lift the shadow of deportation from these young people, so that they they yelled. There were thousands of hands grabbing, scratching. Trying to rip apart the steel, the barbed wire, the hatred that went into building the Wall. The green helicopters hovered over them like a venomous cloud. There were bodies writhing and twisting on the ground. They clawed at each other, desperate for pockets of fresh air. Then there was a thud. All we could see on my phone was the dusty ground—a flood of sneakers, flip-flops, and bare feet running by. I have a really distinct memory of it. I was on a family vacation in Cape Cod and we stopped in Provincetown, where I saw my first drag queens. They were walking past me and I was probably 11, and I was just staring at them. I was entranced, and they were like, “Hey, hon!” My dad kind of looked at me weird like, “Wow, you’re bold.” As someone of an older generation, I’m sure he felt kind of intimidated by drag queens, but I always felt in my element. They made me feel really good right from my earliest memories. [Drag as a] form of expression is innately accepting. It’s like, whatever you do, just make it big and weird and we’re gonna like it.TV