A SHINING STAR (Review of "Starwalker")

I’m not a producer, nor a marketing guru, nor a theater critic whose words can make or break a new production. None of these roles have ever appealed to me. I don’t think they’ve ever even crossed my mind at any point in time when I wished to change careers. If only I had that kind of influence now.

 

I want to give a robust shout-out to Starwalker, a musical about a 2-spirit Indigi-queer drag queen. To be clear, I know no one associated with the production. I’d heard nothing about it until I scrolled through Facebook on Saturday morning and an ad for it popped up. My boyfriend, Evan, loves drag shows and drag brunches so I tilted my laptop his way and said, “What do you think?” It was a formality. “Let’s go!” he said within seconds and so we selected our seats, checked out and had suddenly we were set to go the theater, our first such outing since seeing Take Me Out on Broadway last May.   

 

I enjoy drag events for the costumes, for the camp, for the music, for the sass, for surveying smiles in the audience, for the joyous connection between performers and partakers and for those dang death drops. It’s the exclamatory positivity of drag events that has conservatives in such a kerfuffle. RuPaul, drag brunches and drag storytimes make people happy. It goes against their tired, desperate narrative of vilifying all-things queer. 

 

Still, I didn’t expect much from a drag musical. I figured any singing would be lip-synched. I wondered if calling the show a “musical” was a stretch. After all, isn’t repackaging a core element of drag? Wouldn’t it just be a revue, with a series of drag performances? How loose would the story be, if there was one at all, to attempt to connect “I Will Survive” with “About Damn Time”?  

 

Besides, I’ve never thought of Vancouver as having a robust arts community. It’s an outdoorsy city, influenced by the natural beauty of Stanley Park, the North Shore Mountains and gorgeous waterways. We cycle along endless bike routes, we time ourselves ascending a trail called the Grouse Grind and, in calmer moments, we take parents for a stroll along the seawall. I’ve tried to be cultured, periodically buying annual memberships for the Vancouver Art Gallery and season’s tickets to theater companies, but the fare has been more misses than hits. Hence, my renewal notices often go ignored. It’s embarrassing that I only knew of the venue, York Theatre, on account of a bike mural painted on an exterior wall. Billing Starwalker as a “world premiere” actually sounded sad.

 

Overall, my concerns were minor. I looked forward to an evening when Evan and I wouldn’t have to stare at one of our laptop screens, scrolling and trying to negotiate one another into submission for seeing another mediocre offering on Netflix, something in that vast why-bother zone between Evan’s zombie pick and my Danish drama series about acquiring oil resources in Greenland. (How many times must I toss out “Opposites attract!” when it looks like we’ve reached an impasse, also known as a Vanessa Hudgens rom-com?) This was Date Night for Evan and me. Dinner and a “musical,” made more magical by a little falling snow. 

Arriving early, we queued at the bar as a bartender prepared two rainbow cocktails with “Extravaganza” in the name for the people ahead of us. The drinks looked festive but the idea of consuming some incarnation of a liquid snow cone lost out to a safer cider. The York turned out to be an intimate theater with customary crimson seats on the main level, the balcony closed during this show’s three-week run. The atmosphere felt relaxed and friendly as a mixed crowd took their seats. By mixed, I mean in terms of age. It didn’t skew obviously queer, which was both a positive sign of acceptance and a tad disappointing. I’d wondered if our view might be obstructed by a beehived drag queen in front of us, but there was no such queen to be seen. 

 

As the curtains opened, the first number, “What They Don’t Know About You,” dazzled, an upbeat song featuring seven drag performers, dancing and singing—yes, actually singing!—about The House of Borealis, a haven for young drag queens with nowhere else to turn. I took a quick side-glance at Evan, wide-eyed, mouth open, a clear sign we were in agreement: this was already beyond some drag brunch. Leaving Vanessa Hudgens in the lurch had been the right decision. The audience clapped enthusiastically and I tried to scale back expectations, readying for some threadbare story and disjointed numbers to follow. 

 

Dillan Meighan Chiblow

There was a quick scene change to a park bench, stage left, and a large, what appeared to be a fabric-braided tree, stage right. Dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans while lugging a backpack, Eddie, known as Star or Starwalker to their family (based on a Buffy Sainte-Marie song), sat on the bench, singing “The Rebellion Song.” Actor Dillan Meighan Chiblow immediately shone, the First Nations chant highlighting an outstanding vocal talent, as comfortable in the lower register as singing falsetto. Song lyrics referred to a past in which abuse was sold as love and the character’s yearning for a sense of belonging. 

 

It is in this forest setting, presumably Lees Trail in Stanley Park, where Star meets Levi from the House of Borealis who’s in search of a hookup. The two form an immediate bond, with Levi inviting Star back to the House, a change of pace from living on the streets (and in the park) and turning tricks. Levi mentions drag, but Star comes off as respectfully disinterested. Not their thing.

 

During the first act, Star finds acceptance in the House of Borealis, love with Levi and a budding interest in becoming a drag performer. As Star struggles to truly feel their drag persona, Mother Borealis encourages them to make it their own. Star does so by infusing their First Nations heritage, leading to a strong ensemble reprise of “The Rebellion Song,” powerfully integrating First Nations chanting, drumming and circle dancing with upbeat singing and drag pageantry. The audience, clearly into the production, clapped, cheered and called out during this exuberant number, an exhilarating spot to place an intermission, everyone in the theater deserving time to catch their breath.

 

Evan and I looked at one another, our facial expressions rendering our “Wows” superfluous. “Broadway-caliber,” Evan said. I’d been thinking the same thing. This is a show that deserves to be toured and, yes, tweaked in a few spots regarding story and song. Chiblow is indeed the standout, but Jeffrey Michael Follis as Levi and Stewart Adam McKensy as Mother Borealis are very good as well, in terms of acting, singing and elevating drag. Some of the supporting cast didn’t quite match these high standards but presumably a few of these roles could be recast on tour. 

 

Lingering in the lobby, I eavesdropped on others raving. We could see snow falling outside and sticking to the ground. Since it doesn’t snow often in Vancouver, any accumulation puts people in a panic. The drive home would be a bit of a challenge. I said to Evan, “Maybe we should go. I like it so much, I don’t want to see it [pardon the pun] drag in the second half.” But we stayed and so, it seemed, did everyone else.     

 

The second half was almost as strong, still rave-worthy even as expectations were higher. This was no longer some Vancouver project. This was Broadway bound, after all. How special to witness a show’s world premiere stint! That’s right, Tony lovers, I saw it way back then, when Chiblow had less than 3,000 followers on Instagram (@dillychibz). Supporting cast members had more acting and singing lines and came off as stronger. The costuming and lighting combined splendidly for the Winter Solstice Ball scene. A key plot turn raised the stakes but needed more work in terms of establishing stronger ties to the first half and being credible.

 

Corey Payette

Regardless, Starwalker is divine entertainment. I got the impression it was a labor of love for director Corey Payette who also wrote the book, music and lyrics. (That warrants its own wow.) Payette notes in the playbill, “I started writing this musical as a way of expressing my Two-Spirit identity and the love I feel for my queer community…It weaves together Indigenous culture and drag performance into a celebration of who we are, our families and chosen families, the beauty we all share inside ourselves, and the Two-Spirit power that has always existed on this land.” 

 

Mission accomplished.

 

Starwalker’s Vancouver run continues until March 5. If you or anyone you know has the chance to see it, I offer my enthusiastic recommendation. Ticket information is here.

JONNY APPLESEED (Book Review)

By Joshua Whitehead

 

 

(Arsenal Pulp Press, 2018)

 

 

 

It’s interesting that the front cover of this book expressly notes that this is “A Novel.” So often, as I read the anecdotes, I felt certain they were mined directly from the author’s actual experiences. We writers do implant much of our lives into our fiction, but things seemed particularly real here. To the extent the anecdotes are imagined, then it’s high praise to Joshua Whitehead that they came off feeling like memoir. 

 

The fact that I used the word “anecdotes” twice in the opening paragraph is intentional. The novel comes off as a series of vivid vignettes which jump all over the place in time and place. To the extent there is an overarching plot, it involves the titular character earning enough money to make it back to the reservation where he grew up so that he can attend a funeral. The stakes don’t feel high and there is no suspense about whether he or won’t get there on time. 

 

It’s a meandering journey from beginning to end. Sometimes the weaving of past and present plays out in a series of alternating paragraphs. Not my thing, but I appreciated what the author had set out to do. Other times, I’d completely forget that Jonny was trying to get back home since there’d been so many digressions. This might be intentional. I’m no expert on First Nations storytelling, but a quick Google turned up some information about there being a non-linear tradition which also reminds me of some stories I heard from Elders when I lived on BC’s Sunshine Coast on the traditional territory of the Squamish and Sechelt First Nations.

 

What makes this novel compelling is the voice. Jonny identifies as a 2S (Two-Spirit) NDN (Indian) who has left the rez in rural Manitoba to make a go of living in the big city, in this case Winnipeg. Whitehead’s writing makes a strong case for the importance of #ownvoices telling stories from a minority perspective. The slang and the inclusion of terms from First Nations languages enrich the novel. 

 

A couple examples from random page flips provide a sense of the flavor:

 

The house looked like the ones on the rez, two-storeys, an off-green shade, and two windows on the second floor that look like eyes. We always thought our houses looked like Oscar the Grouch’s—maybe they were like that everywhere? Do all rezzes look the same? Like some NDN Sesame Street?

**

 

            I bought a pack of Pall Malls for ten bucks, took one out, and lit it up. That feeling of relaxation came over me, the kind that burns your throat but makes you feel like you’re back home even if you’re hundreds of miles away. A good cigarette is like a familiar story. A Nate [Native] saw me spark one up and made his way over to me. 

            “Hey cuz, can I bum a light?”

            “Oh yeah, sure.”

            “Oh hey, can I bum a smoke too?”

            Damn trickster, I thought, someone’s taught him well.

 

 

Jonny is frank about his life and what his chances are in making it off the rez. His primary source of income comes as a sex worker, typically through a form of online show and tell but also from meeting in person. I’ve never been a fan of having a main character be a queer sex worker. In the past, I’ll admit to being a judgmental prude, but that’s not the case anymore. People are advantaged and disadvantaged. They do what they can to make ends meet. However, the queer sex worker is a cliché in gay fiction. (I’m sure I’ve mentioned before that a guy I dated more than twenty-five years ago read gay fiction almost exclusively. Every time I’d see a new book in his car or on the nightstand, I’d ask, “What’s the name of the gay hustler?” He’d frown, but there was always one. Maybe it made for more interesting reading than a story about the gay antiques dealer or the gay florist.) 

 

Thankfully, the sex work is not the core of the novel. There’s as much talk about the amount money he needs to earn from his vocation as there are details of the job and, combined, it’s still minor part of the story. (I'm glad I kept reading after coming across what may be the worst sentence I've read all year. Describing a dream, Whitehead writes, "Bees buzz around (a lilac), their wings slicing through the air, their bodies velvet smooth in a way that reminds me of how I like to shave my pubes." WHAT? It appears, ironically, on page 69. Whitehead is a much better writer. I feel the editor should have stepped in and said, "Um...just no.") Jonny’s connection to a few prominent characters lends heart to the story. Above all is his loving relationship with his kookum (grandmother) who unequivocally accepts Jonny along with his feminine tendencies from when he was a young boy. He is who he is and she couldn’t love him more. A petite woman, kookum is not to be messed with, except by her own daughter, Jonny’s mother. Both women are prone to drink too much—Jonny, too—but his mother is more of a work in progress who often left the parenting to Jonny’s grandmother. His kookum instills a strength in Jonny, including a sense of pride in indigenous beliefs and traditions. 

 

The other prominent relationship is with Jonny’s childhood friend on the rez, Tias. There’s a casualness to the sexual intimacy between the two men, a natural part of the love between them. Jonny would likely choose Tias as his partner for life, but Tias likes women too and his intimacy with Jonny, while beyond being an experimental phase, comes off as impermanent. Jonny will take what he can get, knowing that Tias is connected to his girlfriend, Jordan, and that Tias will likely opt for a more conventional straight life. In the hands of another writer, it might be easy to judge Tias, even dislike him, but he’s genuinely trying to live his best life, very much wanting Jonny to be a part of it. Yes, it’s complicated as is most everything for the characters in this book.

 

Many vignettes are delightful such as an account of Jonny having to work in a group as part of a class “Culturama” project in elementary school. Why learn about his own heritage when a report on Sweden is what is assigned? A bossy group member rejects his first version of rice pudding—there’s always a food element in these reports on foreign countries—so his mother figures out how to meet the Swedish standard. 

 

“Heck, they eat reindeer? Maybe we have more in common than I thought,” she said. When she flipped to the last page, which was about the Swedish tradition of blood pudding, she started laughing… “Here, m’boy. I have just the thing.” 

 

After the bossy girl tastes the revamped recipe, she screams, “This tastes like shit!” However it tastes, it leaves its mark on the girl’s tongue. “It’s not just red,” I told her. “It’s NDN red.”

 

There are memorable tales about encountering a bear in the street, stumbling upon a dead porcupine and the two boys being caught wearing nail polish by Tais’s stepfather. The tone of each differs remarkably. 

 

Whitehead doesn’t whitewash life on or off the rez. There are bleak aspects to both but there’s also a strong sense of survival, of loving people despite their flaws and of holding on fiercely to what makes one unique as a culture, as an orientation, as an individual. 

 

Jonny Appleseed is a novel that will stick with me. I’m sure a second read will bring more to light. I look forward to following Whitehead’s literary career.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BABY STEPS IN LEARNING ABOUT TWO-SPIRIT IDENTITY

Since I just learned that November is Picture Book Month, I thought it timely to share this post.

 

 

Initially, this post was going to be a review of a children’s picture book, but then I looked up the publisher on the internet and decided to address both the book and the publisher.

 

I recently spent eight days on the northern part of Vancouver Island, twice as long as expected due to (still unresolved) car difficulties and a series of complications, one piling on another. Anytime we leave home, there is a possibility for adventure. This particular occasion helped me let go of the things I couldn’t control and create new opportunities. I needed to adopt that lemons-to-lemonade mindset. 

 

I spent three days at Alert Bay on Cormorant Island, which is largely an indigenous community, the traditional, unceded territory of the ‘Namgis First Nation. While there, time seemed to slow down, with me being a forty-minute ferry ride away from other distractions. 

 

As a child, I was raised to appreciate First Nations culture, particularly in terms of art. In junior high school in Hamilton, Ontario, I had a dynamic, passionate teacher of Canadian history, Mr. Tomlinson, who didn’t sugarcoat elements of conquest and assimilation regarding European settlement in Canada and the role of Jesuit missionaries. He was writing a book about Tecumseh, a Shawnee chief who was born near present-day Chillicothe, Ohio and died near Chatham, Ontario. It’s significant that Tecumseh, portrayed as a hero, was one of the first historical figures I knew about. Still, my understanding of indigenous history plateaued in junior high. There was little to no mention of Native culture and contributions during my high school years in Texas. 

 

Alert Bay painting
by Emily Carr

I’d first heard about Alert Bay as a child. My parents loved Canadian art, particularly works by Cornelius Krieghoff, the Group of Seven and B.C. artist Emily Carr. I frequently looked through coffee table books featuring paintings by these artists and I recall a couple of Carr’s paintings of totem poles at Alert Bay. It seemed like happenstance that I’d get to stay there, awaiting a prognosis for my car. 

 

My first stop, after a fortifying coffee at the town’s only grocery store (alas, the only café didn’t open until noon each day…NOON?!) was to the U’mista Cultural Centre. After viewing First Nations art, I took a long time browsing the gift shop, scanning the bookshelves, searching for anything on two-spirit identity. I found nothing other than a chapter called, “All My Queer Relations: Language, Culture, and Two-Spirit Identity” in the book, Indigenous Writes: A Guide to First Nations, Métis & Inuit Issues in Canada (HighWater Press, 2016), edited by Chelsea Vowel. I didn’t buy it. I was most interested in finding a picture book with a two-spirit character, something to introduce young people to diversity within indigenous populations and, ideally, to help a child see themselves identified and validated in literature.

 

After I finally asked for help with my search, a staff member and the gift shop manager joined in the hunt. Nothing came up.

 

Later, I Googled and still didn’t come up with much, but I managed to get my hands on 47,000 Beads, a 2017 picture book written by Koja Adeyoha and Angel Adeyoha and illustrated by Holly McGillis, published by Flamingo Rampant.   

 

As a children’s book, it disappoints. It’s one of those teacherly books, literary tofu: good for you but not so tasty. 47,000 Beads commits a major faux pas in the genre as the story—to the extent there is one—abandons the child, Peyton’s, point of view after the first few pages and does not have her actively involved in solving the problem (which is that she doesn’t want to jingle dance and wear a dress at a pow wow). It’s Auntie Eyota, other supportive relatives and an adult friend identified as L (they; there’s no use of a possessive pronoun) who each contribute beaded works to create a new regalia, an outfit that includes a shirt, pants, harness and apron, something I presume represents an in-between type of ceremonial attire. It is L—“a new teacher for you”—who gives Peyton the regalia. L says, “I have…stories to tell you. About people from all the nations who carry two spirits inside of them.” As an old-school gay man, I’m not sure about the continuing feminine pronoun used for Peyton as the story wraps, saying Peyton dances “as herself, not as a boy or as a girl, but as Peyton in her 47,000 beads.” I’m guessing the authors are indicating that the young character remains, for the time being, a female exploring what it is to be genderqueer and/or two-spirit.

 

I wasn’t going to bother with writing about the book since it didn’t impress me or even educate me. (In fact, I’m more confused about the meaning of two-spirit and the degree to which it is an accepted term by First Nations people or another example of replacing existing indigenous terms for an English one.) I have more to learn.

 

The book is worth noting, however, for two reasons: (1) It highlights a need for more diverse books, in this case for children, about being queer and indigenous; and (2) It sheds light on a small press, Flamingo Rampant, that is interested in #ownvoices children’s books. 

 

This nascent publisher has sixteen books in the marketplace thus far and will hopefully learn as it grows. It’s disappointing that there isn’t even a sentence to identify the authors and the illustrator of 47,000 Beads. (They each make a dedication though.) I give points to the publisher for a note in the fine print about copyright: 

 

“All literary and artistic rights…are reserved. 

But remember, you have the right to be 

safe, strong, free, and utterly fabulous in 

whatever gender(s) you choose. Don’t let 

anyone tell you otherwise. This is a secret 

message from a happy, well-loved adult 

trans person. You’re wonderful, and there 

are plenty of people in the world who will 

love you just as you are. Also, hi Jacinto 

and Caetano!”

 

Okay, more than points…Bravo!

 

Flamingo Rampant’s “About” page on its website states that its books touch on “racial justice, disability pride, kids taking action, and most of all loving, positive LGBT2Q+ families and communities.” Its submission guidelines also distinguish it from other publishers as it is interested in diverse creators with celebratory stories that move beyond victimization. 

 

“We don’t publish books that have primary 

narratives about bullying, ostracization, 

harassment or violence. If your book is 

about a kid who is made to feel like their 

identity or family is a problem, that’s not 

going to be a book that works for us.” 

 

The page further states: 

 

“We have a strong value around 

#ownvoices work…While we always 

appreciate the work of allies, the 

number of books ABOUT LGBT2Q 

kids/families; Black, Indigenous, 

and kids/families of color and 

disabled kids has increased 

while the number of writers who live 

in those identities is still flatlined.” 

 

Whether you’re a writer, illustrator, reader or a person who simply identifies as a person with some element of diversity, the entire guidelines are worth a look. As well if you know of an aspiring, talented picture book writer or illustrator who identifies as LGBTQ, PIPOC or disabled, direct them to the publisher’s website. More of us need to be published.