Cabaret Consensual and Issues of Duality in the Quest for Queer Visibility (Interview/ Profile)

Cabaret Consensual and Issues of Duality in the Quest for Queer Visibility
Queer Life & Theater/Cabaret Consensual for This Stage L.A., Written by Angie Hoover/Angelisa Miranda. Published 8.9.18

The performance room at The Three Clubs is, in essence, a side closet in a straight bar. But it is not the closet of shame and doubt that imprisoned LGBTQIA during The Gay Dark Ages; it is a new closet with cocktails, comedians, celebrated sexual deviance, and the opportunity for queers and their allies to convene without fear of judgment. To be wholly candid, safe spaces such as these are something that I criticize in my personal life; the obsession with politically correct language, the vigilant and angry exclusivity, the hypocrisy of gathering oppressed people who ultimately wish to oppress their oppressors–it all feels like a recipe for stagnancy. And after all, a closet is a closet. But after speaking with Bitsy La Bourbon, founder of sexual assault activism group, More Than No, and producer of Cabaret Consensual, it is plainer to recognize how difficult it is to play a part in increasing queer visibility, and how any attempt to gather the community can inspire projects for more focused systemic change.

An assault survivor and former addict, Bitsy offers insight that is highly motivated by personal traumas, giving her a powerful relatability and strength. Despite her status as an icon of openness, however, she approaches questions about her work with a sort of restrained professionalism, and in many ways, it is this reserve that revealed to me the internal conflict queers feel when they must be both empathetic and forward-thinking. Also illuminated, was the pressure leaders feel to build outlets for emotions that are discordant, namely aggression and acceptance. There is a need for forceful momentum when it comes to increasing visibility and fostering respect for queer people, but there is also a need for cautiousness when dealing with a large group of traumatized people. But when a single person tries to be both the voice of catharsis and the voice of revolution, progress is muddied.

Personally, Bitsy desires more spaces for anger and more uproar among allies who sometimes seem complacent, but as a producer, she wishes to create a respite from those types of negative and sometimes painful emotions. Together with spaces where anger and retribution are central, she believes her event can catalyze the healing process and provide clarity of purpose, and she acknowledges that the lack of other perspectives is problematic; She remarks: “Cycling through emotional stages is essential to moving forward. It allows for a full scope of reflection, and that helps us know what progress looks like.”

Although More than No and Cabaret Consensual champion survivors of sexual assault regardless of how they identify, Bitsy felt it important to dedicate a select night to queer performance art, with careful consideration given to diversity and representation in the realms of gender and race. As she explains, “sexual assault survivors are a minority group unlike any other because any person can all of a sudden become a part of it and there are certain minorities that experience violence at a much higher rate. The odds of our community experiencing assault is very high– assault is experienced at the highest rate among trans and bisexual, people of color so representation is extremely important.” These statistics indicate a community that is inherently mixed, so it is essential to book entertainers who sometimes fall outside of her immediate circle of friends to ensure that all voices are heard and equality is actively maintained. Again, fostering inclusion here is complex as there are many contradicting viewpoints.

The potential friction here is avoided by directing attendees toward consent and open discussion about kink and other unconventionalities. Using provocative performances in the genres of storytelling, burlesque, and stand-up comedy to challenge widely held ideas about sexuality, pleasure, and intimate connection, the cabaret not only informs, but endears its audience to the kinds of issues that are ignored even among friends for fear of inciting conflict. Closeness is cultivated easily and quickly in such a comfortable and inviting space, and although this queer utopia doesn’t directly galvanize people to envision clear, direct goals, it provides what many more hostile iterations of Queer Pride cannot achieve: unification and hope for progress.

Girls on Film: Re-evaluating Nostalgia in The Great Gatsby

Girls on Film: Reevaluating Nostalgia in The Great Gatsby

Event Review for The Show Tell Project

Reviewed by Angie Hoover 7.26.13

Last night I attended Doug Benson’s Interruption of The Great Gatsby at The Cinefamily. I hadn’t seen the film, but had heard that it was a big, awful mess designed to win over young viewers with brain-numbing hip-hop music and party culture extravagance. I couldn’t wait for the mocking to begin. But something unexpected happened between Benson’s “Does this movie take place on Earth?” and Thomas Lennon’s “Can anybody tell me who that character is? For a million dollars? Anyone?”— I became interested.

Like a lot of people who heard about Luhrmann’s Gatsby before seeing it in a theater, I went in expecting to be offended by the off-base portrayal of the Jazz Age. Because I admittedly adopt the type of unfounded nostalgia that no person my age should. As the camera swooped into a lavish hotel room and the thumping bass of club music played over the speakers, my instinct was to say “Hey! THAT’S NOT HOW IT WAS! ” But I realized then, that I had no right to think that because all my ideas of The Jazz Age are based on images from Boardwalk Empire and Betty Boop.

It’s true that the emotional nuances of the original story are stomped on by Luhrmann’s signature vulgarity. And it’s true that he made Gatsby’s house look like a rap music video, but when we strip it down isn’t Gatsby an excessively rich dude who throws parties littered with drunk girls, booming music, celebrities, and free booze?… The interpretation isn’t exactly off the mark.

Luhrmann’s movies are often panned, but I really think that he has a talent for showing us that young, stupid people are young and stupid no matter what backdrop you throw them against. We want to believe that we’ve missed out on something, that superficiality is just the oozy afterbirth of the 1980s, and that our beloved Jazz Age was better than whatever we’re living in now. But the shallowness that we criticize without restraint in our own time, existed without question, in the times that we idealize.

It was not a tale of disillusionment ..or the hopelessness of time, but I left the film wanting to understand my attachment to worlds that can no longer be accessed and my need to believe that the magic so absent in the world today existed decades ago

All Warriors Have Scars (Fantasy Genre Short Fiction)

Fantasy Genre Short Fiction by Angelisa Colette Miranda 2019

A scar is yesterday. It is the corpse of a memory too sharp to be forgotten. And Zanthia’s body was a graveyard.

Her olive face, handsome yet delicate, bore a slash from her brother’s axe. Arms, back, and legs too were cloaked in tough mutilated flesh that told of her bravery, her loyalty, her glory and not least of all, her suffering.

The bullet wounds were new and the sight of them still struck her with a cold pain. Six of them, potted into her shoulders and her thighs like bubbling heaps of melted wax.

She had traveled on for some time, hoping that the marks would heal. Regarding them as healthy, living tissue in a brief phase of ill, but skin is never the same after it is broken. It cannot feel. Instead, it sits flaccid, trying hard to imitate the smooth rosy shade of life. A tombstone in a garden of blooming nerves.

She remembered the Elven sorcerer, Elanil. Her delicate features, her piercing blue eyes, the sound of her screams as the wraiths drained her magic the day that Voshla turned against them. There had been too many men on the battlefield that afternoon. Zanthia could not protect her. She could not save her. How foolish she had been to believe she had found a new family.

But, where would she go now that she had seen the limits of her power and the cowardice of her companion? For the time being, the innkeeper Arkurius Tillman had offered her room and board in exchange for security. As it were, there had been nothing to do but drink and remember how her heart had betrayed her; today was no different. Zanthia planted herself in a corner of the tavern and watched as the patrons stumbled through.

After her third ale, she noticed a pink-haired gnome bard at the far end of the bar, her large eyes staring intently, awaiting Zanthia’s permission. The moment their gazes locked, the gnome smiled widely, and started toward her with a swift and clumsy walk. Getting into the tall bar stool was a struggle for a creature with such short stocky limbs, but Zanthia held back her laughter.

The gnome extended her hand. Angie was her name and she seemed insistent on getting acquainted. She lifted her hand to the barkeep, signaling for two ales and turned her attention back to Zanthia, who dismissed her coldly:

“Return to your bardic songs, gnome. I wish to drink alone,” she said.

The gnome offered a knowing look and after bracing herself, she continued with both caution and sincerity: “I will leave if that is what you wish, but I have been watching you and you must know that we are not so different. I come here for a reason. I understand what it is like to be the only one of my kind, to fail the ones I love, to drink until I am a stranger to myself.”

Zanthia did not react well to the possession of forbidden knowledge. This creature was a danger to her. She readied her great sword for a swift decapitation. Angie raised her hand slowly and spoke with authority. A cool light emanated from her center: “Do not fear me, Zanthia. I come as your guide and creator, brought to you by ally not foe. Destroying me will mean a more final end than you could imagine.”

Zanthia pressed her blade against Angie’s neck firmly enough to draw a single drop of blood. Through gritted teeth, she spit a threat, “Tell me now, who wishes to enchant me and I promise to make your death a painless one.”

Angie’s eyes grew large, but she was not afraid. In this moment, a gentle warmth breathed into Zanthia and she knew the scars on Angie’s spirit as she knew her own– A dead father. A mother driven insane by neglect and abuse. A childhood steeped in loneliness and isolation.—She was reminded of herself, had time been less violent, but equally painful. Just then, Zanthia spotted a pale blue pendant of summoning against Angie’s breast; there had only been one in all of Golarian, and it had belonged to Elanil.

She paused and lowered her sword. And then with broken hope she pleaded, “ Gnome. You are sent here by the great Elven sorcerer, Elanil. Speak the truth; does she survive? Has she sent for my help?”

Angie’s face sagged into a frown. She looked into her ale and imagined drinking it down. She thought of all the deaths it could help her forget, and she wondered if it was more painful to know or to remember. She spoke once more, hoping that this time, she would be heard:

“ We can never be assured of a happier future, and I know all too well that no magic can bring your family back. But know that Elanil is within you, and for as long as you live, those who meet you, will also be meeting her.

It is true you could not save her, but if you accept it, she can still save you.”

Angie slid off her chair and onto her feet. She approached Zanthia carefully and they embraced. An icy wind enveloped her and she remembered the sound of Elanil’s heartbeat. Her eyes opened and Angie was gone, the ornate pendant left where she had stood.

Zanthia wandered out into the street, her great sword sheathed on her back. Somehow the deformed lumps upon her body seemed different; they reminded her of who she was, of what she had overcome.

All warriors have scars; Zanthia would not make the mistake of living in the pain of them. Morning was the best time to travel, but the sun was setting now. She jumped onto her horse and began to ride.

She did not know where she was going.

Someone Else’s True Story (Short Fiction)

by Angelisa Miranda, 2022

In the 1990s, there was a popular tune on the radio. A Tiffany Darwish sound recycled, reduced, and reused for an up-and-coming teenage artist named Amy. Amidst “whispers in the dark” and a mission to “take on the whole wide world”, Amy wondered what her own words might sound like put to music. How might they taste in her officially licensed mouth?

Before those answers could be discovered, her voice took a detour into marriage. She committed her youth to a MeTooMaker who pulled her out of the spotlight for 2 decades and gave her the beautiful family that she never wanted.

later

At 42, Amy was divorced. A mother. The muse and mistress of a 20-something photographer, and she was making good money as a professional masseuse and caretaker.

Twice a week, she worked at a women’s rehab with patients who suffered from psychosis and cross addiction. The gig paid, but night shifts were awful. The clinic was short-staffed and 2 a.m. often left her with nothing but a broken tv set and a demented soundtrack of suffering and confusion to keep her mind occupied.

On certain nights, a guitar hung near an activity cabinet in the hallway. If the patients were calm, Amy might take it down and strum it quietly, imagining herself in a younger body, in a different time. She reached for it as she sometimes did but stopped short. She noticed a small, eye level window above the doorknob of room 105.

On either side of the windowpane was the image of a woman. “Is that my face?” She thought.

There was no sound.

Amy walked into the room, leaving her younger self in the hall. She saw a short haired young girl. Or was she a woman? Darkness made it hard to tell. closer, face to face, toes kissing, Amy reached out. Touching skin would show her the truth.

Amy grasped the woman’s face with both hands. They were in the shadows, but they were together, a psychic superhighway between them. Intuition illuminated a profound, debilitating fear. The feeling of shivering. Of ugliness. Of shame. Of eyes drifting away. Of demons taking hold.

But strength was with them too.

A rawness escaped her.

“Look me in the eye.”

“The Monster you see in this room is in your mind.It is not real; it is symbolic of your abuse. You have to go up to it, and confront it, and say,’Do you know who I am? I am a child of the most high God.’ It is time to grow up and be a woman now”

Her hands released. Dawn had come in and there was warmth.

She left with the taste of water in her throat.

The Wind is Me

I used to be an American girl.
I dreamt in white
I wanted a lover
who could become a husband
who could become my co-star in the greatest
love story ever told

Commitment! Loyalty! Eternal Togetherness!
Patriotism of The figurative heart

I don’t dream of a future anymore
Ours
Mine
the one that belongs to the whole world
I dream instead of freedom from that imagining
from a path that dictates right and wrong
of liberation from absolutes devoid of femininity and magic
of narratives that decentralize Me.

When did I last fight the wind with my will ?

I didn’t know then.

About

Angelisa Miranda is a writer, content creator, and artist living the cliche in Los Angeles. Her fascination with film, theater, camp, and critical theory can only be surpassed by her somewhat unhealthy obsession with corned beef hash.

Cynical, though never dispassionate, she spends much of her time hoping to discover innovative art in all its forms, but is ever aware that she lives alongside the success of The Kardashians and more than 7 iterations of The Real Housewives. A former casting producer, Jr. college instructor, and executive assistant in charge of mainstream PR, her written work ranges from marketing, to psychology, to journalism and beyond. In the realm of academia, she has developed college level writing guides, presentations, and handbooks for The Moorpark College Writing Center & the Pacific Oaks Learning Center. She has also contributed to grants, trial methodologies, and literature reviews for NYU’s Marron Institute of Urban Management.

Alongside her work in higher education and entertainment, she has devoted her eyes, ears, and mind grapes to playwriting, performance art, and content development. She will continue to be an advocate for powerful cinema, performance art, music, and all works that offer sincere insight about the human condition.