew Dahling.

Performance as an embodied modality of living has always been a central theme in my life. When I Googled the definition of “performance,” I was intrigued by the way the sentence begins: “an act of…”. These three words, I believe, capture the essence of performance. Initially, I thought performance had to involve some illusory or fictitious component, but I soon realized that the practice of performance extends beyond stage presentations. If I base my understanding of performance on “an act of…,” I can include societal roles such as parenting, mentoring, and teaching—all of which, to some extent, are forms of performance. I embody performance through my career, my artistic practice, my relationships, and more.

However, on the flip side, we live in a society that pressures individuals to conform to a dominant narrative of performance, a narrative rooted in the United States’ foundations of white supremacy, anti-Blackness, and Christian extremism. As a result, roles like gender and race are often tainted by misogyny, anti-Black bias, and Christian dogma.

From an early age, I learned the importance of performance, primarily through a raced lens in which, as a Black person, I must always be keenly aware of white people. I must be aware of the way I talk, how they talk to me, and what I share with them. Every Black child is taught the language of the oppressing class as a form of protection. As I grew older and began to notice things about myself, I became acutely aware that I was different from my family and peers at school. Although it was unintelligible to me at the time, the person I am now can clearly see what set me apart, and that is my Queer identity. It is important for me to define my understanding of Queerness as it relates to me.

Martin displays her sculpture that is symbolic of her of journey through the self. The figure is comprised of found objects which reflect her understandings of identity formation. A gathering of unlikely and likely items to create a new thing. photo by Ryan Grant

My existence is Queer because it lives outside the limits of white cis-heteronormativity. To me, Blackness is inherently Queer in this way. At this time, I will not situate myself at an intersection where sexuality, gender, and race meet—because in my life, they have never been separate and need no meeting place. As a trans woman, performance has been crucial for my sense of self and my mental well-being. It has also been both a tool for safety and a source of heartache. I often reflect on the early stages of my transition, particularly the times when I was frequently misgendered. I think about how much I had to focus on my appearance and dress, as it felt like a form of policing. Those mornings often felt like experi- ments. I spent a lot of time thinking about what skirt, shapewear, jewlery would make me small enough to digest for the male gaze. Before medically transitioning, I felt burdened by my body.

Now, years removed from that time, all I can remember is feeling scared, stressed, and utterly uneasy in my body. A vital aspect of performance is the audience. What do they think? How do they perceive you, and what are their takeaways? These thoughts are exhausting to carry every day. My early morning thoughts were consumed with the desire to pass. I wanted to create a canyon of separation between the person and gender that had been imposed upon me and the person and soul I’ve always known myself to be. This desire to widen that divide led me down very toxic paths of femininity, often rooted in patriarchy and anti-Blackness. I sought to make myself smaller, to speak softer, to wear clothing and accessories that were considered hyper-feminine. if I’m honest with myself, I sought validation from the male gaze.

photo by Ryan Grant

When I think about my womanhood, I think about my mother. As a child, whenever I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my immediate thought was always my mother. This made me feel a bit odd, as no one else seemed to want to be like their parents. I grew up mesmerized by her—she was my first friend and role model. I revered her power and the way she commanded respect. I admired how she could captivate a room and an audience. She was humorous and quite the songstress of her time and community. My desire to be close to her, and to the women in my family, has grounded the performance I call life.

There were moments in my childhood when it felt as though I was living behind a double mirror: I could see out, but others couldn’t see me. I remember being organized in school or church by “boys go here” and “girls go there,” and wanting to scream that I was just like the girls. I was frustrated by the need to advocate for myself just to be considered “one of the girls,” when being a girl felt so natural to me. It was only through the terror imposed by adults in my community that I learned how “unnatural” the world saw me.

I feel terribly confused writing this. Thinking of performance has sparked an interest and analysis of my personhood through the lens of time and unlearning. I am trying to make sense of a journey that seems to have no clear rhyme or reason, and in this attempt, I feel as though I am over-intellectualizing myself. All I’ve ever wanted is to exist in the simple, quiet, and grounded space of being. I envy those who seemingly erupt into this life without the burden of self-actualization.