Blood, Sweat and Gold Lamé
Baltimore voguers indulge in fifteen minutes
of fabulous
Reported by Andrea Domanick
Produced by Carina Giamerese
The living room of the apartment Marquis Clanton shares with his grandfather in the Baltimore projects is larger than one might expect: the walls are salmon-colored, adorned with retro family photos; overstuffed furniture surrounds a flat-screen TV, above which a crucifix hangs.
But make your way upstairs, and the family portraits are replaced by photographs of models in cutting-edge couture. At the top, between homemade shrines to Chanel and Louis Vuitton, two young men sit hunched over a stack of hand-drawn floor plans."We're gonna make our house feel like they're the top VH1 celebrities," one of them says.
Marquis and his friend Eugene Brown -- a.k.a., Marquis Revlon and Legendary Prince Ugene Balenciaga (the "U" has more pizzazz) -- have their work cut out for them: they're planning one of the area's largest balls. It's called "An Evening of VH1 Celebreality," and it draws gay, lesbian and transsexual community members, who "walk," or compete, for trophies, prizes and reputation.
Competitors join surrogate families called "houses" and adopt family names, typically drawn from designer labels. Most members of the ballroom scene are queer men of color who come from lower-income families. There are, however, a growing number of women on the scene as well.
An Attitude and a Lifestyle
Modern balls sidestep gay stereotypes, catering not only to drag queens in feather boas, but to those who may not necessarily cultivate an appearance to match their sexuality. Fashion and image do play a part in the ballroom circuit, but the scene distinguishes itself as an attitude and a lifestyle, not just a look.
Marquis and Ugene promote their event at a Pride Fest "mini-ball" in Baltimore. Attendees exiting the cramped banquet hall of the Mt. Vernon Hotel are eager to explain what exactly defines ballroom culture. It's essentially about competition.
"You know how you have a basketball team?" Marquis asked. "You got to have people that compete. So you build a house, and everybody walks to compete -- for trophies, for money ..."
There are myriad categories to compete in, but the quintessential battle at a ball is called "voguing." And though the dance style varies, it can best be summed up as a sort of effeminate breakdancing.
Emmanuel, a relative newcomer to the scene, said voguing bolsters confidence and allows you to loosen up. But he admitted that he's still easing in to voguing.
"[At first] I didn't feel confident in myself," Emmanuel said. "I just felt, 'Oh, I look stupid.' But as the years went on, [with] me getting used to it and getting used to myself, you know, I became more comfortable with voguing and my sexuality."
An Illusion Life
Marquis agreed, saying the balls help people express their creativity and individuality. But some members of the scene, like Latrice St. Claire, say that rivalry and the struggle for status can be overwhelming, making it easy for some competitors to lose sight of reality.
"Well, the ballroom scene is an illusion life," Latrice explained. "You can come here and be famous. You can come here and be like, the biggest thing ever. That's what most people are drawn to."
Some, however, find the same problems in the ballroom circuit that they sought to escape in their day-to-day lives. Marquis cites violence, drugs and unprotected sex as the biggest problems facing the ball scene today, noting that many fights are rooted in the scene's competitive edge.
Despite these issues, many queer young people turn to ball culture because their families have rejected them.
"They look to the ballroom scene because, you know, you have all these different houses which are like cliques and groups of families," said DJ Lucky, who frequents the East Coast ball circuit. "And they look for these families to actually just have a real family, because their families just threw them out. They don't have anywhere to go. Some of these people are homeless."
These days, he's on the sidelines at balls, spinning bass beats for competitors. But at one time, he was on the runway.
"I started out at as transsexual years ago," Lucky said. "I've walked pretty much every category ... [But] just seeing all the crazy stuff that was going on in the scene ... it wasn't me. And I'm a leader, not a follower."
After years of switching from house to house to dodge the scene's pressures, Lucky decided to take a step back.
"That decision was based solely upon looking at the people around me and saying, 'OK, look, this is crazy.' The HIV rates within the ballroom scene, the amount of people I would see dying and things like that -- I just didn't want to be around it. It's too much negativity," he admitted.
Ups and Downs
But as Ugene and Marquis work out the last details of their ball, they say the scene can actually help young people find their way.
"I wanted to do some more positive things, and to be a role model to some of the younger kids," Ugene said. "Because if I can change a little bit in somebody's life to make them grow a little further, then that makes me feel better about myself."
Ugene added that the ball scene is no different from regular life: your family can be a support system, but it can also turn on you.
"What a lot of them don't understand is, once you get in these families, these families are just like your real families," he said. "They will f--k you over, they will help you when you fall sometimes. It's ups and downs, and families are not perfect."
And while the ball scene's not perfect, Marquis and Eugene are hoping their Evening of Celebreality will be. They say they're trying to ensure that everyone will be respectful -- and put their best face forward. Because doesn't everyone deserve fifteen minutes of fabulous?
