Anybody Know How to Get Glue Off Fingernails?
After a ridiculous swing-shift nap that got out of control last night into early this morning, I'm trying to recover some thoughts (feelings, even) about my very first non-fiction turn in front of a camera. It either was ok or amazing. I can't tell.
I'm leaning toward the former, because stuff came out of my mouth. The only difference wast that I was doing it with one person operating a camera, one a boom mic held a foot above my face and one asking questions from a notebook. At the end, Kerry said she'd be able to use some of it, but that some of it would be hard to edit in.
The reason, she said, was that for the layman simply learning "how to come out," my ideas might seem hard to grasp. During the interview, she asked about race and gender. And I just told some stories. After the first break, which came about ten minutes in as a result of some exterior noise, I was able to relax the tension I noticed had developed in me. And I asked how it was going.
Kelly, the interviewer, said I was a good storyteller. Cool. And Ronny, the 19-year-old kid holding the boom who was also there as a photographer, agreed. Cooler. Some problem spots I had came in trying to define butch-femme and how I fit into it. I think that was the question.
Well it turns out I actually have no idea. How do you answer that? I gave the obvious stuff. But then at some point I also said I don't dress like this (whatever that even means, for fuck's sake) because I'm "butch." And I'm not "butch" because I dress like this. I got more confused as I went on, but I explored it through the words I was saying. I also observed to Kerry after it was all over that few of my answers were definitive. For instance, if I could take a pie chart, Kelly asked, and divide my identities up, how would it look.
You can't do that. And I tried to explain the best I could that it depends on where I am, what mood I am in, and, frankly, which way the wind is blowing. I can't talk about this stuff, or won't, rather, without telling stories. And I had at least one for every question. Perhaps that's why I am trying to write my book. Because I have stories and I want to tell them. But I like this setting, this format of documentary, because it's not about just telling one story after another. It's about developing a theme, my theme, and bringing everything together, all my identities, into one piece.
Another problem spot came when Kelly asked about my dating life. I had a bit of a laugh at first, and then tried to describe it. Laughable? Abysmal? My friends consider it entertaining. I realized I couldn't really say good things about it. But I took full responsibility for my lack of success, and proceeded to talk about expressing need and communicating. I'm getting a little better at it, but am still choosing girls who don't have the energy. But that turned into an interesting discussion about the "butch" dynamic. Again, though, I'm not "like this" (the care-taker at risk of my own feelings, the non-emotive one) because I'm "butch." I'm not that bad to date, I finally said with a smirk. Or am I? Now I've made it public. To a gay public.
After that was over, Kelly had to leave. Ronny was shooting some still photographs, camera up in my face. Me talking. Me smoking. During this break, Kerry followed me outside and shot me leaning up against a wall. It's frightening that I forgot the camera was there. I'm used to being watched. It was then time to play around. Kerry had the idea to have me put some press-on nails and lipstick on. She considered stepping out to get me me some mascara (please no), but Ronny told her I looked so different without my glasses that that would be enough. All along I thought it could be fun. After all, gender is play.
So I sat at the table and Ronny did his thing. During it, Kerry started packing up. But as I struggled to open the glue, having to do so with a pocket knife, as well as how to put this shit on, she grabbed her camera. My face perplexed while reading the directions, Ronny's camera snapped picture after picture and Kerry walked around me going from my hands to my face. I was first disturbed after discovering I needed acetone to remove them. There was no way in hell I was leaving the house with red fingernails that extended half an inch over each finger. Kerry said she'd go get me some. "Yes you will, sister."
The first nail I put on was my left thumb. I looked at it in horror. This shit is ugly. And I proceeded to apply the rest. But not without some struggle. I got some glue on my fingers, so when I tried to press them on, I pulled it right off with the glue. Ugh. I finally got the left hand done. And I stared at it. Ronny snapped my frustration from all angles with glee. "You're enjoying this too much," I told him. He shot my disgusted face through my outstretched hand. And then I had to do the other hand. Which meant I had to glue my clean hand with my fake-nail hand. What I now know is that stupid fake nails force your fingers into stupid, exaggerated forms. Marks of femininity that are lost on me.
I finally made it through, but not before losing one of them. The first one I applied. And not before screwing one up, which cut my circulation off of one finger. It was digging into my skin, but it was pretty much stuck there and so I tried to ignore it. Then it came time for the lipstick. Beaming Berry or Ruby Desire. SIGH "Don't chicks use mirrors for this," I asked. But the lighting was good where I was, so using the bathroom wasn't an option. "I have an idea." I went and got the biggest steak knife we have and used that to apply it.
Both of the visual artists seemed to delight at that choice and scrambled for position as I applied Ruby Desire. For fuck's sake this sucks. And then Kerry wanted me to get my tattoo taken, because, she said, it was sort of masculine. So I had to take my shirt off. (I had a t-shirt on underneath, thank you.) But I had to unbutton it. Ugh. Five minutes later, after suffering through each button with the stupid nails on, it came off. And there I posed, white t-shirt, jeans, fake fingernails and lipstick.
Ronny asked me to take my glasses off and called me Clark Kent, shocked still apparently at how different I look with them off. "Maybe that's why my dating career sucks; I look like two different people." I took them off and Ronny shot some pictures and hummed the theme to Superman. I thought it was all over, and Kerry said she was gonna go get some more exterior shots. Ronny and I talked. And the entire afternoon's subject seemed moot as I listened to Ronny's story about growing up in Ecuador after his parents left him there when they moved here.
He just joined them three years ago. Growing up without his parents like that when he had a U.S. citizen brother sitting pretty in a nuclear family. He talked of the numerous times he tried to come up, both legally and not. And he talked of his passion for visual arts. It's clear he loves it after discovering photography just three years ago. He'll be taking classes at the International Center of Photography, and he already has photos in the Queens Museum of Art.
My story all of a sudden became unimportant. Or, perhaps, just different. And then Kerry busted in and told me to grab a clove and my shirt. Fuck. I went across the street to hear what her idea was. "That means I have to put this on. With fingernails." She buttoned it for me. "Do you want me to tuck it in?" She tucked it in for me. Standing on the corner of President and 6th, Kerry stuffed the front of my shirt down the front of my pants. I tried to ignore the curious passersby, hoping the camera sitting on the tripod was enough to justify the strange activity. I went back to the front of my place and leaned against the wall, smoking with my red fingernails clutching my brown clove. Then it was finally all over. And I wasn't waiting for acetone. I just pulled them off.
Anybody know how to get glue off fingernails?
