It's All Relative (26 page)

I guess I finally yearned for a costume that was
me
, a costume that would stun the crowd as I marched around the school gymnasium in our annual Halloween parade.

I wanted
Wow
!

My mother seemed to sense this, and she thought long and hard about what to make for me. And then one evening I walked into our den to find her lying on our chic, black-and-white-plaid ottoman
perusing the latest issue of
National Geographic
, a subscription to which she had received as a Christmas gift the previous year. Once my mother discovered she could learn about Venice and Machu Picchu, or read about Hindus and vineyards in France, she turned her back forever on
Better Homes and Gardens
.

“Come here,” she said, wagging a nail.

She held open the magazine to display a shocking spread of frolicking nude black men and announced, “
This
is your costume. You will go as a Ubangi tribesman.”

I stared at the photo of a naked, sinewy black man with a schlong the size of our Oster blender and felt a twinge down south, in a place where I'd never felt such a twinge.

My mother smiled.

Even as a child, I knew her motives: Not only would she be able to show off her caretaking skills by making me a costume that would be the envy of the school for years to come, but she could also educate our local community about the world at large.

Although the sensible part of me screamed,
Danger!
the dramatic part of me was fascinated with this option, knowing that no other Ozarks child in his right mind would dress as a Ubangi tribesman for Halloween—much less even think of such an idea.

Based on the photo my mother showed me, I did, however, outline a few immediate costume demands of her: I would not, under any circumstance, go completely topless, considering I had ample boy breasts instead of chiseled pecs; I would not stretch my bottom lip with one of my mom's ashtrays; and, considering my love of candy, I
had
to carry a pillowcase to haul my loot instead of the tiny plastic skull she had originally suggested.

My mother and I spent the next few days scouring local stores for traditional Ubangi clothing, but it came as little surprise that there weren't many places to find standard tribal wear in rural America, although cowboy boots and tube socks seemed more than plentiful.
So my mother scoured her closet, where she found—in the back, tags still on—her inspiration: a Wilma Flintstone–esque dress she had purchased but obviously never worn.

I watched my mother pull out that dress and stare admiringly at it, giggling, remembering something long ago, almost as if she had once expected to receive an invitation to a Kwanzaa party that never arrived.

The dress's pattern was more caveman than tribesman, but it featured a stretchy fabric that fit me surprisingly well, and it showed off my maturing curves. It also had an ample dart to hold my bosom.

My mother spent days perfecting my costume. She altered the dress, which was much too long, by shortening the hem, cutting it above the knee on a bias, and then removing the left shoulder strap before cutting the top at a diagonal so that just a hint of my large brown nipple showed.

Days later, my mother received a delivery and, much to my surprise, had somehow managed to locate, and I do not know to this day how or from where, a rubber Ubangi mask—a partial mask, to be accurate—that fit snugly over the top of my head, over my ears, and then around my jaw, encasing the bottom of my face. When I tried on the mask, it transformed my Anglo face into that of a Ubangi warrior. I now sported an Afro, a ridged forehead, an overdeveloped jaw, gigantic dangling earlobes, and a Frisbee-sized lower lip that looked as if it had been stretched with a dinner plate.

My mother gave me a pair of her old black sandals, to which she fastened dog biscuits on the tops to mimic bones. Another biscuit was intricately secured (read: glued) to my nostrils, giving me the look more of a girl with a deviated septum than that of a tribesman who was to be admired for his prowess in hunting and bedding women.

My face and body were shoe-polished black.

A rubber spear was secured to the end of our fireplace poker.

I wore my mother's wood-and-chain bracelets, as well as a necklace with yet another dog biscuit tied to it.

And I carried a pillowcase.

It was so … not right.

So … not politically correct.

“You look just like the photo in
National Geographic
!” my mother gasped when she was finished, holding me at arm's length in her bedroom. “Say
Oow-wa-boo-ga
! Say it!”

And then I caught the first full glimpse of myself: that initial moment when, as a child, you are supposed to be breathless with anticipation to see yourself as a creature or a hero, as somebody magical for one day, replaced by, well, horror.

I looked like I was ready to attend a Klan meeting.

I leaned closer into the mirror over my mother's vanity, a bright row of naked makeup lights illuminating my transformation, and, upon closer inspection, I instead decided I looked like a midget with a fetish for Afrocentric attire.

Think Billy Barty does Pam Grier.

When I scurried down our brown shag stairs to show my father, he popped open a beer, unwrapped a mini Hershey bar sitting in the giant bowl of candy we had waiting for trick-or-treaters, and shook his head.

“Honey, why don't you grab the camera?” my mother asked my father, following me around, picking my 'fro.

“Why don't we pass on pictures this year?” my dad said, returning to the local paper. “The boy will thank us one day.”

That moment was, looking back, a noble gesture on my father's part, on par with dragging my lifeless body from a frozen pond or giving me one of his kidneys.

I went to the Halloween parade filled with a combination of horror and excitement, and was immediately bombarded with the types of questions that only kids can ask.

“Are you George—or Weezie—Jefferson?”

“Are you one of the Jackson Five?”

“Are you Dionne Warwick?”

I'm carrying a spear, have a lip the size of a toboggan, and have a bone implanted in my nose
, I wanted to scream, but I knew they just saw chubby Wade in black body paint, a dress, and lots of jewelry. I was also showing a hint of tit. And carrying a pillowcase.

We, thankfully, didn't have any African-American kids in our school, or I would have gotten beat down.

I marched around the playground, where a neighbor's dog ate the bones off my sandals, and then around the gym, where each grade marched in front of the crowd, one class at a time.

When it was my class's turn, I stood at the back of the line and waited until the very last minute, stopping cold, separating myself from my costumed competitors, turning toward the faculty judges who were sitting at the top of the bleachers, and began to scream the lines my mother had helped me rehearse:

“Hello, Americans! Do not be frightened! I am a Ubangi tribesman. The Sudan is my homeland. My giant earlobes and lip are a symbol of beauty in my country. Do you have questions about me or my homeland?”

Imagine crickets chirping, followed by mass hysteria.

I sprinted to rejoin my class, humiliated, hiking up my dress to cover my exposed breast. While waiting for the winners to be announced, I mainlined Snickers to bury my pain, discovering it was difficult to eat anything—much less tiny chocolate bars—with a lip the size of a flying saucer.

I had already given up hope of winning anything, considering the reaction I had gotten from my peers, until I heard, “Ummm … the tribal bride … umm … tribesman … second place … nice job.”

I gasped.

You could sense that the faculty judges were searching for words.
But you could also sense that they felt compelled to give me some sort of public acknowledgment for taking a risk, for trying to educate the masses. But mostly it was a sympathy vote, as my elders wisely realized I would probably be candyjacked and gang-raped later in the evening by a group of older boys who were confused but enticed by my costume.

I don't even remember what I won.

All I know is that it felt great to be a winner.

And I know my mom felt the same: She not only proved her mothering skills to our town, but also showcased her vast knowledge of foreign affairs and her quest for racial harmony.

Still, the next year, when my mom pulled out her
National Geographic
ready to top her previous year's costume, I told her thanks, but no thanks.

I was still being called Weezie by a few classmates.

I couldn't take that chance.

“You always need to take a chance in life,” my mom told me, nodding her head sadly. “You have to think beyond the walls that confine you, Wade: Use all your imagination. That's why God gave it to you.”

But I couldn't.

So I played it safe.

I went as a vampire.

And didn't win a thing.

For a very long time.

L
ast Halloween, I found myself crammed into a claustrophobia-inducing changing room at Goodwill while Gary attempted to dress me in a ball gown.

“You … can't … fit … into … a … size four!”

“Yes … I … can!”

“Then I'm gonna have to break a rib!”

“Just do it already!”

We were screaming at each other while ignoring a snaking line of women who had not only been patiently waiting for us to finish but also weighing in on my $4.99 options every time the door swung open.

“You're a summer, baby,” a black woman told me when Gary went to get more gowns off the rack. “Red makes you look drunk. No offense.”

Her description was filled with irony, considering there was a homeless man at the register screaming, “Is there a Starbucks in here?”

It was Halloween in Saugatuck-Douglas, the little Michigan resort area—the Fire Island of the Midwest—that Gary and I now called home. And when summer passed and fall and winter came to call in our resort town, the locals clung to any celebration that helped get them through the dark days and lake-effect snow.

In fact, our little town and its artsy residents went all out on Halloween. Even though the downtown was just a few blocks long and only a few hundred people stayed for the winter, the parade lasted at least an hour and drew a monster crowd.

Halloween costumes
couldn't
be bought from a box: They had to be homemade here, one-of-a-kind stage creations, works of wonder, innovation, and creativity.

As a gay man here, you didn't have the option of going cheap on Halloween. The pressure was on.

Last year I had made the mistake of dressing as a baby for Halloween. I thought I looked adorable wearing my bonnet and a bib that read,
MOMMY'S LITTLE CUTIE
, and carrying a pacifier and a baby bottle capable of holding a half dozen Cape Cods. But the problem was my outfit was purchased from one of those Halloween shops that pop up in strip malls in early fall and then disappear on November 1.

Gary had dressed the previous year as Endora from
Bewitched—
and looked shockingly like Agnes Moorehead—but my cookie-cutter costume had sucked his magic dry and prompted every bald Britney and every angelic Angelina to term Gary “a very bad mother.”

“How could you let your baby leave the house looking like that, Endora?” Amy Winehouse screamed at Gary. “You have powers. Use them!”

So this year, Gary did.

His bewitching idea? To have me dress—for the first time ever—as a woman. Not just any woman, mind you, but as my dream woman: Caitlin Upton, Miss Teen South Carolina, the YouTube sensation who responded the following way when asked, “Recent polls have shown a fifth of Americans can't locate the United States on a world map. Why do you think this is?”

The Miss Teen bell, blessedly, chimes here.

Now, I already looked a lot like Caitlin, even without makeup. I had her cheekbones and that rather bland blonde Southern look, thanks to my years growing up in the Ozarks. And I knew after a few drinks I could be even dumber.

But after two straight weeks of shopping with Gary for the right wig, the right dress, the right jewelry, the right heels, the right makeup, I was exhausted. I was ready to head to the Halloween shop, buy some vampire teeth, and call it a day, just like my old fraternity brothers did. I mean, they simply threw on a football jersey thirty minutes before a party and called themselves Tom Brady. I kinda missed those days.

But I still had to find my dream gown.

“Here, let's try this one on,” Gary urged.

“It's a size seven!” I screamed. “I refuse solely on ethical grounds!”

“How about this one?” Gary said, holding up a skintight peach-colored gown. “It's a six.”

“It's ugly!” I whined. “And I need some padding in the bra, and a little ruching in the waist would be nice.”

I thought Gary would slap me, but instead he smiled.

“Look at you with your terminology, Rachel Zoe. I kinda like it. Okay, wait here!” he said, exiting the changing room suddenly, leaving me completely nude and standing in front of a group of women. “Just a few more, okay, ladies?” he said to a chorus of groans. And then, in less than a minute, he returned with a size-five ankle-length
silk eggplant-colored gown with spaghetti straps, a padded bust with a row of sequins underneath, a gathered waist, and a flowy ruffle down the side.