“You have to shine so bright out there that they can’t deny you.” This was the advice Blanca (MJ Rodrigez), mother of the House of Evangelista, gave one of her chosen children in the first season of Pose, an FX series created by Ryan Murphy. Pose illuminates the political climate and social issues of the late ’80s and early ’90s through the lens of drag balls or ballroom. Created by Black and Latinx LGBTQ people in New York City, balls are events members of a house—a unit of a chosen family—attend to compete against other houses to showcase their high-fashion costumes and perform their gender and sexuality without being forced to adhere to social norms. Ballroom emerged out of necessity, as a response to both the racism that ousted Black and Latinx drag performers from performing elsewhere and the isolation of homophobia and transphobia. Ballroom is a space of artistic expression, family, fashion, physical movement, and revelry.
Seeing Black and Latinx LGBT actors portraying Black and Latinx LGBT characters on this show is refreshing; it’s wonderful to know that our Queer and Trans youth of color can see themselves and parallel experiences being represented in mainstream media. At the same time, Pose tackles the impacts of the AIDS crisis, poverty, homelessness, racism (within and outside of the LGBTQ community), and transphobia (within and outside of the gay community), which look relatively familiar in the year 2019.
Today, Black Trans women, gay men, and men who have sex with men (MSM) are more likely to contract HIV than any other group. Due to a history of systemic oppression and discrimination, Black LGBTQ people, and especially youth, experience high unemployment rates and are at higher risk of homelessness. According to GLAAD, Trans women of color have a life expectancy of only 35 years. Now, at the midpoint of 2019, there have been more than 10 reported Trans women who have been brutally murdered; overwhelmingly, the majority are Black women. The Advocate explains, “The actual number is likely higher, as undoubtedly some victims were misgendered by police or media, or their deaths not reported at all.” While these, and other statistics continue to play out, many mainstream LGBTQ communities find comfort and privilege in marriage equality. Meanwhile, companies and corporations briefly tout rainbows during Pride to capitalize on the new landscape of acceptance, while the rest of the world turns away.
As marginalized groups are left to fend for themselves, there is a strength and beauty in the communities that emerge in response. For many Black LGBTQ people, the ballroom community is a reprieve from the suffocating culture of dismissal or, as I like to call it, white supremacy in the US and other parts of the world.
House balls are events, while overarching ballroom culture is where stories of resistance are told, connections are made, and families grow—for those unsupported by their biological families. Larger cities like New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, and Atlanta are sites of notable and more consistent ballroom events. Over the past 10 years, the Twin Cities ball scene has been slowly finding its footing as community leaders learn what it entails to organize balls and continue to encourage community off the runway.
I met Fatha Jazz Bordeaux almost 10 years ago when he attended a ball I helped organize through Twin Cities Black Pride at the University of Minnesota. I was immediately drawn to his strength, his low tolerance for foolishness, and his experience and knowledge of ballroom. When Fatha Jazz arrived, he gave the Twin Cities scene consistency and a brand of its own. He is a pioneer on multiple levels, and someone I am proud to call a close friend. As the Twin Cities ramps up for Terrace Thursdays: Vogue Night this Thursday, I sat down with my longtime friend and collaborator to talk about his history in ballroom and political issues pertaining to the Black Queer and Trans experience in Minnesota and across the nation.
JASON JACKSON (JJ)
You have been part of the ballroom scene since 2002. What was your introduction to it? What drew you there and kept you coming back to Chicago?
FATHA JAZZ BORDEAUX (FJB)
Youth outreach. I used to attend a youth-centered program, which was called Task Force back then. It was more like a ballroom training program. It eventually came to be known as the School of Opulence. I had a boyfriend at the time [laughs], but then we both came out to each other. At some point, he introduced me to his friend who eventually started a house and became my first house mother. I was struggling with accepting my gender identity and sexual orientation. He looked after us and taught me the strength and importance of a “gay family.” Going to the balls with my house, I connected with ballroom leaders (now icons) and they in turn taught me how to be a leader.
JJ
What does ballroom mean to you?
FJB
When I think of ballroom, I think of the impact it had on me on as a youth. Growing up in the ballroom influenced me to start my own house down the line and discover what it means to lead. Ballroom saved me from suicide, and it was where I found my community. Ballroom was a way to reach a community that not everyone wanted to touch (Black youth and the LGBT community).
JJ
How and why did you start your own house, the House of Bordeaux?
FJB
After leaving my old house I took a break from the scene. Then three kids from my former house and one of my family members asked me about starting a house. They wanted to have a ballroom experience with a leader they felt safe with. For about six months I kept saying no [laughs]. I did it for them, so that they could have a positive presence in the Ballroom, and they could get their life on the Ballroom floor. I had that as a teenager, and I knew that I would be able to lead them in a way where they would be protected.
JJ
You moved from Chicago to the Twin Cities in 2010, and that was the year we met. Wait, how did we meet?
FJB
When I arrived in Minnesota you were part of Twin Cities Black Pride with Earnest and some other folks. But before I met you, I kept getting notifications for Black Pride on Facebook. One event invite said something like “come to a ballroom presentation.” I was shocked to find out there was a ball scene in Minnesota (although I later came to realize there really wasn’t). I went to the event and connected with one of the organizers. I outed myself [as being a part of the ballroom scene] and offered to help, so they asked me to be one of the judges for the upcoming ball. Well, it wasn’t really a ball, it was more like a bunch of people that watched the documentary Paris is Burning and tried to put something on: y’all tried your best, though. Then you walked down the runway and…
JJ
…Hold up, I got this. I was giving it to you with my elegant, ’80s, flawless runway walk. After I finished, I looked at the panel of judges and saw 10, 10, 10, 10, and a CHOP (essentially meaning I was disqualified), which came from you. I was like, who is he, and who does he think he is chopping me?
FJB
You were fabulous, but you were kind of marching like a Trojan horse. You were not using the whole of your body. You were walking like you were several inches shorter than you are [laughing].
JJ
You are so wrong for that [laughs].
FJB
But I knew that your legs were your gift on the runway.
JJ
Yeah, you guided me on how to walk like the one and only Naomi Campbell. That’s when I fell in love with you. So when you first got to the Twin Cities, what did you see in terms of the Black LGBT Community?
FJB
I saw a very disjointed community. I saw lots of people all over the place. But there was also this freedom people had here.
JJ
What do you mean by freedom?
FJB
In Chicago, it’s still pretty rough, but we had our community spaces to go to feel safe—literally safe. Even though many of the programs were “in the hood,” once we were inside we were OK. When we were outside those safe spaces, it was dangerous. In Minnesota, you don’t have to go to a “space” as a queer person to be safe. You can pretty much live in most areas of the Twin Cities and be alright. However, I learned it was more dangerous for me to be Black in Minnesota.
JJ
Why did you decide to be a leader in the ballroom scene and start your own Bordeaux Chapter in Minnesota?
FJB
I didn’t choose it. In 2011 I went to Youth Pride in Loring Park. A young person got on the stage during an open mic and started chanting what she must have heard from the ballroom on YouTube—she was trying to hype the crowd up. I got up on stage to help her out, and I noticed some of the youth workers begin to panic. I took the mic and explained what balls were. Since my iPhone was full of house music, I asked if I could play my music for the crowd. Once the music began to play, I talked to the crowd and encouraged them to get up on stage, be their fabulous selves and show off. When it was over, a whole bunch of young people—mostly black LGBTQ youth—swarmed around me, asking questions and wanting to learn more. I found out that many of them were experiencing homelessness. I remember looking around and thinking: with all of these great resources in the Twin Cities, why are these organizations not reaching them? The answer: they were not culturally appealing. Many of these organizations were struggling to keep engagement with Black LGBT youth, and I remember thinking, if I could put on a ball, this would be something that could help reconnect them to necessary resources.
I reached out to you, and you introduced me to William Grier, who worked for the Youth and Aids Project at the time. We came together and put on the CandyLand Ball in 2011. At that Ball, I said I’m going to give them what they want. I gave them what the School of Opulence gave to me—a culturally appealing environment. They were hungry for ballroom, I could tell by the way they came and showed out.
JJ
What does the Twin Cities ballroom look like, and what does it represent?
FJB
The Twin Cities balls and community are so impactful to me because of how they emerged and because they are full of so many types of people, like nothing I have seen before. That diversity has a lot of value. I mention the past balls because I consider that time a golden era, and I know that the Twin Cities will get back there again.
Black LGBTQ folks of many different ages had come together in the space [ball], and everyone was on the same page with the concept of wanting to be seen and visible. The CandyLand Ball was diverse with people of all different races, but it was intentional enough that we all knew it was something created for and by the Black LGBT community.
JJ
What would you say to people who come out to the balls, both the first-timers and to those who are experienced and keep coming back?
FJB
To the experienced: what you are witnessing is a piece of rich cultural history. A ball is just one of the pieces that make up the whole culture. It didn’t come from a happy place, but is a place of joy.
For first-timers: respect that culture. Respect the craft of the performers. And don’t jump up on the stage and mimic what you see other Black and Brown performers do. Learn, practice, and then consider getting up on the stage.
JJ
What else would you like to share?
FJB
What is surfacing in the mainstream, with shows like Pose, and other media that covers ballroom, doesn’t always paint a full picture of what’s real in ballroom. Be mindful when watching some of these shows; don’t become a part of the erasure of Black and Brown bodies from this conversation. Especially black femmes.
Don’t forget, the Twin Cities scene was pioneered by a Black Transmasculine Boi. The richness of this should not be lost… because it has been (in the mainstream).
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