Disappear, went away for a year … then get crowned,” Aja rapped over those drums they’d recorded back in the summer of 2019.
In its place was a pile of beads, a successful porn site, and a queer performer who, for the first time since their dream came true, could actually imagine a future as an artist. “A lot more people during the pandemic engaged in sex work whether they realized it or not, and I think that’s a cool thing about the year,” Aja said, acknowledging that it felt strange to say 2020 was “personally great for me.” With no tours or gigs, the pressure to do drag was gone. What to Do When Your Kid Is Reading a Book That Makes You Uncomfortable The Forgotten Gay Cable Network That Changed LGBTQ History Madison Cawthorn Thrusting His Naked Body on Another Man’s Face Doesn’t Tell Us Much About His “Gayness” It wasn’t easy-Aja was underage and always ready to fight or argue-but slowly they made a mark as a fierce dancer who gave thrilling shows.
GAY BAR BROOKLYN RU PAUL FULL
Unlike the scene across the river, here the point wasn’t to be glamorous, but to shock and delight crowds with looks repurposed from thrift store finds and (often literal) garbage and performances full of nudity, food, and pop culture references. But they kept entering contests and performing at open sets and, late at night, they discovered an avant-garde, punk, hedonistic drag scene in the dive bars just blocks from their Brooklyn home. At 16, they stormed a Manhattan drag competition and got read to filth by older, more experienced drag queens. It was the trans girls on the piers who suggested Aja could make money at the bars in drag. I was bullied a lot and I learned to fight for myself.” Raised in Brooklyn by their adoptive Puerto Rican mother in a house where an order of pork fried rice from the Chinese takeout sometimes had to last two days, Aja found solace voguing and listening to music with other queer Black and brown kids on the Williamsburg piers overlooking the East River. When the musicians sang in Yoruba, it felt like Aja might finally be able to tell their story, on their terms.įor Aja, drag was-at first-a path to a better life. The rich, full drums, played by Aja’s Oba, the person who initiated them into the Lucumí faith (an African diasporic tradition sometimes known in America as Santería), drew on the power of Aja’s ancestors and history. But in the studio that day, Aja was hoping to channel all the difficulties of the past year into new art that would showcase their creative power. Crippling self-doubt, toxic relationships, and hordes of racist fans had brought Aja, who uses the pronouns they/ them, to the edge of self-harm. It was the summer of 2019, and the then-25-year-old former drag queen and two-time contestant on RuPaul’s Drag Race had just struggled through one of the hardest years of their life.
While recording tracks for their new album, Aja listened to the drums in the studio and a sense of calm washed over them for the first time in months. This post is part of Outward, Slate’s home for coverage of LGBTQ life, thought, and culture.