On the second Tuesday of every month, dykes, those of dyke experience and dyke allies make their way to Ginger’s in Park Slope, Brooklyn. For some, the trip to the Irish pub and lesbian dive bar is practically second nature. The audience hails from all corners of the Brooklyn queer community: Younger patrons with blue hair and ironic tattoos have just made the trek from Bushwick for the 10th time, while older butches with cropped haircuts, who live right around the corner, are Ginger’s regulars.
Guests pull money out of an ATM in the corner, buy drinks at the cash-only bar, flirt with fellow patrons and wait patiently while performers—in their exaggerated makeup, larger-than-life wigs and intricate costumes (on this night, they’re dressed as horror movie icons)—shuffle through the crowd and to the back room. By 8 p.m., the back of the building is full. It is Dyke Drag and the show is about to begin.
Though drag has found mainstream success outside of the clubs it was born in (see: the show RuPaul’s Drag Race and the movie To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar), it continues to have deep roots in the nightlife scene, especially in bars and clubs that cater to an LGBTQ+ community. Unfortunately, the art form has not yet found the same success in lesbian bars as it has in other queer nightlife spaces—even as the number of lesbian bars across the country is beginning to steadily rise again. Brooklyn-based drag queen I’m Baby is working to change this.
Known simply as “Baby” out of drag, I’m Baby started Dyke Drag in 2021 with her co-producer Kayla Manjarrez. What started as a dream shared by two lesbians hoping to bring drag to sapphic spaces has since turned into a monthly phenomenon at Brooklyn’s longest-standing lesbian bar. For about $13, audience members get to experience drag artists from around New York City and beyond do their thing on stage for a primarily lesbian audience.
There’s a common misconception that drag solely involves men impersonating women. But the art form is so much more than that. Drag kings (who are primarily queer women impersonating men), for example, have been around since the late 1800s, and Baby herself performs as a drag queen, like plenty of cis and trans women in the scene.
I’m Baby’s style, like her name, is cutesy, with a color palette of pastel blues and pinks. Her aesthetic and performance are a heightened exaggeration of femininity. (She has, however, broken her own mold and performed as darker characters or in edgier acts, including the time she got “Baby” tattooed on her butt while on stage.) For her Valentine’s Day show, she gave her partner a haircut in front of the audience. “To show dykes as ourselves, to have that experience, I think that that’s something that is so sweet,” she says of the performance. “I can go on stage and perform the same exact songs as other drag queens, but to have that lens—to show this very sapphic experience of being a femme, cutting their butch’s hair—is something that resonates with me. And it resonates with the audience, because it’s something that they personally know.” A proud Pisces whose motto is “I love be gay,” I’m Baby—and the full Dyke Drag crew—is both pioneering drag in lesbian spaces and empowering others to do the same.
At her October show, a Halloween edition that she named “Boy Terrors,” I’m Baby performed as two queer, blood-sucking man-eaters: Lady Gaga’s The Countess from American Horror Story: Hotel and Jennifer Check from Jennifer’s Body. Afterward, she sat down—still smeared with fake blood—to talk about what it’s like being a lesbian drag artist and how Dyke Drag has changed throughout the years.
Annie Harrigan: What was your first introduction to the art of drag?
Baby: My first introduction to drag was probably watching To Wong Foo with my mom when I was 5 years old, repeatedly. That movie made me love drag. Then years later, when I was 16 or 17, I stumbled upon RuPaul’s Drag Race at my mom’s friend’s house on TV. I was in awe. This was back when all of the seasons were on Netflix, so I binged the entire show. And the rest is sitting right in front of you.
When did you start doing drag yourself?
I started doing drag in 2019, right before the pandemic hit. One night, right after I moved to the city, I went to a bar for a karaoke night, and this really shy gay guy was singing on the mic. I looked at him and said, “We’re going to go up there and I’m going to sing with you and you’re going to sing your heart out.” After that, I was like, “You know what? I think I’m going to do drag and my drag name is going to be Supportive Bitch.” It took a whole year after that for me to actually do drag again. By then, the “I’m baby” meme was everywhere and everyone was like, “You’re baby.” I’m 5 feet tall, thus the name was perfect for me.
As a lesbian drag queen, what was your experience like getting integrated into the drag community?
First of all, I’m really lucky to do drag in Brooklyn, where anything goes. Honestly, if you show up and you say, “I’m doing drag now” and you’re different from everybody, people are just like, “OK, werk.” So my experience hasn’t been bad. I know a lot of people who came before me went through a lot of things that paved the way for me to be able to have an easier time, and I really respect that.
A big thing that I often get from people is, “Oh, you must be a drag king.” I have to tell them, “No, I’m a drag queen,” and they ask me how that works. I say, “Well, it just does.” I do think the drag king community also is really supportive—obviously, this is because a lot of them are dykes or of dyke experience. So it’s not like I’m completely alone doing this and am the only one. But, especially when booking these shows, I do say to myself sometimes, “Oh yeah, there’s not many femme dyke performers around.” So hopefully, there will be more and more and more.
Why is drag important to the lesbian community?
Back in the day, when gay bars were raided, the butches and the drag queens would switch clothes so that they could be safe. When the AIDS crisis happened, and men weren’t allowed to visit other men in the hospital, the lesbians would go visit, and they would sit there all day. They’d be the advocates for the men who were sick and dying and lonely. So it’s really frustrating, sometimes, to me that we’ve kind of lost that connection.
Whenever I invite gay guys to Dyke Drag, and they tell me they don’t want to take up space where a dyke should be, I have to say, “No, I’m inviting you. It is my show and I’m inviting you because I want to share this space with you because I think that we belong together.” The dream is to continue to bridge that gap a little bit between both worlds.
What was the very first Dyke Drag like?
I knew I wanted to perform at a lesbian bar. I originally met [my co-producer] Kayla at a drag bar—at The Rosemont, which is actually where I did drag for the first time. After the pandemic, she asked me if I wanted to do this show with her, and I said, “Yes, I would love to.” We both have Pisces moons, so we had to dream big.
Then we came to Ginger’s. We pitched the show, and they were like, “OK, yeah, let’s see.” We told ourselves if we each brought five people—the two of us and the four performers—maybe we could have a half-empty room. Then we dropped the flier and we were sold out within an hour or two—and we’ve been sold out for almost every single show ever since.
What does it mean to you to be performing at Ginger’s, which, for a long time, was the only lesbian bar in Brooklyn?
I can’t believe that now we have more lesbian bars! I think that’s so fucking cool. It’s such a testament to queer nightlife and sapphic nightlife and dyke nightlife making room for itself and demanding those spaces.
It is really special to do it here at Ginger’s. I had not really been here before Dyke Drag, though it had been on my list to visit, and now it is my home. It is so, so special to me. It was meant to be right here, right now. I hope it goes on forever.
What do you see for the future of Dyke Drag?
One major thing is that we really would love to take this on a tour. We would like to bring this to every lesbian bar across the country and hire the dyke talent in those cities to give them a platform, give them a stage. Today, I had the wild dream of opening lesbian bars across the country. And at those bars, every second Tuesday, every single one would have fucking Dyke Drag simultaneously happening, for years to come.
Responses have been lightly edited for length and clarity.
