Art by Julia Karas

I’ve been called a fish. The first time I was bestowed with this illustrious title was the day I decided I never wanted to hear the word again. Being called “fish” is not something one can appreciate. “Fish” isn’t a word one can identify with. One would never introduce oneself as “Fish.” It’s disgusting.

          I like the name Herb, or Jungle Kween. They evoke something beyond plastic coral, pretzel stained strollers, and diabetic turtles. They come with mirages of Parisian artists’ apartments overlooking the Seine or a stage draped with velvet. But I’m just a “fish.”

          I guess I am “fishy looking,” but that’s something I’m trying to put behind me. All I’m saying is I look like the average salty creature. It’s awful. Every morning after feeding I crawl into a cave in the pink plastic coral I call home and I dream. 

          I dream of satin, pain au chocolat, being the first non-mammal to participate in RuPaul's Drag Race, and walking. I dream of walking. Especially in Louboutins.

Here’s the thing about people: there are two kinds. Miss RuPaul and everyone else. By everyone else I mean, the fat, sticky, uncultured, children and their obese, morose parents who come to the aquarium and smear my glass with grease from their fat, sticky, uncultured faces. I don’t go into your home and smear my disgusting face all over it, nor do I show up in a stained Jurassic Park t-shirt and wonder out loud when we’re going to see the shark. It’s disrespectful. I would strut up in Versace.

          I dream of belting Cher or Elton John from under a fluorescent wig shaped like some kind of plant. I dream of screaming “YASS KWEEEN” at some has-been closeted English school boy turned makeup artist. I want to call someone ratchet and throw my size 16 Jimmy Choos at their face. I want an inspirational Instagram where I show off my friendship with my heros and call out homophobia in liberal politicians. But most of all I dream of being able to feel something, something that is impossible to feel in a 10 by 6 fish tank. I want to feel important.

          As someone who lives in an aquarium it’s obvious I wasn’t born with the knowledge of the world of drag. I learned about it from the security guard. His name is Pedro, but he calls himself Phantasmah. I adore him. He watches an episode of RuPaul every Thursday night on his 5-12 shift, and during the commercial breaks he extracts rainbow boas from his nondescript duffel bag. By the end of the show he’s wearing five of the aforementioned boas, his abuelita's house coat, platforms, and his eyebrows have been pushed up about an inch by globs of industrial level eye shadow. But the true magic of drag is that with every boa and fake eyelash he stands up a little straighter and his smile becomes a little more genuine. Phantasmah is a God.

That is what I dream of. To feel the freedom of luminous feathers on my scales, the freedom to be me. 

The thing is, Humans limit themselves to the expectations of others about who they’re supposed to be. Drag twists expectations into glamour and liberty.

I do have one advantage though. I’m gold.

- - -

          Phantasmah walks into his depressing booth. It’s Wednesday. I don’t know how I’m going to wait to see if Shangela snatches Ben de la Creme. I hope she does. Ben de la Creme is the definition of crusty, she came in with fake Channels last week. She was in the presence of Miss RuPaul in fake Channel. I wish he knew the effect he’s had on the little life of this goldfish. Phantasmah is bending over and getting something out of her bag, I hope it’s his grandma’s house coat. It always makes him feel better. BUSTED CHILLANA that boy just pulled a Car and Driver out of his bag! 

Car and Driver.

          Car and Driver.

          Car and Driver.

          CAR AND DRIVER.

          Car and Driver is for very straight men and men pretending to be straight. Phantasmah would never pretend, never. She is my role model, she is fierce, she is brave, she is proud. 

PHANTASMAH (PEDRO)-

          Mama found out about everything last night. 

          She wailed at me “Pedro, estas un hombre. Estas un hombre, SEA UN HOMBRE. Por qué no eres más como Fernando, huh? Tiene una familia, él actúa como un HOMBRE. Why do you do this to your mama?” 

          All the while she stood over me. The tiny, cancerous, Colombiana she is. The way she looked at me and I knew she knew everything, about the clothes, about prom, about Lawrence, about me. A little part of me died when I realized that my mama would never care for me again. 

She looked at me with her sad, cancer eyes and caressed me with her angelic voice for the last time: “Pedro, sales.” 

          I walked to my room with my head down. As I walked down the dingy hallway I noticed the pictures lining the wall. They were all of me. One every year until I became “un hombre.” I missed when I could run into her arms, her mere presence, and when her hand on my hair fixed the badness. I walked into the room I lived in since I became an American, I packed some clothes and all my books and pictures into my shabby duffel bag. I walked into the living room. 

          Mama was staring at our Maria, reciting Querido Maria under her breath. “Mama,” I whispered, “Te amo.” She did not turn around. 

          I walked out the door. That was the first time I have ever needed to tell her I love her.  

          I stepped out into the brilliant afternoon (I never go out during the day). Everything was so harshly bright, and for several seconds I couldn't see. 

          “The sun burnt every day. It burnt time.”

         – Fahrenheit 451

          The light burnt away my sadness, my anguish, my lies, my secrets, and for one perfect second I stood there, as Phantasmah. Then that incredible star fell behind a cloud, and it was all gone. 

          I withered on the bleached sidewalk and glared at the gum that benignly sat there. I had nowhere to go. I don’t have any friends. Friends are not something a closeted Latino boy has. I didn’t have any family except for Mama. I was drifting, with nowhere to go. Except the aquarium, so that’s where I went. 

          The only thing I had in the whole world was Mama, and now she is gone forever. 

          I took the A from the only part of Spanish Harlem that is still Spanish and transferred to the F at Jay Street. The train went above ground in Midwood, and as I emerged from the tunnel the last rays of sunlight pierced the grime of the subway windows. With the sun left the last pieces of Phantasmah. I could feel her drifting away on the receding rays of sunshine.

          There was a discarded Car and Driver on the seat next to me. I tried not to think about how pathetic this scene was, an obviously gay man attempting to read Car and Driver on an empty F train, going nowhere. Maria helped me. I picked it up and turned to the first page. It was a glorious full body shot of Lewis Hamilton. This might not be so bad after all.