Where I’m from, the first drag queen I ever heard about was a saint.
In Lebanon, our Halloween is St. Barbara: a young woman fleeing a controlling pagan father who, legend says, disguised herself as a man to escape and devote her life to Jesus Christ. Holy drag in the name of survival.
To remember her, kids dress up in Halloween costumes, knock on doors, sing a little song about her, and people hand out money or candy, or tell you to go away.
It’s our Halloween, but the origin story is about a woman who beat patriarchy by cutting her hair, smearing mud on her face, and throwing on some farmer’s clothes.
I was around ten the year I decided I was going to be a witch.
Not a wizard, a witch. Wizards feel like homework. Witches have more flair.
The plan was simple: repurpose my brother’s Zorro cape as a black dress.
I walked into the living room where my mom and aunt were talking and pitched it like I was on Project Runway: “so I’ll be wearing a dress, the belt in the middle, I can pin it here, with a pointy hat, done.”
My aunt didn’t giggle. Didn’t even try to soften it with a different idea. She went straight to mocking, sharp, voice raised. “A dress? For you? Absolutely not.”
I can still feel the heat in my face, that hot, swallowed-your-voice feeling when you didn’t think you were doing anything wrong.
Five minutes later the cape was back in the closet, and so was I.
I told my friends I felt sick. I didn’t go out that night.
It took a long time to understand what that moment did.
Not just “no costume this year,” but a message that landed somewhere deep:
There are ways you’re allowed to exist, and ways you’re not.
Not because you want to be someone else,
but because people panic when you look like you might.
In my family, masculinity came with a manual, enforced by catchphrases.
My dad’s favorite, شد براغي تمك or in English “Tighten your mouth screws.”
Don’t talk like that. Don’t sit like that. Don’t say those words.
Great way to teach a kid to make himself smaller.
Cut to middle school, catechism class, religious studies. A Catholic priest gave a Very Serious Talk about “the problem of effeminate boys,” (apparently, top five on the Vatican threat list).
His solution, and I kid you not, was to send them to work with “real men” on construction sites for the summer, so they would come back “macho.”
Even as a kid I thought, Father, that is literally the plot of half of gay porn.
Part of me was like, “Maybe I should be more femme.”
A few years later came my first real Halloween party as a teenager.
I was old enough to make my own choices, young enough to still want a mask to cover my face.
The kid who didn’t get to be a witch remembered. So I did it properly.
First accessory: fake tits. Big ones. Two balloons and a silky robe.
When I walked in that party, something in my body unclenched. People kept asking, “Who is she?” and honestly, I didn’t know.
But whoever she was, she was thriving.
It wasn’t a kink. It was a relief.
Proof that wearing a dress and fake tits doesn’t threaten who I am.
As is grow older. I collect small rebellions.
A few summers ago, on vacation in Rome, I walked into a piercing studio right by the Vatican walls and got my earlobes done, just the lobes.
I almost fainted from the pain; I did not expect that, LOL… but stepping back out onto that street so close to where the pope is, felt deliciously on theme, and a little poetic.
There was a small residual sting in my ears and it made me happy, like my body had a tiny built-in reminder: you did a thing just for you.
A small spark of self-expression I could feel with my fingertips.
Every time I touched them, I felt that small pulse of yes.
Then last year I tried a few more things.
A couple of drag nights with friends, which was so much fun.
I experimented with some Dollarama makeup. Got my nails done at a salon a few times, even paid extra for Gelish! Sky blue looks amazing, by the way, and Gelish ruins your nails.
I also changed my Instagram profile photo, nothing wild, just me flaunting my nails. Not a post. Not a story. Just the tiny little circle.
And a few days later, my phone buzzes. A DM from my aunt, the same one.
“Hi Malek, how are you sweetie? I hope you’re good and work is going well. I miss you a lot. Habibi, this is not a good picture on your profile. I do hope you can change it. I know you will say that this is not my business, but I am still your only aunt who cares too much about you and loves you dearly, and I am, after all, your godmother. I doubted for a while, I don’t know what to say to you (dot, dot, dot).”
I wrote back, “Why? What’s wrong with the pic?”
We both knew what she meant.
Same living room message as when I was ten, this time wrapped in “I care about you” and “I’m your godmother,” with “that’s not for boys” tucked inside.
And here’s the part that surprised me: I didn’t spiral. I didn’t write a defense essay. I didn’t change the photo. I just let the message sit there and went on with my day. Not because I’m brave, but because the scale finally tipped. The joy outweighed the fear.
And that’s the part I wish I could tell my ten-year-old self:
You’re not broken for wanting what’s fun.
You’re not dangerous for wanting to be different.
You can try a thing, decide you like how it feels, and that can be the whole story.
And here’s the plot twist, the pushback doesn’t only come from family.
I hooked up with a couple from L.A. who were visiting Vancouver eariler this year. After a short while, they saw a picture of me with nail polish and texted out of nowhere, “nail polish doesn’t suit you.”
Which, first, literally no one asked for your opinion.
Second, it’s wild how fast masc4masc energy turns into policing. Like, babe, I don’t even remember your first name.
Even inside the gay community, a little color on a nail can make internalized homophobia jump out and wave.
But Somewhere along the way, masculinity stopped feeling like rules and started looking like options. A menu, not a manual.
Some days I want plain jeans and a T-shirt. Some days I want a little swish. Neither day needs permission.
Do I still hear the old lines? Sure.
They pop up in a joke at a family dinner or in a DM about a photo I chose because I liked myself in it, from a relative who confuses worry with love.
But my perception shifted. Those reactions aren’t commandments; they are just data. They tell me who can walk with me comfortably, who needs time, and where my boundaries should live.
Every Halloween season, I still think about the year I didn’t go. How quickly excitement turned into shame. How one reaction canceled an entire night.
I don’t hate anyone in that memory. I just wish someone had looked at that cape and said, “Okay. If it wants to be a dress tonight, just let it.”
And that brings me back to St. Barbara, probably one of the very first drag kings.
She cross-dressed to survive, and all I wanted was to cross-dress to have fun.
If a saint can do drag to get free, surely a kid can do it to feel free for one night.
So that’s what I do now, in small ways that add up.
I keep the earrings. I wear nail polish sometimes. I say yes to the version of me that feels most like me that day.
And when someone tries to hand me a manual for how I should look or present, I hand it back and say:
“Keep the manual. I’m ordering the whole menu.”
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