You’re born naked– everything else is drag.” This old saying has become a mantra in the last few years as commentators rush to explain the 90s drag craze. But even if this adage has been repeated too many times, it’s still insightful. All clothes are “unnatural,” yet we’re not just naked at birth–we’re also illiterate, so everything we say or write is a kind of drag too.
Perhaps most Hollywood autobiographies have been written by women because as outsiders in the entertainment industry they’ve faced extreme situations that have demanded equally extreme survival tactics. The fantasy lives the press and public project on these women are full of glamour, allure, and other qualities you could name a magazine after. By the time the book comes out the hopeful reader expects a distillation of decades of excess. Usually written in the twilight of a career, the books feature a version of the past obscured by the haze of time, ego, and often booze. It’s just as well–those of us who eagerly cling to the words of such larger-than-life figures don’t want facts. We want dish, dirt, and drama. We want camp. And most of the time we get it, whether through the author’s intention, the minimally credited cowriter’s catty intervention, or a happy accident.
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Chablis promises to tell the whole truth, to “pour the T,” as she puts it. There’s no editorial disclaimer as with Howard-Howard’s opus to contradict her, and the story doesn’t conflict with the public record, as in Merman. Her rags-to-better-rags story sticks close to the fairy tales of showbiz mythology: born into a poor family in an obscure small town, she ran off to the city, discovered a life of glamour, was derailed at various times by illegal drugs and unfaithful men, and now, upon her book’s publication, feels more confident and capable than ever and looks forward to a rejuvenated career. The twist–she’s black, gay, and has a dick as well as a shapely, estrogen-powered bosom–further emphasizes the odds that she has overcome on her own terms. Whether her tale is archetypal or a pastiche of old cliches doesn’t really matter. It’s a great story and rings emotionally true, factual or not.
RuPaul’s Lettin It All Hang Out recounts a similarly unlikely success story, but in her case the stakes are lower and the prize is bigger. As she points out, her drag outfits are just work clothes. Femininity is more integral to the daily life of the Lady Chablis, who claims to have been living as a woman since she was a teenager. And Hiding My Candy won’t be as easy for some to swallow as Lettin It All Hang Out. Transsexuals have not enjoyed the same amount of acceptance as cross-dressers in recent years. (Chablis is a preop transsexual and calls herself a drag queen in the book. She writes that she’s chosen to keep her male genitals because when she dies God won’t let her into heaven without them.) And Chablis’ unrefined approach is far more raw than RuPaul’s Return to Love-inspired feel-good affirmations. Her offhand use of words like “bitch” and “fish” for women is destined to alienate some readers, as is her facetious claim that she’s not black but rather a “very tan uptown white woman.” This is inevitable when the author is determined not to censor herself; the truth about one’s self can be ugly. RuPaul, like most celebrity autobiographers, is more concerned with beauty than truth; on the cover of her book, her features are painted and airbrushed to supermodel perfection. Hiding My Candy’s cover design steals from the Showgirls poster, but it has none of that film’s stylized femininity. It features the book’s least flattering shot of Chablis, her nose oddly distorted, her chest looking flat and bony, her arms bulging with muscles, and her man-size hands prominently on display.
