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Lifestyle

Friday January 19 2007

My evening with a Drag queen

Rama Rau

I am meeting Enza Supermodel for a TV show. It's 5.45 pm and I wait
at my friend's office on Queen Street in downtown Toronto. After
waiting a while, my friend tells me: ``I don't know if she's gonna
come in her male persona or her female one. ``Ummm hmmm, I reply.
I'm mildly curious about meeting a Drag Queen myself, having thus far
only seen them on the subway or in downtown clubs.

I try recollecting what little I knew about Enza. Her real name: Enzo
Anderson. In 2000, she ran for mayor of Toronto, Ontario. Although
the eventual winner of that campaign, Mel Lastman, won over 80 per
cent of the vote, Anderson surprised many by garnering 15,000 votes,
placing third! She was one of the few candidates (besides Lastman,
Ben Kerr and Tooker Gomberg) to get any kind of recognition in the
race, even though all she did was stand on downtown street corners
with a handmade placard that read: "Vote for me - I have the best
legs in town."

Having changed her name to "Enza Supermodel", Anderson (whose sense
of irony, I learn later, is razor-sharp), runs in political races
where the major candidate has no serious challenger on the ballot.

At 6.15, fashionably late, she walks in, six feet, three inches tall,
in her beautiful black pointy stilettos; she's wearing a short black
dress, showing off great legs, light black stockings and a chic black
leather jacket. And the first thing I think is - Oh. My. God.

She is beautiful. That particular day I'm wearing scruffy blue jeans
cut-off at the knees, running shoes and a T-shirt I grabbed from my
closet two minutes before I ran out the door. Some lipstick, a dash
of mascara and I was ready in seconds. Now, looking at her, I feel
less like a woman than I've ever felt in my entire life. I never was
one of those `la de da' women, mind you, but right now, I wish I was.
I feel insecure, ugly and yes, jealous.

We get into a taxi and Enza graciously lets me sit in the front seat.
I feel a bit awkward. I don't know where to start, so I stare out the
window. I look back politely and smile now and then as Enza talks to
my friend. Suddenly she says, "Oh, lovely nails!" and I jump. Er ah,
my nails? But she is charming about it.

After that, we settle down to some nice comfortable girl talk and I
ask her the question I've been dying to ask. "How long does it take
you to do your make-up, Enza?" and she replies, "Three hours." After
all, she has to do her legs, her arms, her face, her body. She's
happy to give me the most minute (and unnecessary) details of how she
wanted a breast job but decided to just wear padded bras instead.

That evening, the TV show meeting turns out to be a disaster. The
three men in the room (all heterosexuals, they assure each other)
can't take their eyes of Enza's legs. I get a lot of amusement
watching how their eyes slide down her legs and desperately make an
attempt to meet yours if you address them. She is charming and funny.
She tells the crowd how she got her name, "Ya know, gurrl friend,
what else would I be, but a Supah model?" and how she works in a bar
during the day and takes photographs of celebrities by night.

I must admit I'm fascinated. Enza studied to be an engineer and later
began dressing up in drag, partly to party, and partly because that's
her version of Show Biz.

"Honey, I put on a good show, I got more shoes and dresses than
Imelda Marcos!" I believe that.

I go home that evening, feeling a little strange inside my head. It's
the first time I've felt special to be born a woman. And to think I
had to meet a Drag Queen to make me feel this way.
"