I turned to my sister Eleanor, who is only two years older than I. Ellie’s been in my corner my whole life. Whenever people called me weird or said I was a freak, she told them “Fuck off.” Given her history as my biggest cheerleader, I hoped she could get behind me this time. Because she had yet to see a show, I asked her to come see me at the New Orleans Burlesque Festival, the apex of my career until that point. Then she could tell my folks that it really isn’t as bad as they’re making it out to be. I hoped with everything I had that she would understand burlesque and see what it’s about.
She didn’t.
“I felt physically sick seeing you up there,” she said, sitting next to me in her kitchen. “All those men drooling over you, knocking each other out the way to get to the stage. I cried the whole way home.”
Um… Were we at the same show? At the House of Blues New Orleans that night,
the audience was mostly women. In reality, almost all burlesque audiences are mostly women. Some ladies, much like myself, enjoy seeing other ladies being confident and sexy and in charge. They love the glamour and the spectacle, and can actually be more rowdy than the men. The men who do attend burlesque shows are often there on dates with women – or men; we have a very large gay following.
But Ellie was being about as open as my mom was. “You’re objectifying
yourself.” Now she started crying. Must be genetic. “You think that you’re better than a
stripper,” – When did I say that? – “But you can take a piece of shit and wrap it in pretty
Wow. I have no idea what getting a bullet in the chest feels like, but something
tells me the shock I felt that second is similar. Did my hero really just say that? Is she agreeing with the rest of the close-minded naysayers who think we’re Bourbon Street strippers disguised in glamorous gowns and look down on us as such? Does she think that negatively of strippers? Yet again, I made the mistake of forgetting that not everyone gets it. My sister, like many other people, doesn’t understand that burlesque is art. It’s an objective, aesthetically appealing expression. When I dance, I express not only my sexuality, but also happiness, anger, love, betrayal, or whatever else that number happens to be about. I use nothing but my clothing and my body to tell a story in the span of one song. Despite the fact that I love what I do and am dedicated to my craft, my sister’s words still cut. It was my turn to cry.
“Barb… I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. I’m not judging you…”
Could’ve fucking fooled me!
“I’m just trying to understand. Why do you do this?” she said, sounding eerily similar to Mom. “Is something missing in your life or something? Are you okay?” She pleaded at me with her blue eyes, eyes Dad was kind enough to pass along to her.
Typical. Since I’m taking my clothes off in front of strangers, I must be not right
in the head. Just like every single stripper in a strip joint has “daddy issues.” I’m not saying burlesque dancers or strippers don’t have issues. I’ve worked with burlesque dancers who suffer from bipolar disorder, who have been molested, who are single
mothers, who are former drug addicts, etc. But anyone could have those struggles. In fact,
clothes off doesn’t make us less human. Even if we do it as a response to our issues, we still deserve respect.
“You think your audience respects you?”
Yes.
“You think any man will respect you?”
Yes.
“Are you trying to get attention?”
Yes.
My throat closed again, like it always does when I get upset or scared. Ellie brushed her blonde hair away from her drenched face, again mimicking our mother. “Barb, seeing you naked should be something special, something reserved for someone you love,” she said, reminding me of our Catholic high school principal.
“Dammit, Ellie, I’m not naked! If I were naked, I’d get thrown out of the theater!” “But you are. You degrade yourself when you become Remy Dee.”
She said my burlesque name with contempt and disgust, and it felt like someone took a power drill to my chest cavity. Instead, a few horrible moments of silence crept by before Ellie finally spoke: “Look. I’m not telling you to stop. I want you to be happy. I know Mom, Dad, and I aren’t going to like everything you do.”
For the first time in hours, I grinned. “Well, I don’t like everything you do either. You read Twilight.”
That made her laugh. Then I laughed. She and I have exactly the same laugh, and hearing it was like finding water in the Sahara. For about two seconds, the hurt
disappeared and things felt normal. Then we stopped laughing, and I knew our relationship would never be normal again. She wasn’t in my corner on this.