I remember my debut as a drag king here in Taipei: I didn’t even do my own make-up, and the Frank Sinatra impression was simple enough that it felt safe. I was booked for an intermission slot, usually reserved for the debut of a new drag performer with a slick new look and a can-do attitude. I remember the single spotlight at the back of the club facing the stage; a blinding white light blocking out half the audience. I was in good company. Almost everyone I knew in Taipei was in the audience, but performing still made me so anxious that my hands were trembling holding the microphone and singing into the whisky glass. But after making it through the first three minutes, I knew that this was something I wanted to do again and again.
This was early 2020, and as the world locked down, Taipei continued in relative normalcy. At this point, I believe that we were the only drag performers still doing live shows anywhere in the world. It was an important year for Taipei’s drag kings, for we were forging our identities and creating memorable drag numbers. 2020 was also an important year for me: I began to cement my act as Uncle Southside, a character that I had created in response to the uncles I encountered during my childhood—those who called me chi bu ting (吃不停), “can’t stop eating”, as a pun on my Mandarin name; I wanted to be an uncle that respected boundaries and made funny jokes without hurting people. Through this process, I began to find my footing, not only as a drag king, but as a person.
Small talk in Taipei often revolves around the weather or, whenever a local finds out that I am from Singapore, bak kut teh or Hainanese chicken rice. It’s almost like bingo, except the prize is often an awkward recognition that I might look the part, I might sound it too, but I am definitely not Taiwanese. 我不是台湾人. (“I am not Taiwanese”) has become somewhat like a coming out moment: I could fit in if I wanted to, but didn’t have the same experiences they did growing up, so my difference was hard to hide. I didn’t grow up in the Taiwanese school system and its after school 补习班 (after-class academic-enrichment programme) counterpart. I also did not grow up experiencing earthquakes and typhoon days. 我就不是台湾人, I’m just not Taiwanese, that is the fact. Yes, I look like most of the people here: we share the same…ethnicity. I guess you could say 我们都是华人 (“we are all Chinese”), but this has complicated connotations. In Taiwan, when you say you are “Chinese”, it means you are from the mainland. I made it a point to introduce myself as Singaporean Chinese, including a nationality marker to differentiate myself. But this still held connotations that I was inevitably tied to China. It hit me then: in Singapore we take it for granted when we identify as Chinese—we think it merely refers to race without recognising how it marks our relationship with China. Perhaps, this is some soft conspiracy by China to keep us culturally and politically connected. After all, the less you try to define something, the more its nuances creep up on you—I was labelled “Chinese” (along with its nuances), whether it applied or not.
To be fair, Taiwanese people generally recognise that I am not from China. I am a different kind of outsider. And Taiwan has always been attractive to outsiders. It is a land of immigrants, and often a place of refuge for those who needed it. Koxinga was a Ming dynasty loyalist who led his troops to Taiwan in 1661 as the Qing dynasty took over the mainland, ultimately defeating the Dutch colonists on the island. Under Qing rule, many came to Taiwan in the hopes of escaping the harsh conditions of the dynasty. The Japanese saw Taiwan as a strategic point for their imperial expansionist campaign, and at the end of the second world war the Kuomintang would flee to the island as the Communist Party of China gained control over the mainland.
The arrival of outsiders has not always been easy. For approximately 40 years, Taiwan lived under martial law and the horrors of a dictatorial government. As democracy swept the country in the late 1980s, Taiwan began to come to terms with its painful history and embrace freedom and the respect of individual rights, eventually becoming the first country in East Asia to have marriage equality in 2019. I was here when the bill was finally passed and written into law—it felt like a triumph, even though the law did not apply to me at that time; same-sex marriage was only applicable to foreigners from countries that had same-sex marriage laws. Singapore does not have said laws, but I celebrated anyway—as a queer person you learn to celebrate whatever you can get. A win for my fellow Taiwanese queers was a win for me too. (In May, the law was amended to include other countries too.)
I did not come to Taiwan to be a drag king. Looking back, I’m not actually sure why I moved here, but I found myself with two suitcases and my guitar emerging into the late summer heat of Taipei in September 2018, presumably to pursue a Masters in Fine Arts. I barely spoke any Mandarin, but it was enough for me to get by—revealing that I wasn’t Taiwanese was met with understanding, assistance and sympathy. Taiwan also seemed more openly queer. There were many masculine-presenting, assigned-female-at-birth (AFAB) persons around me that it felt like I was among my people. A whole industry has been built around butchness: salons, boutiques and even bars and clubs that cater to the masculine-of-centre queer person are easily accessible in Taipei. Early on, I met a lesbian business owner who made binders. Her shop sits along a quiet alley in Taipei’s Ximen district, the gay capital of Taipei. Her binders are made in Taiwan, and are modelled by Taiwanese lesbians. She lamented to me over coffee that business had been tough because customers who bought binders were now getting top surgery. This is a testament to the accessibility of gender-affirming procedures for AFAB people here. As long as you can afford it (and it is not expensive), you can get a double mastectomy. This was definitely my haven. I was eventually introduced to online communities that catered specifically to queer AFABs.
Six months after immigrating, a combination of factors brought me to the doorstep of a Canadian drag king who was hosting a drag king salon in their home. Before this, drag kings were an internet oddity whom I had spent time researching. It did not surprise me that they existed in Taipei, and I was excited to meet one. I arrived at the salon on time. But nobody else was there, because this is the drag world: being punctual is showing up late, and being late is showing up even later. I could tell they hadn’t expected me to show up at the time indicated on the event page, and were trying to be the best hosts. In Sawyer Darling’s living room where I waited were some mirrors and a make-up spread set up on the coffee table. Costco cookies and snacks sat beside a selection of wines, juices and soft drinks. Other people started to show up, and I spent the rest of the afternoon observing them. Some had been doing make-up for a long time, some were complete newbies. An array of different drag looks began to take shape. I still use this method when I hold workshops now—starting with basic contours, everyone is encouraged to create their own looks. At that point I wasn’t ready for any hands-on make-up. It would take me almost a year to build up the courage to try it. So I watched, I waited, I commiserated.
That day, the salon birthed a group of drag kings who would form the earliest generation of kings in Taiwan. From that salon, a community was built. Shows were organised and friends of kings followed them from show to show. The first-ever drag king show in Taiwan took place on a yacht. In true drag fashion, one of the drag kings was late and the yacht left without them. We sailed upon the Tamsui River on a sunset cruise; about 40 people lined the walls of the internal deck and the kings strutted their stuff down the centre aisle. It was a tight fit, but they made it work. The night ended with a bunch of us singing along to late 2000s’ RnB piped in from a Bluetooth speaker on the open-air upper deck. As we returned to land, there was a feeling that something new was beginning, and we had all been there to witness its inception.
More generally, the current drag scene in Taipei has its roots in Cafe Dalida, near the Ximen Red House and other bars that form the city’s gay bar district. Its owner is queen Alibudha, or Alvin Chang, whose overseas travels brought exposure to drag and a desire to build a drag scene in Taipei. Pre-Covid, Cafe Dalida was one of the most accessible places to see and do drag. At the height of its popularity, it featured drag shows every Friday to Sunday night, and hosted a drag king night once a month called “Drag Labs: Til Kingdom CUM”. Many of Taipei’s drag kings, including me, got their official start there. The space is ideal for drag performances. It has an indoor backstage area separated from the semi-outdoor bar space by a shimmery curtain used for dramatic reveals. Once the performer leaves the small stage area, they can wind their way around tables to the centre of the bar, where a long pole stands beside a huge tree, perfect for mounting. The set-up brings performers up close to the audience; connecting with your audience and making them feel a part of the show is crucial for its success. Plus, it means you could collect tips, essential for drag performers’ survival. Cafe Dalida trains you for this: there is no distancing yourself by staying on stage; you have to get down and dirty with your audience.
I am one of the few drag kings lucky enough to be booked to perform at Cafe Dalida. But I am also an advocate for drag kings. Recently, I ran a new show out of a new bar away from the gay district that only books drag kings. The “Drag King Takeover” at Another Brick on Xinhai road is a free show that features drag kings performing on top of their bar. Once, I wore a marijuana-shaped headdress not realising how high it would reach. The top leaf on my head caught onto the track lights above the bar, and I experienced a split-second of whiplash before ducking the other lights. Thankfully, there haven’t been any accidents in the five months of our performances. “Drag King Takeover” provides a safe space for drag kings to debut and to practise and hone their performances in front of a live audience.
Although drag originated in the West, cross-dressing in performance is not a new concept here. Traditional Taiwanese opera, or “歌仔戏”, remains an important part of Taiwanese culture and entertainment. In the early days, opera troupes were often divided by gender, with all-male and all-female travelling troupes performing in towns and cities across Taiwan. Before television, traditional opera troupes became famous by word-of-mouth. And many performers who crossed gender lines became superstars, especially AFAB performers who specialised in playing the male 生 (“born”) character archetype, usually the romantic hero in the story. Many performers received patronage from wealthy fans for playing these roles. Sometimes, there were performances known as “Red Packet Sessions” (红包场), where gifts and money were displayed on stage; bills taped together to create a backdrop for the performers, as well as a platform for patrons to show off their wealth.
When television arrived, Taiwanese opera became a mainstay of programming, making bigger stars of AFAB cross-dressing performers. While opera is very different from Drag and has its own history and traditions, it is true that Taiwanese audiences are primed for watching performances that cross gender boundaries. Take Takarazuka Revue, a Japanese, all-female musical theatre troupe from the eponymous city in Japan. The troupe features AFAB persons who train specifically for male roles, called the otokoyaku, whose masculine presentation extends beyond the stage as they usually cut their hair short, perform masculine roles in the classroom, and speak in the masculine form. They also represent an idealised man: one who is gentle and does not need to be in control. In pre-pandemic times, tickets to the Takarazuka world tour in Taiwan would sell out within minutes, and people (mostly middle-aged and AFAB) would line up to see extremely handsome women play men on stage.
Drag kings in Taiwan are a curious bunch. Most of us are foreigners or have grown up outside of Taiwan. Of that first batch of kings, only one grew up here. This number has since grown: as far as I am aware, of the active kings in the current generation, there are now four kings of Taiwanese descent and only three of them grew up in Taiwan. I sometimes pass for being a Taiwanese king, mostly because I have a penchant for performing the Taiwanese Hokkien songs of my childhood. I also found out recently that my grandfather originated from Kinmen, and we still have relatives there, so technically I can trace my ancestry to Taiwan. But 我不是台湾人. I’m not Taiwanese. When we joined Wang Newton, a Taiwanese American drag king, for a photoshoot, I did not step into the frame when the Taiwanese kings were photographed. I have to admit, I was a little sad to be the only Asian in the room who was not in this photograph. Eventually someone suggested we take a photo of the Asian kings—which was slightly comforting, but I am still not a Taiwanese king.
Among the foreigners I also stick out. Kings in Taiwan are usually English teachers, contributing to a multimillion-dollar education industry that sometimes crosses grey, racist lines. I am a theatre director by training, and so I am relatively isolated from that weird world of English as a Second Language. I do not belong there anyway. In Taiwan, your ability to teach English is often determined by your outward appearance and skin colour. The schools tell you that you’re qualified, but that the parents don’t want you, because you don’t look like a foreigner. Asians can’t possibly be good at English, no matter if you were an English major in college and only spoke English growing up. So, the locals recognise that I am different, and also think that I am not different enough.
This odd space that I straddle is not without its perks. Taiwan’s drag scene is split by language. English-speaking performers cater to the foreigners who live in Taiwan. Then there are the local queens whose shows are generally in Mandarin and have a more local audience. My ability to speak both Mandarin and English means that I can reach audiences on both sides. I often find myself bridging both worlds by organising Taiwan’s only bilingual drag show, “DragMania”, where we perform in both English and Mandarin and do more than just translation. The language split is in the script itself, and much care has been taken to help our audiences get used to the sound of this language mix. It is an ongoing process, but it seems to be working. It is true to say that Drag in its contemporary form is an imported concept brought to Taiwan, and “DragMania”, among other shows and events, is bridging the gap by overcoming the language barrier.
Drag kings are still a rarity in Taiwan, and not as well-known as queens. Trying to run Taipei’s only drag king show has been tough. People come and go, and it has been difficult finding drag kings, particularly Mandarin-speaking ones, to fill the show. If more shows were performed in Mandarin, we’ll probably be able to grow our local audience. The broader problem is, all round the world, drag kings are less prominent and are struggling to be recognised as legitimate performers and artists. We work as hard as our queen counterparts, and play with gender as hard as they do. But we don’t have the same level of exposure. I often wonder why this is the case. I have no easy answers, but I can speculate on the nature of gender and power and the imbalance faced by AFAB persons in every field. Whether in sports, or the arts, or tech, AFAB persons are still overlooked, bypassed or seen as less capable than AMABs (assigned male at birth) no matter what field they find themselves in. I believe this is the same in Drag: the frustrating truth is that drag kings still face sexism in a community that should be more inclusive.
In Taipei, it is true that many drag shows only book queens. The drag shows that do book drag kings are mostly in English, where the audience is more diverse and international in terms of gender identities and sexualities. Even in Taipei’s main lesbian bar, their preference is for booking queens—perhaps it is femininity that they want to celebrate, regardless of who is performing.
Thus, if drag kings are often overlooked, perhaps we need to make ourselves seen in spaces that do not necessarily cater to capitalist or misogynistic whims; where the goal is not solely for entertainment or financial gain but for nurturing self-expression and exposure. In Taipei, we have worked very hard to keep this space open and inviting to the development of drag kings. We have fought to carve out a space that celebrates the aesthetics of queerness. It is not just about masculinity or femininity: what we do exists beyond the gender binary, and honours each unique person’s self and their identity and expression.
Drag saved my life in a way that nothing else could have. Through layers of make-up and costume I slowly found myself and pieced together my identity, uncovering the childhood traumas that shaped me. It took uprooting my life and moving to a new place to discover that it was possible to create without being censored. It has taken so much unlearning to understand what it truly means to be able to do anything you want without fear of being punished.
When I was in Singapore, my queerness was suppressed—policies determining how live shows were rated signalled that being queer was unwelcome. In 2017, I wrote and directed a play called “Pretty Butch” that featured a lesbian couple trying to get pregnant in Singapore. I had written a scene with a tender kiss between the two lovers, only to be asked to describe what kind of kiss it would be so that the play could be rated. By reflex, I felt like I should change the kiss to a peck on the cheek, and then wondered where this reflex came from. It’s true that censorship in Singapore trains you to find creative solutions to get your message across, to tone down so that you still have a voice, albeit a quieter one. Perhaps in recent years things have moved in the opposite direction, but for me the damage was done. There is something insidious about creating something while being watched—it affects you subconsciously so you may not realise that you are limiting yourself in your art. It took coming to Taiwan to recognise and heal from it.
Drag also helped me to begin healing my relationship with my body. For the most part, I have been told that as an AFAB person my body is to be hidden, only to be revealed to the man that owns me by way of marriage. I am also told that my nipples are offensive, that they must be concealed; that my body is fat, and fat is ugly, and so unless I am ready to lose weight, my body rolls should be similarly unseen. Drag, however, gives me an opportunity—an excuse, if you will, to strut in the open with barely any clothes on, because in drag my AFAB body is no longer bound by how society thinks an AFAB body should behave. Drag celebrates my body, or rather, drag allows my body to be celebrated. I can tape my chest and draw fake abs and for three minutes on stage I can remove everything to the cheers of my adoring fans, and become the magic dyke, go-go boi of your dreams. In drag, I, the chubby butch, can be seen. How do I even begin to describe how empowering that is?
我不是台湾人, I am not Taiwanese, but Taiwan forms the backdrop for my healing journey. And I am sure that my story is not unique—maybe it is in the water, because I believe that all of us kings in Taiwan are healing from something. Taiwan is a place that makes you think about who you truly are. It is a place that questions labels, and reminds me to define all the labels that could be placed upon me, whether relating to ethnicity or gender. I fit in and yet, stick out. I have the safety to be who I am, but also recognise the parts of myself that I want to work on. Taiwan provides the right factors to find my healing. This land has seen its fair share of tragedy, oppression and pain, and that is why it is so attractive to those of us who have experienced similar things. Taiwan understands, and takes you in with its warm, accepting arms. I don’t think I could be a drag king anywhere else—and I don’t think I want to be a drag king anywhere else.
Liting Tan (they/them) graduated from the Taipei National University of Arts with an MFA in Directing. Liting’s work centres on queer performance and gender. Their past works include “Journey to The Jest: A Pilgrimage in 72 Transformations” (Drag Royals Taiwan 2022), “O-Life’s A Drag!” (Taipei Blooming 2021), “Pretty Butch” (Taipei Arts Festival 2018 and M1 Singapore Fringe Festival 2017). Liting also performs as drag king Uncle Southside Tingles with their drag comedy show “DragMania”.
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