Fag Rag Provincetown | Summer 2023 | Volume 02 Issue 01

FAG RAG provincetown

Editor-In-Chief

Tomik Dash

Creative Director

Izzy Berdan Writers

Heather McFarland

Tiana Esperanza

Artists

Wylie Burrell

Photographers

Emil Cohen

Sam Waxman

Advertisers in Fag Rag Provincetown acknowledge that they do business, in the spirit of cooperation, fairness, and service, maintaining a high level of integrity and responsibility. Providers of products and/ or services are fully and solely responsible for same as advertised. Fag Rag Provincetown assumes no responsibiliy or liability for improper or negligent business practices by advertisers. The appearance of any person, model, business, or organization in this publication by name, advertisement, or photograph is not an indication of sexual orientation. Advertisers and their agencies assume all responsibility and legal liability for the content of their advertisements in Fag Rag Provincetown. Publisher assumes no liability for safekeeping or return of unsolicited art, manuscripts or other materials. Fagrag Magazine, LLC. All rights reserved. Content may only be reproduced with written permission from Fagrag Magazine, LLC.

Fag Rag Provincetown aaumes no liability for any claims or representations contained anywhere in this magazine and reserves the right to refuse or cancel advertising at publisher’s discretion.

We are accepting original editorial submissions. Email info@fagragmag.com with the subject “PTown Submission.”

Advertising inquiries: ads@fagragmag.com

Cover and Table of Contents photos by Emil Cohen

Fag Rag Magazine wants to give a very special thank you to those who supported our efforts to bring this magazine back. This is what supporting the arts in your community looks like.

Platinum

Gold

Raymond Updike

Silver

Noah Love, Adrien Allred, Donnie Roberts, Mike Borowski, Matthew Lehosit

Bronze

Orie Givens IV, Stephan Idowu-Bello

Letter From The Editor

Greetings from your favorite little burgeoning rag for fags, back after an extended hiatus. Yes, we know you missed us more than your favorite boyfriend twins miss getting mistaken for siblings after one shaves for a job interview. This is to say, it’s only our second P-town issue, so you might not have missed us–or known about us at all. Well, we’re back regardless and ready to highlight some of the many weirdos and creatives that make Provincetown unique. You may be wondering why we disappeared for two years. Think of us as that friend who took a “sabbatical” in a tropical country and returned with fewer forehead wrinkles and a fat juicy ass. We took a little time away to work on ourselves and figure out how to be a better version of what we once were. And we’ve come back enhanced–attributing it all to sunlight, meditation, and a cute personal trainer.

Putting this magazine together is fun, but like anything, it has challenges. As an editor, after looking through several photoshoot submissions, I’ve wondered why the same ten people are always in front of the cameras of P-town photographers. Surely there are enough Insta-baddies that pass through week after week who aren’t camera-shy. But who doesn’t love seeing a familiar face in front of the lens? You’ll notice some local hotties in this issue. Emil Cohen blows us away with photos that capture the true essence and magic of Boy Beach, and Sam Waxman’s “Missed Connections” photoshoot encapsulates the nostalgia of Craigslist in such a compelling way that I considered adding our own Missed Connections section to this very magazine.

By the time you’ve flipped through these pages, we hope you feel sufficiently welcomed back into our warm, homosexual embrace. We certainly always feel the love from you.

Stay quirky Ptown. Until next time. :)

Tomik Dash @tomik2point0

We are accepting pitches and submissions! Writers (journalists/opinion/creative), fine art photographers, and visual artists with Ptown-specific content OR… non-locationspecific content from contributors who live in or frequent Ptown. Writing assignments are available as well. Please send writing samples to info@fagragmag.com

Photo by Erik Carter @erik_carter

The idea of the indirect self portrait has been a focus of my work for a long time; the way that simple words, treasured objects, everyday habits, can provide a small but dense snapshot of a person at a particular point in their lives. We are all creating and sharing indirect portraits of ourselves constantly. Even the external information we receive is largely filtered through monstrous algorithmic self-portraits of our own creation. Paying attention to the more subtle markers of self-expression allows us to slow down and think about the ordinary things that make us human, and there are few better archives of these kinds of markers than Craigslist. One of the few remaining relics of early internet commerce and communication, Craigslist is a cultural tome of emotional snapshots. Objects for sale tell stories of lives past, apartment sublet ads invite us to become characters in a stranger’s life, lost and found ads tell stories of longing and elation. As a teenager, craigslist personal ads provided some of my only real-world glimpses into queer life, and allowed me to indulge my sense of adventure through rideshares and couchsurfing. The “missed connections” category is by far my favorite and the most endearing section to read. Missed connections ads are the internet equivalent of screaming into the void...memories and desires that have turned into fantasies of love, anger, sadness, hope. They are heartfelt, bizarre, horny, funny, but most importantly they are sincere. These stories aren’t factual recounts of events, but rather individual memories of them. They are intimate and revealing stories of ordinary life; perfect capsules of everyday emotion and banality. I want to memorialize these emotional snapshots the way that we memorialize all great stories of cultural relevance. Using a selection of missed connections ads, I want to create and photograph a series of scenes based on their stories which will exist as film stills in the lives of their authors.

Sam Waxman @wamsaxman

Being Human

Art and words by Heather McFarland aka Heat @couchsurfriot

I’ve been at the door for twenty years, a “nice young man” who welcomes all home. Nightclubs, street front stoops, lit by the glow of marquees, sound booths, and stairs/ stares, all familiar to me. Basking in the sun’s glow, in the smallest square mile footage LGBTQ peninsula where all come to play, watching. Keeping folks safe and mentally keeping myself autonomous from the apparent confusion my presence brings. Drag queens are more identifiable. Labeled daily by strangers and friends alike, I fit in as a part of this community’s misfit woven cloth, shamelessly flaunting my freak flag for all to see. I had a friend share with me recently that they had described me in conversation as being an “80’s styled BMX/skater boy, but a lesbian.” Co-workers have dubbed me “BDE,” big dick energy, the Badge Bish, while I crack a little inside at the thought of how I even got here, how little people know.

Labels are for suckers, I tell myself, as my amusement from what people think and actually know stirs within my overactive mind. A pink robe and health insurance reassured me of my born lady status. A fearless attitude and drive added more fuel to my tomboy arsenal of just being me. I stand outside the dispensary, hat tilted and halfcocked smile, overseeing Commercial Street’s charms, my 5’5” frame, holds 135 pounds of built-up emotion, pride, ego, and self-worth. “ ID please,” I request, matched with yet another “sir,” another “brother”, another “hey

man.” 365 days a year, I am stickered with “sir,” and I have had to just let it go… because labels are for suckers.

Curls recently replace the shaved head I’ve known since my twenties, where I hid behind a microphone, lust-filled nights, and bad choices, solidifying my lesbian stamp on myself. I reminisce on the club nights, raging bass-filled time warps wrapped in cocktails, drugs, and reckless abandonment of consequence. I wonder how I got here. Forty-three years young, Spring 2021, and I drop my board down, ready to take on Bradford hill, my zen from the day’s peopling. Trucks are tight, wheels in check, no traffic in front or behind me, except a bus roaring uphill filled with seasonal staffers, tourists, and seasoned locals watching my fearless dyke ass in my stained Vans make the concrete hill mine. I push off, my heart is racing, wheels go round and the roar of the friction on pavement churns a beat so familiar and welcomed. I cruise down, flying by the backside of Town Hall, rounding the corner onto Ryder, back into the seasonal roar of Summer. “Did you see that guy go down the hill?!” That “guy” is me, the Berkshire breed tomboy, lady-loving queer.

It’s been two years since my beacons of femininity went (like where did they put my boobs? hmm…) and my flat-chested life remained. Three more years until remission is mine to claim, three. A solo act, a lone wolf navigating the new me and my town, Commercial St., 02657, Provincetown.

A tiny beachside oasis with a lion’s heart and more “hello my name is” than I can even dissect here. Well hello Summer of 2021, game on. In April 2020 I walked into my last infusion, at Covid’s start, betraying my body for the final time, and my body betrayed me again when I walked out after ringing the bell, solo. My relationship with myself and my expartner had simultaneously died. I was unrecognizable to myself, I had neuropathy and I just wanted to skate, live and be the old version of myself, the familiar version. The new scarred version of me was driving the hourplus timeline home to the outermost reaches of the Cape giving way to new perspectives and a skewed sense of self. Am I trans by way of breast cancer? Will I be valued as a sexual partner ever again? Who will love my cats? Will I survive? Yes, yes I will. Will I survive the constant misgendering? Yes, yes, I will.

I claim every fucking syllable that rolls off the public’s tongue. “Sir, young man, him, he,” I roll with it, like a joint made with premium hash and a touch of sass. Letting it sink into my skin like an essential oil, leaving me amused at my own ability to disguise, and my own ability to reflect on the ignorance of it all. I sip slowly off the j that’s just

floated my way, by a human who identifies as a female, straight, and currently my lover. We joke about how many times a day I am “sirred,” and I joke in return about how “straight’ she is, labels are everywhere. They stick to us like name tags: Hello my name is:_______. The laughter shared fuels my zest to examine the human mind’s visceral reaction to doling out pronouns. As I undress to shower for dinner with said lady, I catch a glimpse of the scar running from armpit to armpit across my chest. No nipples, just a flat land of geography that used to have a valley and peaks, now a sweaty plain, a reminder of where I have been. I drift back in my head to all the infusions, the bald body that housed my deteriorating mind, stamina, and will at moments to keep going. The physical agony, the knock on death’s door and me kicking it shut refusing to give up. I snap out of it, I have a moment of guilt that I’m one of the lucky ones. I wonder what my current lover sees now, as I move with what I presume to be the grace of a wild boar, raptured by human physical response and sheer terror that I’m going to blow it. BDE, really? This new form of body is still introducing itself daily to me and others, it’s a mindfuck at best. I survived, I remind

myself, I keep saying out loud: I AM HERE.

A human being. My career as a Sir on the stoop has my bank account allowing for life’s simple pleasures, like health insurance. The card tucked neatly in my wallet, a reminder of privilege, a reminder of resilience. I am grateful to live in an accessible healthcare state while recognizing the need to ensure equal compassionate care to all humans regardless of how they identify. Some of us are two-spirited souls, but that’s a different piece. So ‘Sir’ it is, trans by cancer, apparently it will require more teachable moments to sway folks. Meanwhile, I will continue to extend warm welcomes, skate, draw and love in this tiny seaside oasis, wrapped up in this boyish body kicking cancer’s ass. I’m still here. You get one dash in this life to carpe diem the ish out of, savor each moment, and shake off labels. Stick to your guts and bear your soul, because in this town, soul is what we’ve got. Labels are the hill, and I shred them daily. I encourage you to do the same. “Sir, it’s on the bottom left,” their date of birth, I stand silent as I am overjoyed: I AM STILL HERE. I am still fucking here.

Solidarity In Motion

Words and photos by Izzy Berdan @izzyberdan

“On this day, June 19, 1865, two and a half years after the Emancipation Proclamation was signed, some 250,000 slaves in Galveston, Texas, did not know they had their freedom until Union soldiers came to the city and told them so. Juneteenth is the celebration of the completion of the 1863 proclamation freeing all enslaved peoples in the United States.

These two small paragraphs culminate hundreds of hours of group Zoom calls, one-onone meetings with community leaders, conversations with educators and students, and working out the logistics of something that would set a precedent for the following years. Before 2021, Juneteenth and Provincetown rarely, if ever, existed in the same sentence. Still, a band of engaged humans has joined forces to create something quite beautiful and important for our little town.

Join us, a grand coalition of Black/ African Americans, Jamaican/JamaicanAmericans, Indigenous Persons, People of Color, young leaders from the Provincetown IB School, allied community members, organizers, and leaders for a celebration of resilient honesty.”

—Juneteenth Coordination Committee ‘23

And because all of our worlds are connected, Aaron Clayton, Jaimie de Sousa, and Trevor Pittinger got an introduction to Tomik Dash, creator of the Black and Brown Equity Coalition (BaBEC) on Fire Island. Next, Chris Hartley of Provincetown Brewing Co, joined the group, and talks soon led to a joint action of Fire Island and Ptown “sistering up in celebrating Juneteenth, diversity, true equity, and inclusion in our queer spaces”-AC.

After the summer of George Floyd, a group of like-minded action-takers from Gays Against Guns (GAG) & the Provincetown League of Visionary Revolutionaries (PLOVR) found themselves all living at the same residence and having conversations around race & equity.

With a goal in place, the team quickly started to recruit. First, a handful came from PLOVR. Elspeth Slayter explains, “We had been working on getting the DEI officer in town… it was a natural progression”. Then, as more names came up, they were called, emailed, and tapped on the shoulder, including Pastor Brenda of the Unitarian Universalist (UU) church and Racial

Justice Provincetown. It must be mentioned that in the beginning, there was trepidation amongst some with the idea of a Juneteenth celebration being pitched “by a couple of white boys,”… but putting in the time, building bridges, and really doing the work was visible to us onlookers and the doubts quickly vanished. An assembly of intelligent, compassionate, honest people for change had started to take shape, and I had no choice but to join the collective.

Our early meetings held a lot of space for us to get to know each other and tell stories about why we were there. There were moments of solemn silence, belly laughter, redfaced frustration, and tears of joy and grief. Building these intimate relationships was paramount to us being able to move forward with the arduous task of organizing an

event about race in Provincetown. We had logistical agendas to get to, but everyone who had something to say had the floor, and I can’t remember a single story being cut short for time. As a BIPOC, to be given space to be seen and heard with regard to a production in Ptown was (and still is) such a rare thing.

This also meant our decisions had intention and would often require people to do personal research and then return to the topic at the next meeting. For example, landing on flying the Pan-African flag took three meetings of back-and-forth conversations about our audience, message, and goals. There was also no shortage of guests being asked to join us, and give insight on our progress and direction. This process is about “the willingness to expose yourself and make yourself vulnerable… it’s all about learning, sharing and trusting”Ngina Lythcott.

It’s June 19, 2021, and a beautiful morning at the Pilgrim Monument. Our day starts with a land acknowledgment by Steven Peters of the Wampanoag tribe and several speakers, including Pastor Brenda Haywood, our own Donna Walker, Lamb Rahming of Men of Melanin Magic, and 5thgrade students Nath’allia, Shakira, and Georgina of Provincetown Schools. The ceremony went off beautifully and was capped with the Pan-African flag being raised to the sound of Qya Cristál singing “I Know Where I’ve Been” from the musical Hairspray. Then, after a moment of silence, the African drummers began the heartbeat and made their way down to Commercial Street with about 200 people in tow. The march paused at different points of historical landmarks of Black life in Provincetown and dispersed at the West End Lot. Trusting the process and many hands lifting each other up got us through our first successful event, and we instantly knew we wanted and needed to grow.

The following year the first email went out in April to twentyseven people to begin the process again. Our first meetings covered standard life updates with a core group of about 7 or 8 people, and soon we were analyzing the previous year and how to better

our efforts. Many of our talks were about enhancing the sense of community and creating a space for conversations. Many of us would regale over stories of potlucks from our youth, family park cookouts, food carts during festivals, and how we learned about our community over breaking bread. Before we knew it, the UU had offered up their front lawn, and almost every business we asked to participate in some way said yes. We had signs, chairs, tents, stages, a

make our beloved Ptown a better place for all. Much like some of our first meetings, there were moments of solemn silence, belly laughter, red-faced frustration, and tears of joy and grief. We also took donations to pay for all the entertainers who gave everything they had during our time together, and made to-go containers available for all who wanted some extra food to take home.

sound system, tons of food, and volunteers. The ceremony included speeches, readings, and performances by Pastor David Brown, Ngina Lythcott, Senator Julian Cyr, Donna Walker, Qya Cristál, Aaron Clayton, Ephen Glenn, students from the Provincetown IB School, and more. The people who came out to join us that Sunday afternoon were from different socioeconomic, cultural, and ethnic backgrounds, but they all shared the desire to

It’s now 2023, and our first email went out in February to twenty people. Our core group goes between 8 and 10 people these days. We’re excited to grow and build on the work we’ve done. We’re back at the UU lawn and are adding more entertainment and engagement opportunities for our guests to learn and share with Myra Kooy and William “Mohoganny” Whitaker. Our talks have also expanded past a singular event and have made space for topics of greater change and needs in town. So much of what I’ve learned over the past couple of years working with this group is the patience and compassion of listening and the personal agency required to make a change. Thank you, Juneteenth Coordination Committee, for existing when I needed you most.

“the willingness to expose yourself and make yourself vulnerable… it’s all about learning, sharing and trusting”

Pick a Stone

Tianna Esperanza

@tiannaesperanza

Escaping dunes Oiled ocean

Bear the muck of apathy.

Masquerades of lily white Bury the indigenous, And the voices of Cape Verdeans, Brazilians, African Americans.

How do I protect an invaded home? How do I bear isolation?

I am a calm bay until I break and hurricane upon yacht clubs and golf courses.

Why should I leave? I love my home. But what is here for me? Who wants me here?

I wade and pick a stone from the sea, watch it release depths of color, reminding me, it belongs where I found it.

Landscapes

By Emil Cohen @emilcohen

Shrink Rap: Ask Dr. S

Dear Dr. S:

My boyfriend speaks with his therapist once a week on Zoom. Because we live together and still work from home, I can’t help but overhear his sessions. Not word for word, but enough to hear him laughing and getting animated discussing movies and Netflix shows. Yet I know he is depressed because he talks about it with me a lot. I have never heard him even mention this to his therapist. Should I say something to him? I’ve never been in therapy, and I don’t know if this is normal.

— Reluctant Eavesdropper

Dear Reluctant Eavesdropper:

Ah, therapy: As strange and perplexing a relationship, it can be invaluable. The right therapist can mend wounds, dust you off, and get you back on your way. A good therapist can be a wise guide, supportive coach, trustworthy confessor, and the loving rock/mentor/fantasy-parent-partner you’ve always wished for.

But at the risk of professional heresy, I wonder if the way many people use therapy -- meeting weekly month after month, year after year, sometimes decade after decade -- is really in their best interest.

I don’t mean at all to suggest that therapy has no value. Most people will benefit from a brief stint, say one to three years, or short spurts throughout life, as needed. Therapy can be especially valuable for queer folk, growing up as we do in a hetero-normative world and, most often, hetero families (well, growing up in any family is a good enough reason for a stint in therapy). If you’re dealing with a history of abuse or ongoing chronic stress, therapy can make the difference between surviving or thriving, or even surviving and not.

But long-term psychotherapy can devolve into a habit. It’s so seductive! Who wouldn’t want a smart, caring ear to appreciate and value you week after week? (A paid ear, I might add. More on that in a minute). Many folks turn their therapist into a special, less-fucked-up-than-I-am friend (at least seemingly less-fucked-up -- it can be hard to know given the lopsided design of the relationship). Over time, spilling one’s weekly guts to this kind, captive listener becomes core to how we soothe and regulate ourselves. It makes us less lonely. That’s great -- but it may also make us less willing to risk the rough and tumble of life, which, despite its multiple challenges, is a much better teacher. In the long run, it may keep us unwittingly mired in our problems. Therapy can make you feel held and safe. Life can make you a wiser adult.

So, a paid ear. Awkward as this might be, therapists often have an incentive to keep you in therapy longer than might be necessary. We got bills to remodel Kitchens and mortgages to meet. I fully believe therapists are good-hearted and earnest, but it can get tricky when there are financial motivations involved.

Without more information, it’s hard to know what’s up in your boyfriend’s case. Has he been with his therapist a long time? It’s worth mentioning that goodnatured banter can sometimes be more healing than angst-based processing. On the other hand, maybe he’s flat-out avoiding a serious issue, which sounds like your concern. Either way, I see no reason not to broach the topic with him, provided you haven’t already reached a foregone conclusion yourself. If he feels put on the defensive, it won’t be helpful. Suppose your stance is one of genuine curiosity and concern. In that case, there’s a chance you can help him figure out for himself if the therapy is helpful or not, if it’s time to end it, or time instead to cut the superficialities and actually make use of what could be a great opportunity for healing.

[Steve Schwartzberg, Ph.D., is a licensed clinical psychologist. Got a question for Dr. S? Email steveschwartzberg1@gmail.com]

Tide Guide