Paris is Burning: The Fire of Rebellion, the Embers of Change A 23-year-old Venus Xtravaganza peers directly at the camera, demure in disposition yet remarkably steady in voice. She rests with one arm bent over her hips, legs outstretched, relaxed and wholly unaware that in a few months, her body will be found strangled under a mattress not unlike the one she lounges upon now. Four decades and 94 miles away, I sit in the darkness of my bedroom reeling from the news of this murder. Watching Venus through my Chromebook’s grainy display, professing wishes for a life she’d never get, a stream of emotions gush through my head—grief, helplessness, outrage, and somehow, despite it, pride—all themes that define Jennie Livingston’s flagship documentary Paris is Burning. The 71-minute documentary borrows its name from the annual ball held by Paris Dupree, one of several ballroom icons featured in the film. Balls like Dupree’s emerged in the late 1800s and grew in prominence during the early 20th century, as the Great Migration and Harlem Renaissance transformed New York City into a hub of Black queer culture. By the 1980s, balls entered their golden age, before puncturing the mainstream through works like Madonna’s Vogue and Livingston’s Paris is Burning. However, the 2020s have ushered in new challenges for ball-goers, from anti-LGBTQ+ legislation to violence faced by transgender communities. I think these developments stem from the idea that queer people lack history: that we’re too fresh, too radical a concept. But Paris is Burning rejects these ideas. It doesn’t contain sweeping political statements: no rainbow-striped coffee mugs, no final scene of Willi Ninja and Dorian Corey holding hands and singing. Its political message lies in these individuals simply living their lives, with the context speaking for itself. This film is often viewed solely as a showcase of the resilience LGBTQ+ communities have demonstrated in the face of hardship. But I don’t love Paris is Burning because it shows queer people living their lives in spite of hate and oppression; I love it because it shows queer people living their lives with pride and joy. From the tip of Pepper Labeija’s feathered hat to Dorian Corey finishing her winged liner, the film whisks you into a world of unbridled queer joy. I think that’s exactly what Livingston, and more importantly, her interviewees, wanted. However, Paris is Burning hasn’t gone without criticism. In 2015, activist group Paris is Burnt called for screenings of the documentary to be canceled, characterizing it as an “appropriation of our narratives for the sake of entertaining a gentrifying, majority white audience that seeks to consume us and call it paying homage.” While I’m not a member of the ballroom circuit, I believe everyone has the right to document and comment on any topic they deem important. There’s a lot to be said about why few Black, ball-going journalists have garnered fame for reporting on the scene—but Livingston navigates the topic sagaciously and lets her subjects shine through. To me, that’s what film, at its core, is all about. Paris is Burning has impacted my understanding of identity like no other film has. Enchanting, passionate, and raw, it serves not only as a remarkable piece of entertainment but as a reminder that in the epoch of drag restrictions, book bans, and ceaseless LGBTQ+ violence, we have long fought injustice and will continue to persevere. In each of us, the fire rages on.

Equipped with an arsenal of fabric scraps, synthetic hair, and a purple glue stick, I sneak into base: the second-floor bathroom. The clock ticks down as I execute my operation, basting fabric, detangling wigs, and gluing down my eyebrows—all while dodging the red-hot curling iron as it pendulums over the vanity. I toil late into the night completing a glamorous yet exhausting procedure: my transformation into a drag queen. Throughout seventh and eighth grade, drag became my clandestine ritual—a mania of blending and burnishing, clipping and coiffing, applying and reapplying. But at just twelve years old, I knew my hobby was taboo: something to be kept in locked rooms and bottom drawers. Even my ever-understanding parents disapproved, their polite yet unmistakable scorn always ending with “We just want you to be safe.” So, I hid. Like a secret agent covering his tracks, I stashed lipsticks in the plumbing and swept up stray tufts of plastic feathers as I worked. Whatever transpired in the night, no trace of my alter-ego could remain by next morning. Feeling isolated from my family and friends, I turned toward the place I could find community while staying anonymous: the Internet. Rather than attend drag shows live, I observed broadcasts from my computer. Instead of makeup lessons, I consulted YouTube tutorials. Joining forums of fellow drag artists also taught me to value internal beauty, as strangers became family through our virtually exchanged stories. Over the years I grew closer to my newfound friends, and came to rely on their advice for everything from overcoming artist’s block to finding size 13 stilettos. But not all of our conversations were optimistic. Through the Internet, I also watched the crusade of “Don’t Say Gay” bills and drag restrictions sweep the nation my sophomore year. I witnessed lawmakers plucking LGBTQ+ history from state curriculums and barring minors from drag shows—many of those minors my friends who, like me, relied on drag for self-expression and escape. Listening to their stories, I underwent a paradigm shift. Over the next eight months, I explored everything from legal archives to Beyoncé lyrics for my research on the Harlem Ball Scene, where the first drag queens danced over a century ago. And when presenting my findings at National History Day (NHD) contests, I chose to reenact them through performances: in head-to-toe drag each time. Walking onstage at NHD Philadelphia in a houndstooth coat and beehive wig, I felt out of place amid my rigid academic surroundings. But each time I stepped back into the menagerie of props, I took a shaky breath and reminded myself of how often the queens I portrayed had been shunned by their own surroundings—and fought for liberation nonetheless. By the time I walked up to speak at the national finals, with my family and friends cheering me on, I wasn’t just comfortable in my costume. I was proud. Many see drag as a shift in appearance—a transformation from man to woman. But after NHD, I understood what the queens in Harlem already knew 150 years ago: beneath the sequins and hairspray, drag is essentially a transformation within. With newfound confidence, I began fulfilling my once-stifled dreams as a performer, emceeing my school’s Pridefest, presenting at Philadelphia’s 2024 Sexual Health Summit, and becoming the first crowned queen of LK’s International Drag Contest. Today, my once-pristine bathroom is cluttered with crooked hairpins, mismatched shoes, and tarnished rhinestones. But this place is more than a dressing room. It’s where I aspire to continue Coco Chanel's legacy of queer empowerment by transforming myself—and by extension, the communities I treasure.