Bearded cheerleaders walked arm in arm down the street. “Women” with meter-high green beehives laughed at the space boys in silver suits. Six-foot-five divas draped in sequins and heels and sporting attitudes that spread around them like magical auras strolled, too beautiful, too glamorous, to even notice the ordinary people around them. But if a camera glinting in the sun caught their eye, they turned fiercely, like dragons with glittering scales, not to attack, but to pose. Some measuring over nine feet in official dress, they were totems of defiance against any attempt at definition. It was Wigstock, a drag festival and a window into the recent disappearance of “Truth” from the Western intellectual landscape. I entered this unassuming wonderland and was sucked into its surreal reality. This turned out to be the perfect introduction to my studies at NYU because it showed me how slippery and ultimately untenable the “Truth” can be. I came to this city and this school for many reasons, but one of them was because I am gay and I wanted to live in an environment that was not only tolerant but actively accepted that part of me. I had gone to a Catholic high school where, surprisingly, I received the most support as I began to develop a definition of my sexuality for myself. In high school, I adopted what I assume to be our society's dominant pro-gay position: "Sexual orientation and gender are natural, perhaps even biological, and not a matter of choice, so l Homosexuality should not be condemned. » In the spirit of this position, even my religion teachers addressed the issue of homosexuality in morality classes, teaching tolerance and acceptance. And yet, after my experiences in New York, starting with Wigstock, I realize how simplistic, even humiliating, this argument is. Presented in the form of a justification, it constitutes little more than an excuse for my existence. “Marco is gay, but we can't help it.” “Well, honey, are you going to take a picture of me or are you going to let all this beauty go to waste?” I stood there for several seconds, amazed. What was I to think of a seven-foot-tall Diana Ross, with an impossibly deep voice and a dress of purple sequins that trailed forever behind her in the gentle summer breeze? This, contrary to everything I ever believed about my sexuality, was certainly not natural..