Waiting For Security to Come, or, BOYCOTT ROSKILDE

“When I was fourteen,” my friend suddenly confided in me, “a gigantic guy climbed on top of me and wouldn’t let me go. He wanted to rape me. I didn’t fight him back sincerely, even then, because I was afraid I would hurt him.” I clamped my eyes shut and bit my lip in a sudden shockwave of acute anger and humiliation; her story sounded all too familiar. Far, far too close to home. I tensed my eyelids so hard I began to see things. I was probably red. I was probably shaking. I wouldn’t really know. Here we’d been friends all this time, and ten years after the assault, she finally felt emotionally safe enough to tell me. Not that I blame her; repression and denial are perhaps the most common means of dealing with an existential mini-death like sexual assault. Thanks to the privacy and safety awarded by the Internet chat we were using, I could cry to my heart’s content, snot and make up streaming down my glistening face—but I didn’t cry. Not really. There was no contending my broken heart. No amount of tears could satiate my own horrible story from just last summer and its conjoined and prolonged sense of failure and humiliation. No cascade of salt water and make up could fix that tender hole in my heart that throbs and recoils when I think about the status of women.

            “Last year,” I began, “my boyfriend Brett took me to a music festival in Denmark to see The Cure,” which has been one of my favorite bands for half of my life. “Of all the music festivals in Europe, it has the lowest rate of violent crime, including rape and sexual assault. It’s considered to be the safest festival in Europe. But it’s not. It has the lowest rate of reported violent crime because there’s no one to report it to.”

            “What’s the festival called?”

            “Roskilde.” 

Conquoring Butt Shame: How New Orleans' Sissy Bounce Scene Helped Me Discover My Body

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You know what I find so empowering about Big Freedia? Well, you see, all my life I had butt shame. I was ashamed of my ass for being too big and too nice—a giant, constant attractor of unwanted attention—you know, the kind of unwanted attention that blames the victim for attracting it in the first place and for not knowing how to react. I’ve never had an eating disorder, but I was always very conscious of how big my butt was. I monitored it obsessively by trying on different pairs of shorts and seeing how they fit. I did this every day, all my life. And then I discovered Big Freedia, transgendered pioneer of the New Orleans-based Sissy Bounce scene.

“Bend over!” the self-proclaimed Queen Diva demanded in a booming, maternal voice. “I want ass everywhere, ass everywhere!” From here she transitioned into the song of the same title, and a sea of asses of every shape, texture, and color thrust into the air, immodestly clad, celebrating seemingly autonomous lives as they rippled and bounced to the rhythms of gluteal freedom. We call this dance, I later learned, twerking.

Allow me to introduce myself.

Hello, world. My name is Kendalle Fiasco. Perhaps you know me already--maybe you've seen me around metropolitan areas with my Willy Wonka boyfriend in lavish and complicated outfits, or maybe you've seen my mutant deer sculpture installation in articles or terrorizing people at festivals, parties, or galleries. Perchance a glimmer of recognition sparks behind your eyes because you've seen me start a flame war on at least one of various internet forums, brazenly opining and getting all in a tizzy about quality and equality. I hope to bring you quality, equality, and e-quality.

I am a woman of many opinions and autonomous philosophies. I am an artist, a theorist, and a semiotech. Other than that, I will barely identify myself; I believe identity is just an abbreviation of the self, and I wouldn't want you to typecast me as right/wrong/misguided/brilliant before you've given your open mind and I a chance to get to know each other. This is just the beginning of our relationship laden with laughs, tears, rage, drama, plot twists, and all the other unpredictable predicaments typical and transcendent of a sitcom. I hope you will find the courage and confidence to drop your character and surprise us both.

I am always pleased to have a sane, logical, respectful discourse if you happen not to agree with me on something. Please avoid ad hominem, though, because I may well verbally cut out your liver and destroy you. My propensity to do so has earned me the epithet of Decibel Jezebel. I am not a particularly mean person until I have been pushed beyond the bounds of my patience. A snarling darling. Yes.

Welcome to The Complete Fiasco!