From RuPaul’s Drag Race to fashion week catwalks, the art of drag has firmly entered the mainstream, turning some performers into global celebrities. But go back half a century and the picture was quite different. On the fringes, performers’ lives were often strewn with difficulties, from prejudice to poverty, not to mention stage fright. Five veteran drag queens share their experiences from decades on the scene.
Dina Jacobs, 75, Houston, Texas
However many shows I’ve done, nerves still hit before my first number as I stand backstage. But when I step out and hear that sweet applause, all my fears melt away in an instant. I’m consumed by a feeling of love, respect and appreciation. I had a tough start – giving up would have been easier. I’m living proof that if you persevere, you can make it through.
I was born in Honolulu in 1947 and raised by women: four sisters, my grandmother, my aunt and my mom. As a child, I thought I was one of them. My mother, I think, always suspected I would be different. Then she caught me having sex with a man in a car in my late teens. Mom kicked me out of the house, so I moved to a neighbourhood called Waikiki, which is where this all started.
There was a drag club called Yappy’s, where – underage – I’d go to be seen, using borrowed ID. I’d dress up, but finding gigs was difficult. To stay afloat, I turned tricks and hustled on the street. Just before my 18th birthday, I blagged my way into an audition. From there, I worked my way into a famous club – the Glade – which had three drag shows a night. I was hooked.
A few months in, as I was closing a set, I looked out into the darkness and saw a woman’s face lit up by a cigarette. It was my mom, watching me perform. I ran out of the club, a nervous wreck. Summoned to our family home, I discovered that something had shifted. From then, Mom – and my whole family – celebrated all that I am.
In 1970, I booked a show in Kansas – my first on the mainland. Travelling over the following years, I got into all sorts of trouble at wild gigs from San Francisco to Minneapolis. We were kicked out of Canada when a friend was caught hooking on the street. In 1971, I ended up in Chicago, where I got my big break. The tips were too good, so I stuck around. Four years later, I settled in Atlanta. When I was offered a slot headlining a drag legends show in Houston, I had to take it. That’s where I am now.
I’m a matriarch now, with drag kids all over the US. The oldest is 50. These are relationships developed over years, children I guide and look after.
It’s a different world today when it comes to drag and gender. The kids are all about pronouns and that’s great for them. Personally, I’ve never been preoccupied with labels. I’m just me, Dinah, here to entertain and perform. When, in the 80s, a man in a straight bar asked me if I was man or a woman, I asked him if he wanted to have sex with me. “Then you’ll find out. Else why are you bothered by what’s inside my underwear?”
My preparation routine has remained the same: I bathe, blow-dry and then do my makeup listening to music. After the show, we still go out drinking. Although, baby, no, I can’t party like I did in the 80s and 90s. That would send me to the grave.
Lulla La Polaca, 84, Warsaw, Poland
It was my 84th birthday last week, but I’ve never been busier. There’s a new documentary about me – Boylesque – which is thrilling. I’m on stage in a production of Virginia Woolf’s Orlando, performing my own shows and so much more. I’m finding it hard to find time to water the plants.
Drag didn’t come easily to me. I was born in 1938, right before war broke out in Poland. As a young kid, I was raised by a cousin after being thrown over a Warsaw ghetto wall. After the war, my childhood was happier. Our city, however, was devastated: there was little music, art or culture. As a young adult, I found the theatre – and other LGBTQ+ people.
Until the fall of the Berlin Wall, there was no active gay scene. Instead, you met in toilets at the central station, or at bath houses. Parties were in private homes and came with a risk the police would raid, arrest and torture you. Drag, therefore, was an underground affair. The first time I saw drag, of sorts, was in the early 1970s, when my friend – a judge – dressed up at an extravagant party. Occasionally, I dabbled, borrowing clothes from female relatives’ wardrobes.
From the moment the Wall fell, we crawled out of the shadows. With liberation came expression, which included drag. It was such a happy time – our community out in the open.
In 2008, I met the late Kim Lee: Poland’s best (and only) Vietnamese drag queen. I saw her performing and we became friends. Kim saw the queen in me and wanted me to embrace it. I resisted. Then she invited me into her wardrobe. Surrounded by glistening outfits, something stirred – I couldn’t resist the glamour. For the following four years, I learned the craft, guided by my tutor. Then, in 2012 – in my early 70s – I took to the stage for the first time and introduced the world to Lula. Frankly, I was terrified. But as soon as the lights hit my face, elation and adrenaline took over. I finally felt free.
When I started doing drag a decade ago, Warsaw felt different. We’ve been holding Pride marches in the city since 2001, but 2012 was one of the safest and most celebratory. Now, the city feels more hostile. Our community is bigger and stronger than before, but this government is intent on spreading homophobia and discrimination. I’ll continue to perform loud and proud – this hate won’t stop me.
Lawanda Jackson, 61, Las Vegas, Nevada
I’m a former Miss Gay USA, former Miss Oregon and former Miss Texas. Once upon a time, I had all my own crowns – now I help the next generation win them.
It all started as a teenager in Portland, Oregon. You know how the story goes: religious mother found out I was gay and kicked me out, so I became homeless. One day, I was walking through the city when I saw a sign that read “Wanted: male dancers”. The queens and hosts invited me to audition.
I danced to Michael Jackson’s Beat It and gave them a show – moonwalk included. I was only 17 and told I’d need to be 21 or over. “But kid,” they said, “we’ve got to keep you.” The deal was I couldn’t be in the club itself, so after the show each night I’d have to stay in the DJ booth.
Watching the queens perform gave me a taste for drag. So, when there was a competition at the club for kids, I entered it. I won – and the victories kept coming.
Being a black queen came with challenges. Back in the day, I needed three pieces of photo ID to enter an establishment; it was only one for my white counterparts. You can imagine what it was like if the police stopped you. Much of the LGBTQ+ community was accepting, but too often I’d hear the N-word: at parties, from crowds, even in dressing rooms. If I feared for my safety, I fought like a pit bull – this queen knows how to fight her corner and win.
I’ve impersonated Tina Turner, Donna Summer, Janet Jackson and plenty more. For a while, I did a bit where half of me was Diana Ross and the other half Lionel Richie. I got scouted by a producer who wanted to take me to Vegas. Two weeks later, at 30, I started working in Sin City.
I’ve never smoked, been a drinker or taken drugs; keeping fit is always my priority. But, in 2014, my life turned upside down. At 50, I had an aneurysm and stroke. The whole left side of my body stopped working. I was broken – unable to eat, talk or move. Then an inner voice told me: no, there’s more for you to do.
The road to recovery was tough. It took two and a half years to build up my strength to perform. When I was ready, I was invited to a special show in Vegas. When I stepped out, there was a huge standing ovation. I still needed a cane when I arrived there that night. But that crowd lifted me like I can’t explain: on stage I dropped my stick, and walked without it. I’ve not used it since. Drag saved my life. It’s what got me through the pain, and now it gives me routine, family and purpose.
I’m a gay, black, disabled drag queen – I’m using my platform to make people like me visible. I always say this: you won’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone, so while you’ve got it, use it.
Dolly, 54, Madrid, Spain
The birth of Dolly was an accident. I started my career wanting to act – that had always been my passion. In 1996, I was cast in a Spanish film called Más Que Amor, Frenesí (Not Love Just Frenzy). The producers needed three actors to play drag queens and I was to be one of them. It was fun, but I assumed when we wrapped my time in drag was over. But the reception to the release was huge: the public and critics adored it. A few months later, I got a call from a drag and cabaret venue, asking if I’d perform in character. Why not, I thought. I brought my costumes from the movie with me.
I’d been honing the skills for years, unknowingly. As a child in liberal Ibiza, I’d lip-synced and danced around to songs day and night; there were always queens on the island. When I moved to Madrid at 23 to study, I performed at variety and cabaret nights. I’d always found drag fascinating. So, when the bookings kept coming after the film, I knew what I’d need to do … although I had to do a crash course in the art of makeup.
That’s how Dolly was born. Dolly is a lady – self-deprecating and sharp-tongued, but tender. As she and I have aged, we’ve both become wiser. With age, every night feels like a test: will I still get through it? It takes a lot of work to stay relevant, and fit, when there’s a new generation of performers snapping at your heels. Gay communities often place youth on a pedestal. When I walk into a bar, though, my drag gives me power. I would like to retire soon, but there’s so much work. My face might be dropping, but the gigs keep coming. And, really, how could I do that to my fans? There’d be national devastation and mourning.
Lavinia Co-op, 71, Hackney, London
I’m Hackney born and bred, a proper East Ender. I worked my way to teacher-training college, but it was deeply homophobic. I left and found a job in the theatre, working as a dresser. This was a world that was far more welcoming. I studied at the London Contemporary Dance School and discovered politics. Dancing and socialism? It’s no surprise I ended up among the queens of the newly formed Gay Liberation Front. That’s where I found radical drag.
A group of us saw a performance by this American troupe – Hot Peaches – that inspired us. This wasn’t female impersonation, but breaking and bending all the societal rules of masculinity and femininity, sex and gender. It was transgressive and androgynous.
Nobody was doing gay theatre using drag in the UK, so a group of us from the GLF formed Bloolips: an anarchic, touring, queer musical-comedy theatre troupe. Our first show was The Ugly Duckling. There was no money for us in England, so we piled into a VW camper van and toured the Netherlands and Germany. Our audiences weren’t primarily gay – far from it. We proved ourselves to be a nice, funny group of jolly queens, fully comfortable in who and how we were.
From the mid-70s, we travelled all over, right up until the late 90s. Through all that time, the onslaught of Aids was happening. We lost so many, Bloolips members included. When Diva Dan – one of our number – was about to pass away, I couldn’t take it. I headed to New York, although it was no better in the US.
I found work in the club scene: the Copacabana, the Limelight, the Tunnel, the Roxy. With Aids destroying so many lives, the club became even more important. Life outside was a nightmare; together we’d forget the horror. I didn’t have many outfits when I arrived in NYC. As friends died, I inherited their drag wardrobes.
The financial crisis brought me home. Money dried up and I wasn’t getting any younger. I returned to Hackney and found work in London. Now, Hackney is the heart of the UK’s own more gender-bending radical-drag scene – decades after we started to experiment with it.
I’m still a song and dance queen, but I’m an elder now … or so they tell me. I take things a little slower. I’ve a huge closet full of drag in my flat. In there, I see my life – each outfit has memories of people, performances and places. I need to pass it on. Love it and let it go, Lavinia, so the next generation can explore it all for themselves.
Dina Jacobs and Lawanda Jackson feature in Legends of Drag: Queens of a Certain Age (Cernunnos, £25). To support the Guardian and the Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
Lavinia Co-op performs in Outbox theatre’s Groove in September and October, with dates in London and Manchester
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