The Ritual of Self-Actualization

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Some week in April, we had the the drag co-op, House of Larva, make a presentation to our class, as well as host a performance in Emerson, titled Lowlands. The House of Larva is a drag house that incorporates social commentary, gender subversion and lip-synching in their shows in attempting to express "the ugliness of Queer identity." Lowlands explored how an alternate society cannot escape the influence of imperialism, as well as patriarchal and heterosexual power constructs. During the show, the Empress of the Bitchfaggots was required by Benwa Breedwinner to sacrifice a bitchfaggot, Fanga Sphinx, so that her empire may prosper for another 1,000 years. After relishing in her power, she falls in love with the soon-to-be sacrificial victim. Moreover, she’s required by her all-encompassing overlord to train a special operative agent to defend the Bitchfaggot empire, who is modeled in the image of American military masculinity. After failing to sacrifice a victim on the altar, they are both banished in an act of domination, involving fake blood and a grasshopper dildo strap on. No sexual acts were acted out in the show.

My reaction of the show was that I was curious and confused. My favorite part was when pushay pushay sang about what it would be like to be a boy while hitting a baby toy with a baseball act. In context to the performance we saw, I thought about how forming our identity is a ritual in itself. Drag queens, and anyone who puts on makeup, perform a ritual of aesthetic transformation to become what you desire and to visually validate their appearance. Self-actualization is sacred in the context of standing up against conformity and societal expectations.

Before the show, the members of the drag co-op smeared our hands with whipped cream while a monologue played that described how original sin could be as delectable as strawberries and cream. Having whipped cream on my hands was funny to me. No matter how “unsanitary” it was, it was still satisfying to lick it off my fingers. This could be seen as a metaphor to being gay because I was taught that it’s gross to eat with my hands. Despite that being true, I wasn’t going to wash my hands, I was going to enjoy it because I like whipped cream. I think the reaction of our class in response to the activity makes a lot more sense if you imagine whipped cream on your hand as a metaphor for sexuality. You shouldn’t wash whipped cream off your hand unless you’ve had a taste of it first. In other words, don’t knock it til you try it. 

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