Be the Cholita: Dressing in Drag
Over the course of the past 15 years alone, I have been to more Halloween parties than I care to imagine. The only common denominator among these parties was that there was none. Certain parties served certain purposes: on some there was an emphasis on what you wore, on others on what you drank, meaning the goal was to get as many people sloshed as quickly as possible. I have also been invited to non-alcoholic Halloween parties (I have yet to accept any of those). Whether this affected your costumes in the end was secondary.
The Americans, having virtually created Halloween in its modern form with all of its perks and idiosyncrasies, will always be the upper crust when it comes to creating costumes. The notorious blue dress by Monica Lewinsky, a dead Moammar Qaddafi, a walking green card...while you can accuse Americans of being tasteless at times, it's hard to dispute their originality. I recall a party I attended in California that was doling out big prizes for the best three costumes and an honorable mention (free dinner at a fine restaurant) for fourth place. Tragically, I finished fourth, although it did earn me the right to take my girlfriend out in a financially disastrous time. I came dressed as a toaster…a costume I was very proud of, and yet I finished behind a Siegfried and an R2D2 (which was understandable), and a banana (which was not).
This year, I also attend a costume party, for which there would be a prize for the best outfit out there. Some of the more original costumes I sight are a scarecrow (who eventually won), a smurf, a lobster, a lego, and a couple of Evo Morales' (President of Bolivia). That said, everybody agreed I had creamed the competition, when I agreed to dress in drag and appear as a cholita.
This was not my original idea. Liebi last year had toyed with the idea and described in detail what she would wear the next Halloween – the black braided wig, the bowler hat, the gold tooth, the poncho cascading over the waistline of one of those heavy and colorful skirts. As time wore on, Liebi finally decided that this probably wasn't such a bright idea, that she was afraid she was going to insult the indigenous population and play to the political incorrectness of the less sophisticated among our society. Her idea thus dashed, she rolled out her second bright idea: to let me go as a cholita.
At first, I like the idea. No harm, no foul, dressing in women's clothing for an evening, right? So Liebi breaks out the bowler hat she'd bought the year before, fits me with a poncho, and I order minor items like the braided wig and the golden tooth through Amazon. Our cook goes to the market to buy a skirt (she still has no idea what that's for, and I'd like to keep it that way), I wear my size 11 crocs, and voila… I am ready to roll.
Except the whole outfit is as comfortable as standing in an iron maiden. Liebi decides not to go to the party herself, since she'd lollygagged on getting an outfit on time. I decide I won't stay long and take off in the car, taking off the bowler hat and the wig before driving. I remember praying to avoid an accident, since I know this will be the worst time to get caught in drag…that, or being pulled over at a police stop.
Long story short: the outfit itself is a complete smash, and there must be at least 20 cameras out there with the likeness of me flashing my golden tooth in them. So be it. I also would have won, according to almost everybody who attended the party, except that I left after two hours – I was needed at home and couldn't stand donning drag any longer than I had to.
Another day, another Halloween party. And almost certainly the last one that I will arrive at in drag.
The Americans, having virtually created Halloween in its modern form with all of its perks and idiosyncrasies, will always be the upper crust when it comes to creating costumes. The notorious blue dress by Monica Lewinsky, a dead Moammar Qaddafi, a walking green card...while you can accuse Americans of being tasteless at times, it's hard to dispute their originality. I recall a party I attended in California that was doling out big prizes for the best three costumes and an honorable mention (free dinner at a fine restaurant) for fourth place. Tragically, I finished fourth, although it did earn me the right to take my girlfriend out in a financially disastrous time. I came dressed as a toaster…a costume I was very proud of, and yet I finished behind a Siegfried and an R2D2 (which was understandable), and a banana (which was not).
This year, I also attend a costume party, for which there would be a prize for the best outfit out there. Some of the more original costumes I sight are a scarecrow (who eventually won), a smurf, a lobster, a lego, and a couple of Evo Morales' (President of Bolivia). That said, everybody agreed I had creamed the competition, when I agreed to dress in drag and appear as a cholita.
This was not my original idea. Liebi last year had toyed with the idea and described in detail what she would wear the next Halloween – the black braided wig, the bowler hat, the gold tooth, the poncho cascading over the waistline of one of those heavy and colorful skirts. As time wore on, Liebi finally decided that this probably wasn't such a bright idea, that she was afraid she was going to insult the indigenous population and play to the political incorrectness of the less sophisticated among our society. Her idea thus dashed, she rolled out her second bright idea: to let me go as a cholita.
At first, I like the idea. No harm, no foul, dressing in women's clothing for an evening, right? So Liebi breaks out the bowler hat she'd bought the year before, fits me with a poncho, and I order minor items like the braided wig and the golden tooth through Amazon. Our cook goes to the market to buy a skirt (she still has no idea what that's for, and I'd like to keep it that way), I wear my size 11 crocs, and voila… I am ready to roll.
Except the whole outfit is as comfortable as standing in an iron maiden. Liebi decides not to go to the party herself, since she'd lollygagged on getting an outfit on time. I decide I won't stay long and take off in the car, taking off the bowler hat and the wig before driving. I remember praying to avoid an accident, since I know this will be the worst time to get caught in drag…that, or being pulled over at a police stop.
Long story short: the outfit itself is a complete smash, and there must be at least 20 cameras out there with the likeness of me flashing my golden tooth in them. So be it. I also would have won, according to almost everybody who attended the party, except that I left after two hours – I was needed at home and couldn't stand donning drag any longer than I had to.
Another day, another Halloween party. And almost certainly the last one that I will arrive at in drag.
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