“When we first launched Waiting List Warriors, we were anticipating maybe a handful of sign-ups. For the first session alone, I think around 50 people showed up.”

WORDS BY JAKE HALL
IMAGE BY JACK ROWE

In February 2023, trans-led charity Gendered Intelligence launched Waiting List Warriors. Scheduled for two hours each month, the online support group offers a virtual community space for trans adults left languishing on gender identity clinic (GIC) waitlists, usually at least a few years long. The mental health impact of this clinical purgatory can’t be understated; there are well-documented examples of trans people dying by suicide in the interim. Just like trans healthcare, NHS’ mental health services remain similarly stretched and underfunded, leaving non-profits like Gendered Intelligence to step up and provide life-saving resources to trans people in need.

The problem is that they’re struggling, too — at the time of writing, Waiting List Warriors has a waitlist of its own.

“When we first launched Waiting List Warriors, we were anticipating maybe a handful of sign-ups,” recalls Cleo, Communications Officer at Gendered Intelligence. “For the first session alone, I think around 50 people showed up. I remember talking to my colleagues who were facilitating the group, and just thinking, ‘Oh my God, this is going to be huge.’”

“When we first launched Waiting List Warriors, we were anticipating maybe a handful of sign-ups. For the first session alone, I think around 50 people showed up."

There was early critique of the group, which ultimately helped to shape what the support sessions would look like in practice. Cleo recalls one social media comment in particular, from a user who wrote: “I don’t want to be a warrior, I just want to get healthcare.” This comment laid the foundations for Waiting List Warriors as a community advocacy group first and foremost, not just “another space where people are miserable about the state of gender identity services,” says Cleo.

Naturally, basic healthcare shouldn’t be a battle, it should be a right, yet statistics have long shown that trans communities are failed by their GPs, and often avoid seeking treatment due to fear of discrimination and poor treatment. Forums are filled with anecdotes from trans people on the hunt for trans-friendly GPs, and resources like the Gender Construction Kit are invaluable for those looking to navigate the exhausting world of gender-affirming healthcare, but it shouldn’t be this way — in an ideal world, the term “trans-friendly GP” shouldn’t need to exist. It should be the norm. It’s worth noting that this isn’t just a trans-specific issue, either; medical racism, ableism and fatphobia are all well-documented, with books like Dr. Rageshri Dhairyawan’s Unheard and Dr. Annabel Sowemimo’s Divided adding yet more evidence to the argument that marginalised groups have long been failed by their healthcare providers.

Although it’s open to over-18s on GIC waitlists across the country, Waiting List Warriors prioritises people either waiting for or receiving treatment at four specific clinics: Nottingham, East of England, The Laurels and Sheffield’s Porterbrook Gender Identity Clinic. This specificity has been key to the success of the group, Cleo explains. “The substance of these groups is about sharing skills, talking about what’s going on in your life, and learning something new. People have said it’s really helped with their isolation by letting them talk to people who are their age and in a similar place to them, but it’s also enabled them to speak to people who are further along on their healthcare journey, and to learn from their pearls of wisdom.”

Better still, Waiting List Warriors has fostered new communities and networks. “Fundamentally, that’s the work we want to be doing,” Cleo continues. “None of us in the LGBT sector are going to single-handedly fix the mental health crisis, or loneliness in older queer people, or any of the big issues facing our community. What we can do is plant the seeds for community action, for people to help each other.”

"Every organisation within the LGBT sector is trying to do a huge amount of work with very, very little. It’s a hard time for funding, and we’re dealing with the legacy of a government that has treated us with contempt."

None of this is new – Cleo points out that Gendered Intelligence is “standing on the shoulders of giants,” citing the decades-long advocacy of non-profits like Switchboard, Opening Doors, Mermaids, and more, as inspiration. Yet this work is under-resourced and under-funded – incidentally, Opening Doors ceased operations in February this year, due to insolvency. These are just two of the key reasons that Waiting List Warriors is currently over-subscribed. “This isn’t unique to Gendered Intelligence,” she explains. “Every organisation within the LGBT sector is trying to do a huge amount of work with very, very little. It’s a hard time for funding, and we’re dealing with the legacy of a government that has treated us with contempt. One of the things that’s come out of that is that we can’t do nearly as much as we’d like to, because the resources just aren’t there. Whatever we do, we’re used to doing it on a shoestring.”

The recent election of a Labour government should theoretically be good news for LGBTQ+ charities, but the early signs aren’t great; soon after being appointed as Health Secretary, Wes Streeting upheld and extended a ban on puberty blockers. There have been promising signs of adult trans healthcare reform, with a number of so-called “pilot clinics” being rolled out to address long waiting lists. These clinics usually have extremely specific requirements, but some have been deemed successful enough to be commissioned, like London’s TransPlus.

There are small pockets of hope — Cleo notes a sense of “quiet optimism” in the air — but there is still a dire need for more mental health support, especially within marginalised communities. “What I would really love to see is for these services to be embedded within NHS mental health services,” says Cleo, who calls for “more attention to the community needs of patients.”

Healthcare shouldn’t be a battle, but currently, it is. Groups like Waiting List Warriors can offer a lifeline to those feeling worn down by never-ending waiting lists, as well as a direct link to other trans people with experience of navigating these systems. They’re under-resourced and over-subscribed, but they can — and should — be replicated, because the impact of community support groups can’t be overestimated. “As it stands, the third sector — organisations like Gendered Intelligence — are going to need to keep pitching in,” concludes Cleo, “both to support our communities and to make institutions like the NHS aware that our communities really need that support. Ultimately, I do want to advocate for every trans person to feel empowered to go to their doctor and say: “this is the help that I need.”

This interview is taken from the August 2024 issue of GAY TIMES. Head to Apple News + for more exclusive features and interviews from the issue. 

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Across the north of the UK, performers are embracing the dark side – and evolving drag’s tired gender distinctions while they’re at it

WORDS BY JAKE HALL
PHOTOGRAPHY  DRAVEN AT CRYPTID QUEERS SHEFFIELD, BY ROBYN DEWHURST (@thehappysnappy)

It’s a cold and drizzly night in Sheffield, but the cobbled courtyard of Forge Warehouse is packed full of goths in their most extravagant finery. They’ve braved the weather to witness the glow-up of Cryptid Queers, a beloved event which pairs the country’s most talented drag monsters with DJ sets full of dark, industrial bangers. It’s the first iteration of Cryptid Queers in the new, mammoth venue, a sign of the night’s rising popularity.

Presiding over the sexy, spooky and exhilarating chaos is Cryptid Queers’ founder, self-proclaimed “Prince of Thotness,” King Confuza. “Initially, I created this event as I was struggling to get bookings,” they tell GAY TIMES. “I wanted to create a platform not only for myself, but for other alternative artists in a similar position; events like this give them a chance to be their best, most weird and out-there selves on-stage.”

The line-up is stacked, the performances gloriously extra. “Punk, clown, drag entity” Draven issues a cathartic “fuck you” to the state, lip-syncing to a soundtrack of anti-authoritarian classics. Confuza takes to the stage as a rabid, blood-hungry wolf, a high-energy performance climaxing with the reveal of a giant inflatable lipstick strapped between their legs. Cadaverous Black performs a ghoulish number, screaming their lungs out against dry ice and wind machines. Inspired by Five Nights at Freddy’s, Manly Mannington emerges from a wooden box to torment and torture a security guard named Grizzly, delighting the crowd with their creepy yet quirky joint choreography.

Cryptid Queers is growing in scale and attendance, a fine-tuning of the formula Confuza has worked for years to perfect. It’s not just Sheffield, though; across the country’s northern cities, drag monsters are building their own platforms to showcase their skills.

 

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In 2022, Yvy DeLuca grew tired of seeing drag line-ups on Manchester’s Canal Street filled with cis, white performers, with the occasional person of colour booked as a “last-minute token.” Galvanised by this lack of representation, she created A-POC-ALYPSE CABARET, Manchester’s “POC Queer Coven Collective.”

Deluca is a wildly talented performer herself, known as the BollyWitch — a beautifully creepy persona, which fuses her experience as a practicing witch with her Indian heritage. Given her existing connections across the city’s thriving alt-drag scene, it didn’t take long for her to book diverse line-ups of drag things, kings and creatures, the kind of performers that “go against drag norms,” DeLuca says. Better still, she brought them — finally — into the heart of Canal Street, a decision made to “send a strong message that the shows in Manchester have no excuse to not book more POC artists and celebrate what we do.” A-POC-ALYPSE CABARET has sold out every time.

It’s still too often the case that mainstream line-ups are dominated by slim, white and hyper-femme performers. Mannington – a “cosplaying, Afrofuturist drag king by day, drag monster by night” — tells GAY TIMES that it’s still rare to meet other Black women in the drag scene. So, she created House of Mannington, a platform intended to nurture the skills of other performers who don’t fit the mainstream mould. Mannington may be new to drag, but so far she’s wasted little time creating the Black Excellence cabaret, as well as fleshing out several characters inspired by nerd culture and her Caribbean roots. “Someone called my drag the Manly-verse,” he explains, “as it’s like having versions of Manly Mannington from different dimensions, all unique in their own way!”

With the exception of Mannington, who “blurs the lines between king and monster” and has a few less horror-themed acts in his back pocket, everyone I speak to confirms that drag monsters are still too often relegated to Halloween bookings. Even Mannington has been told that he’s too “sideshow” for some standard drag acts.

DeLuca has heard from mainstream bookers that they “aren’t aware” of Manchester’s drag monsters. “I see that as being lazy,” she says. “We’re not in hiding!” When spooky season does roll around, she sees a handful of drag monsters being booked for bigger gigs – “even then, [producers] at times ask monsters to tone it down, or police their art to please the audience.” Confuza believes that drag monsters are “the most overlooked of all the drag sub-genres, sometimes even more so than kings,” and says it’s been difficult to find nights that celebrate their drag all year round. “There are some wonderful alt promoters, but we’re often regarded as Halloween acts by the rest of the drag world.”

In Scotland too, there are weird and wonderful DIY and alt-drag nights offering something different to the primped and polished mainstream. “There are always weirder, more experimental things happening on the fringes,” says Glasgow-based “drag abomination” Puke, a persona they describe as “the forced exorcism of every putrid thought inside my head.” They speak with reverence of nights like Glasgow’s now-defunct Bonjour, which “truly championed marginalised performers, musicians and DJs,” but Puke says rising costs are making it harder for these nights to sustain themselves.

 

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Despite this adversity, queer creatives are finding ways to spotlight drag without having to fight for late-night licenses. Puke performs regularly at DIY cabarets like Spangled Cabaret and Queer Theory, where they’re often the only drag act amongst poets, musicians, comedians and burlesque performers. “These types of events are important for people who aren’t necessarily into clubbing until 3am, but who still seek the thrill of live queer art.” They’ve also taken gigs at Ushi’s Coffee Corner, a queer-run vegan café, and events run by Matchbox Cine, indie organisers known for screening bizarre, subversive films.

Clearly, there’s no shortage of talented drag kings, things and monsters in the UK. The performers I speak to give dozens of recommendations: in Manchester, there are stars like Eva Serration, Judas Darkholme, the Creeper Tikez, Glitter King and Misty Fye; in Glasgow, there’s Shrek 666; Vee Dagger makes regular appearances in Leeds, and Mannington credits Jada Love and Romeo de la Cruz with creating “amazing alternative drag and gorelesque” across the Midlands. Confuza adds names like Marvy Mucus, Xavier Switchblades, Harddeep Singh, Sodapop, Binjuice and Valkyrie Cain. “There are so many incredibly talented alt artists out there,” they say. “I’m such a huge fan of everyone I get to work with.”

The rise of Drag Race may have boosted the art-form’s global fanbase, but it’s also created new levels of income inequality in drag, and reified the notion of drag as a queen-centric practice. Yet the spectrum of this queer art-form has never been broader or more brilliantly bizarre — and as the latest iteration of Cryptid Queers has proven, there’s a huge appetite to see this gleefully ghoulish fuckery on a large scale. Across the North in particular, drag creatures, things and monsters are carving out their own platforms to terrify and delight their audiences in equal measure, fighting for a more inclusive industry along the way.

The post Drag me to Hell: the ghoulish genderf*ckery of drag monsters appeared first on GAY TIMES.

Originally emerging from a desire to challenge tango’s heteropatriarchal image, queer milongas are providing vital spaces for LGBTQIA+ culture in today’s Buenos Aires

WORDS BY JAKE HALL
HEADER DESIGN BY YOSEF PHELAN

Back in 2001, Mariana Docampo started teaching tango classes at La Casa Del Encuentro, a storied lesbian cultural centre in the heart of Buenos Aires, Argentina. “The roles [of tango] were [seen as] very rigid,” she tells GAY TIMES. “The man would lead and the woman would follow.” In Docampo’s eyes, it was practically impossible to imagine two women dancing together – the vast majority of people couldn’t even fathom the idea of a woman leading her partner, let alone enjoying herself in the process. “People assumed I was taking that guiding role as a teacher because I had to, not because I actually liked it,” she recalls. “It was a different era.”

When you think of the word “tango”, many immediately conjure up romanticised and heavily gendered notions of love, sensuality and romance. When, infact, it’s a practice steeped in tradition and a sense of national pride, yet its origins can actually be traced back to slaves shipped into Argentina throughout the 19th century. Scholar Sylvain Poosson paints a vivid picture of slaves holding vibrant, late-night parties, filled with music, dance and laughter. “Dancing was affirming one’s existence,” he wrote, describing these fiestas as a means of survival.

“To think that what started with eight-person classes has transformed into the movement we have today is a lot!”

By the late 19th century, slavery had been abolished and descendants of slave families had largely taken root along the banks of the Río de la Plata, which separates Argentina and Uruguay. There, they built communities alongside other immigrants and poor Argentinian families, and it’s in these neighbourhoods that the earliest iterations of Argentine tango as we know it today took place. Crowds would dance to the songs of gauchos, or cowboys, without understanding their lyrics, so they simply called them milonga, which means “an argument” in Kimbundu. The term is still used today; in modern-day Argentina, it’s synonymous with tango.

By 2005, Docampo decided to create an alternative to what she described as the “heteropatriarchal image of tango” so often treated as default. That year, she set up La Milonga Tango Queer, programming classes with the basic aim of allowing people to dance freely, in whatever role they wished. The early classes were tight-knit, intimate and liberating. While just a handful of members showed up, many of them were already Docampo’s students, but they revelled in the newly created space.

 

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What started as a small, community-led initiative, quickly snowballed into an impactful movement. The timing just so happened to coincide with the creation of the Argentine Federation of Lesbian, Gay and Trans (FALGBT), also formed in 2005, a coordinated activist effort to campaign for issues like the legalisation of gay marriage, and legal recognition of trans people. Docampo’s classes began selling out quickly, so in 2007, she turned to Augusto Balizona, an organiser of another long-running Buenos Aires queer tango, La Milonga Gay La Marshall. Together, they co-created the Festival Internacional de Tango Queer de Buenos Aires, which this year celebrated its 15th anniversary. While the festival was on hiatus throughout the pandemic, it’s since showed no sign of slowing down. Docampo still speaks of these achievements in disbelief: “To think that what started with eight-person classes has transformed into the movement we have today is a lot!”

Better still, the rise of queer tango in Buenos Aires has opened doors for a new generation of milonga organisers. Perhaps the best-known example is the team behind Batacazo Cultural. Explicitly trans-inclusive, the cosy venue has a varied program: alongside tango classes, you’ll find erotic art exhibitions, queercore celebrations and screenings of queer cult classics. Drop in and you might see a trans artist performing slam poetry, a crowd of introspective onlookers sat cross-legged on the floor, eating vegan hamburgers and falafel wraps. It’s fast becoming a vital venue for indie musicians too, platforming everything from experimental punk to high-octane electronica.

 

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Docampo credits this new wave of queer organisers with diversifying the tango scene even further, bringing new perspectives on a hallowed tradition. “It’s important to listen to new generations, and to always keep an eye on what’s happening around us.” This latter sentiment is especially relevant right now, as the hard-fought victories of queer communities across Argentina are under significant threat.

In late 2023, Javier Milei – described in a Guardian op-ed as an “anti-woke libertarian” — came to power, after a campaign built on criticising the previous “socialist” regime for its decriminalisation of abortion, as well as its progressive laws on gender identity recognition. “Argentina is facing an economic and institutional crisis,” explains Damian, cultural director at Federación Argentina LGBT (FALGBT). “The LGBTI+ community is in a pretty stressed-out emotional state; there’s so much fear of losing the rights which protect us.”

“These spaces create new ways of living and breathing tango, and deconstructing its stereotypes”

The last few weeks have seen a mass wave of protest across Argentina, led in no small part by LGBTI+ activists fighting to preserve past victories. “We’re fighting against the way in which the far right is basically trying to eliminate our rights of existence on all levels, from healthcare to work,” said Federica Baeza, an activist quoted in a recent Guardian write-up of a nationwide strike. The FALGBT is one of many organisations creating new webs of resistance, taking to the streets and fighting back against prejudice. Damian is optimistic that decades of community-building won’t be eroded by one far-right regime. “The good thing is that, throughout this crisis, resistance, love and fighting spirit are ongoing,” they state. “We’ll make sure it carries on that way.”

Within this turbulent political context, the rise of queer milonga isn’t just about deconstructing old traditions and finding joy in the art of tango, it’s about creating space for LGBTQ+ people of all descriptions to come together, find common ground and create new networks. Damian says there’s still a long way to go before even Buenos Aires’ tango scene can be called truly inclusive, but it’s the venues and communities resulting from this wave of success that matter the most. “These spaces create new ways of living and breathing tango, and deconstructing its stereotypes,” he concludes, “but queer milonga is in a constant state of flux. It’s always being reshaped, and that’s thanks to a new generation of organisers who keep that evolution ongoing.”

The post Under Milei’s rule, queer tango is creating space for community resistance appeared first on GAY TIMES.

To mark GAY TIMES Honours 2023, Jake Hall explores how LGBTQIA+ trailblazers have brought queer utopian stories to life in their activism and art. 

WORDS BY JAKE HALL
HEADER DESIGN BY YOSEF PHELAN

Imagine your dream world – what does it look like? Would you lean into your Willy Wonka fantasy and frolic through a tasty, saccharine wonderland? Perhaps you’d move your friends and loved ones into a mansion, laughing your way through life with your chosen family. You could go simpler and conjure up a world without work, in which you can binge-watch Real Housewives and eat Pringles to your heart’s content. Whatever the specifics, you’re probably envisioning a kinder and more accepting world than the hellscape we live in currently. It’s bleak, to put things lightly: the UK has been named one of the worst places in the world to be trans and we’re living in an ongoing climate crisis. In this context, utopian thinking isn’t apolitical; in fact, it’s deeply political, amongst the flames, to ask yourself: what would your perfect world look like?

The word utopia itself is an interesting one, which translates loosely from Greek to “no place,” and sounds extremely similar to the word for “good place.” Writers and philosophers have fused these definitions, conceptualising utopia as some mythical, paradise-like island; it’s a tease which represents a vision of perfection, one that remains ever so slightly out of grasp. In this sense, it helps to think of utopia as a motivating factor or driving force, something to actively strive towards.

More recently, queer academia has refashioned utopia into political praxis, a powerful tool in the arsenal of marginalised communities. Society feeds us the lie that today’s cruel world is fixed and unchangeable, that we should keep our heads down and just be realistic. We’re told to keep our heads down, to be happy with the crumbs we’re given. These lies are told tactically, to drill into us that there’s no point in imagining a better future. Thankfully, queer trailblazers have seen through these myths, especially over the last few decades.

Artists and scholars like Cuban-American José Esteban Muñoz have leaned into the possibilities of utopian thinking. Back in 2009, Muñoz released his game-changing book Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity, a wild ride through queer nightlife, performance and theory. Building on his past work on ‘queers of colour’ politics, Muñoz argued that queer theory had lost its bite; that the revolutionary politics of the ‘60s and ‘70s had been replaced by beige, capitalist thinking. No longer were we fighting to dismantle capitalism, fuck freely and abolish the police. Instead, we were campaigning for gay marriage and inclusion within lethal systems of injustice, like the military industrial complex. Muñoz’s core thesis was that the “utopian function” of queer theory had been lost, that we were being too pragmatic with our goals.

Cruising Utopia isn’t quite as horny as the name suggests, but it’s no coincidence that Muñoz looked to queer nightlife and culture for his source material. Already, we can – and do – build temporary havens, where we can briefly experience euphoria on sweaty, jam-packed dance floors. Culture and community can offer us the tools we need to build our own versions of utopia, complete with drag, dark-rooms and spaces to express ourselves without fear of judgement.

As well as nightlife, photography can be a tool for creating a queertopia. With nothing but a camera and a concept, artists can carve out images which embody their dream worlds. Even this process can be utopian. It’s a chance to gather queer friends and communities together, building temporary sets drenched in ethereal beauty, free from the chaos and the hatred of the outside world. There’s also the joy of being viewed through a queer lens. Too often, we’re reminded that mainstream society views us as an aberration, our identities as an affliction to be cured –– as exemplified by the government’s longstanding refusal to ban conversion therapy. 

Photography and visual arts can give us autonomy. They can create a safe space for us to express ourselves however we choose, and have the beauty in that expression drawn out. Sometimes, there’s no better feeling than looking yourself up and down, smiling broadly and knowing in that second that you are the moment. It’s a magical feeling to be truly understood, to be seen and uplifted. In these dreamy bubbles of queer arts and community, that utopian dream can be realised.

Filmmakers have similarly taken the idea of queertopia as a creative prompt. In Queer Utopia: Act I Cruising, director Lui Avallos creates scenes in which queer elders are listened to, honoured and cherished. These spiritual moments speak to the power of collective memory – and although it might not always feel like it, his work underlines that there’s actually something pretty special about queerness. We’re part of a wider lineage, one rooted in mutual aid and collective care.

It’s all well and good to think of your utopia, whatever that might be –– but what’s the point? To go back to Muñoz, it’s all about broadening our worlds and allowing ourselves to spell out what our versions of paradise look like. Because, let’s be real, the world is a shitshow. The cost of living crisis is never-ending, mental health support is still nigh-on impossible to access freely and we’re glued to our smartphones in horror watching endless violence unfold in real time. We all feel the impulse to do something, and we should – we can protest, form direct action groups, create mutual aid projects and tactically boycott companies enabling this mass violence. Utopian thinking doesn’t have to mean taking a blinkered view and imagining a world with no adversity. In some cases, it’s the act of working towards a better future that creates the utopia.

Being apolitical is a luxury. Plenty of queer people worldwide don’t have the privilege of resting on their laurels, because they’re continuously under attack. There’s a value and sanctity to existing queer spaces, but they don’t have to be sanitised or apolitical to be utopian. There’s even something cathartic about coming together in the face of adversity, falling in love with each other – whether platonic, romantic, sexual or a mixture – and creating our own support networks to collectively battle adversity. Queertopia can – and does – exist even in today’s world. The real utopian project is thinking of how to extend those moments of bliss, to let them trickle into other dimensions of our daily lives.

After all, even in the utopian imagination, a life without adversity would ultimately be boring. We need to experience life’s lows to appreciate its highs. There’s nuance needed here, obviously – in a utopian world, the ‘low’ might be feeling fed up and tired, not being legislated out of existence for the mere fact of your identity. Yet today’s definition of queertopia can be distilled into moments of queer joy. It’s the euphoric high that comes from being loved for who you are, of being surrounded by others who make you feel seen. It’s a feeling that’s sometimes organic, like nestling into the grass on a warm summer day. But it’s also a state that can be cultivated, as we’ve seen throughout this essay.

So, as events continue to unravel, this year’s GAY TIMES Honours will put some respect on the name of queer trailblazers bringing their visions of utopia to life and sharing them widely. We’ll showcase the change-makers keeping their eyes fixed firmly on a brighter future and building their own versions of paradise in the meantime. This process is ongoing – and it should be! The path towards utopia is ultimately never-ending, but by imagining the world we want to see, we can gradually create the conditions to make every step forward feel that little bit lighter.

This very sentiment is what inspired the motivation behind our five GAY TIMES covers paying homage to extraordinary LGBTQIA+ talent. Inspired by elemental themes, each cover spotlights a star and their unique identity. For this year, our round-up of names includes actor Jonathan Bailey, American artists Slayyyter and Dua Saleh, UK MP Nadia Whittome and our digital Honours host Nick Grimshaw. Our custom designs for each cover encapsulate their trailblazing mark on the community. Embossed with a Rorschach-inspired illustration, our honourees are a reminder that queertopia looks different for everyone.

Together, let’s raise a glass to the queers refusing to lower their expectations and uncritically accept today’s shitshow as the best we’ll ever get. By striving for a utopian future, we can make the present feel that little bit more bearable.

The post Welcome to queertopia appeared first on GAY TIMES.