It’s been 220 years since the original Bastille Day. There’s a lot of hoopla around this simple prison break – after all, they only sprung seven people. Still, Viva La Revolution!
When I was 16 I spent the summer in a little village outside of Tours, France and got to experience the French Bastille celebration firsthand. I remember stumbling around the cobblestone streets of the oldest part of Tours, Medieval steeples and spires jutting into the sky, haloed by fireworks. I know I was tipsy, but the most vivid image is of a little man dressed in drag – as Marie Antoinette, bien sûr. My first real live little person AND drag queen, all rolled into one. Not to get all symbolic, but I suppose that summer is when my own personal revolution really kicked in – I realized I could go anywhere and do anything. It’s strange how I lose sight of that so often. I consider myself fiercely independent, yet the beacon of possibilities is so often lost in the sludge of the day-to-day. I think as I get older I’ve learned to push aside the glimmer in order to just get shit done, but I’m sort of through with all of that. I’m ready to rebel again.