"Don't Dream It, Be It"

Spoilers for The Rocky Horror Picture Show, I guess? I wouldn't worry about being spoiled if you haven't seen it (the plot is the least interesting thing about the movie), but you do you.

The world lost one of the greats on Wednesday, Aug. 25, when actor Tim Curry died. Obituaries from news organizations and tributes from fans highlighted his wide oeuvre of work, from clowning with the Muppets to terrifying countless children as Pennywise the Clown.

For me, though, my appreciation of Tim Curry is centered around my obsession with one particular film. He will always be the person who brought Dr. Frank N Furter to life in The Rocky Horror Picture Show and, in turn, changed my life.

I first encountered Rocky Horror in my rural southern Missouri hometown the summer after I graduated high school. My friend Lily's family was away, so we had her house all to ourselves. Six months earlier, she and I had learned choreography for “The Time Warp” as part of a dance workshop. We decided to spend the afternoon discovering the song’s full context via a DVD rented from Redbox.

By the end of the movie's 99 minute runtime, the scales had fallen from my eyes. The R-rated movies I had seen before were mostly serious art films my dad showed me, definitely nothing that lauded sexuality and gender nonconformity like this. I vividly remember laying on the floor with my head resting on my arms, looking up at the TV and feeling shocked by the song “Rose Tint My World” and its celebration of libido and lust. Near the end of the song, Tim Curry's Frank N Furter lazily floated in a swimming pool, singing the refrain:

Don't dream it, be it
Don't dream it, be it
Don't dream it, be it

The lyrics continued as the other characters jumped in the pool and began kissing each other indiscriminately. I side-eyed Lily to see if I was alone in feeling shocked. I was not brave enough to admit that I was also intrigued. As a curious baby lesbian tired of the programming of purity culture, my mind was blown by the unrelenting deconstruction of rigid sexual norms unfolding in front of me.

Back at my house, I couldn’t stop thinking about Rocky Horror. I had heard that people would show up for midnight screenings at theaters week after week, dressed in elaborate costumes and cheering on a shadow cast acting out the movie. I now understood why. The soundtrack was stuck in my head, and I wondered which character I would want to play if I were to ever find myself in a shadow cast.

Sure, there was Janet or Columbia or Magenta. But my mind kept coming back to Frank N Furter, and specifically as portrayed by Tim Curry. Curry originated the role in the stage show in London, The Rocky Horror Show. When the musical crossed the Atlantic, he also played Frank in Los Angeles, and in New York City for its failed Broadway debut. By the time the film was made, he had embodied the role continuously for over two years. I think anyone who watches The Rocky Horror Picture Show can agree that it shows in the way he commits 120% to his performance.

I quickly fell in love with Frank. Curry’s charisma and talent were the bait, and the character’s unapologetic confidence was the hook. By the time I saw the movie I was also beginning to seriously question my gender, and seeing a character who didn’t give a fuck about the concept sent shivers of gender euphoria down my spine. Through Frank, a path to escaping an unhappy life clinging to cisgender womanhood unfolded before me.

Months after my first Rocky Horror viewing, I moved to Minnesota to attend college. There were many reasons I picked my school, but a large one was the ability to shed my stiflingly heteronormative surroundings and safely express my sexual orientation. I quickly became a leader in the campus LGBTQ+ group, where I spent countless hours creating a space for my fellow gays to accept their identities, make friends, and fall in love. I was finally able to be loud and proud, not just tolerated but accepted. On the outside, I appeared self-assured.

My inner world, however, was still in turmoil. A cross-country move didn’t erase the growing unease I felt in my body. I knew I was not a woman, but my exact label eluded me. Fast forwarding to the present, I can comfortably say I'm transmasculine – I use he/they pronouns, sometimes I mark "man" and sometimes I mark "nonbinary" on demographics surveys, and life is good. But during college, I just wanted my identity to make sense.

While I continued soul searching, I slowly checked off the steps of transitioning. I began showing up to events wearing a chest binder and suits purchased from the boy's section at H&M. I changed my name, shaved my head, and came out on Facebook via a picture of myself wearing a T-shirt of the Babadook waving a Pride flag. All these steps helped my dysphoria decrease, but the ache that something was missing persisted.

Soon I realized medical transition was a necessary next step. There were many reasons for this; the one we will discuss today is my strong desire to be perceived by others as male. Constant misgendering reminded me that this was a steep uphill battle unless I sought additional support. Unfortunately, during this time I lacked options for medical care (I lived in a small town) and the ability to afford to see a specialist without parental help (let’s just say I knew not to ask for that).

Everyone sees me as a woman putting on men's clothes, I thought to myself with every incorrect pronoun used to describe me. At the most, I just look ambiguous. Like people don't know what to do with me.

From my vantage point, I had two options: constantly feel sorry for myself, or lean into the ambiguity. I strove to choose the latter. I embraced they/them pronouns – partly because they genuinely felt right, partly because I liked confusing people who didn't know they/them was an option, and partly because it felt less challenging than getting people to use he/him for someone with a high-pitched voice and large chest. Sometimes I paired one of those new suits with red lipstick and nail polish, other times I wore a dress simply because it looked cute.

Throughout this time in my life, Rocky Horror was there for me. I still listened to the soundtrack, dreaming of a future when I might have Tim Curry's vocal range. I watched the movie so many times that I memorized most of the script. I've been to themed drag shows, theater productions of The Rocky Horror Show, and of course plenty of movie screenings with a shadow cast. Frank N Furter continued to be my guiding star of gender fuckery. I was limited in the steps I could take to fully become myself, but at least I could make heads turn. That comforted me.

Graduating college brought me extra independence, a move to a city with many options for gender-affirming medicine, and my own income. With these tools I was able to finally transition in all the ways I wanted to. I legally changed my name and gender marker, started testosterone, and got top surgery. As my body fat redistributed and my skin grew thicker, my dysphoria ebbed. For the first time, I truly felt great.

Eventually, I stopped thinking about being trans much at all. To be clear, I experience this as a positive change – I don’t recommend spending all your waking hours wrestling with your gender identity and presentation. As a consequence, though, I lost touch with the ambiguity that had once empowered me. I donated my dresses and skirts to Goodwill and the nail polish in my bathroom solidified. I no longer dressed to make a statement, but simply for convenience. Meanwhile the Rocky Horror soundtrack fell off my On Repeat, and years crept by without me watching the movie.

I also went from being someone everyone recognized as trans in my small Minnesota town to “just some guy” moving about my city. I was surprised at how fully I passed, considering how much I struggled to be recognized in college. This became painfully obvious any time I shared something about my past and accidentally outed myself. Exhibit A:

Coworker: “How are you doing?”
Me: “I’m good, a little stressed right now. I’m working on fixing my birth certificate.”
Coworker: “… Fixing?”
Me: “… Because the gender marker is wrong?”
Coworker: “…”
Me: “…”
Coworker: “Oh! You’re trans? I would not have guessed that at all.”
Me: “Oh! Uh. Well. Yeah, that’s me!”

As my gender became the least interesting thing about me, I slowly lost touch with the people that had sustained me for so many years. Not just the Rocky Horror fans, but also the broader queer community. I became painfully aware of this recently when I agreed to participate in an LGBTQ+ oral history project. I spoke with an interviewer about my life story for three hours, especially the campus leadership that nourished me so much. At the end of my interview, they asked a simple question that troubled me.

“You were obviously really involved in the queer community in school, and now you’re in a city full of queer people. How are you involved with the queer community now?”

The question caught me off-guard as I realized I had nothing to say. I had come into myself since leaving school and I was happier than ever. At the same time, I left a part of me behind that exemplified many of my values – passion, defiance, solidarity. I stammered out some half-truths about being busy and ended the call feeling embarrassed.

Two months ago, my friend texted me as I was reeling from the shock of losing Tim Curry. Our local Rocky Horror midnight shadow cast happened to be performing that Saturday and they had two tickets, would I be interested in going? I was eager to be in community with others who might be feeling the same way as me, so I said yes.

In the days leading up to the event, anxiety crept in to temper the excitement. I'm not 22 anymore and need sleep to function; would I be drained the next morning? Forget the next morning, would it take days to recover from the experience? Most worryingly, it had been so long since I engaged with Rocky Horror. What if it didn't hold the same magic that it had back at Lily's house, or in my dorm room, or at any number of screenings from my pre-testosterone days?

Finally, it was 9 p.m. on Saturday and time to get ready. My fishnets and corset were lost to time, and I wasn’t sure what to wear. I hunted for a T-shirt and found a tank top from a local gym with arm holes long enough to show my top surgery scars. For this reason, I never wore it in public.

Is this too scandalous? I thought. Why am I even asking that question, this is the time to wear something scandalous. I built the outfit around the shirt and kept looking in the mirror to admire the scars peeking through.

Then it was makeup time. I gathered the tools that had gone unused for years. I carefully applied bright red lipstick and layered it with red gloss. I used white and gold glitter on my cheekbones. (Well, I tried to use it on my cheekbones. It ended up all over the lower half of my face thanks to my lack of finesse.)

When I was done, I assessed myself in the mirror. As I leaned forward to check my lips, I suddenly imagined my younger self doing the same thing. I felt deeply connected to him and his excited energy. That energy surged within present me, and I felt invincible, vibrant, alive in a way I hadn’t for several years.

Amid the rush of glee and nostalgia, I could only construct three words. I look… hot.

My self-admiration was cut short when my friend came to pick me up. I had a great time at the show, calling out my favorite comebacks at the screen and throwing props into the air. When Frank N Furter entered for "Sweet Transvestite," the audience clapped and cheered even louder than usual. As I sang along, I grinned when I realized that I could now match pitch with Tim Curry.

All too soon, it was time for Frank’s final song. “We love you, Tim!” somebody screamed as my eyes brimmed with tears. Frank sings it right before he dies, and the lyrics were too fitting.

'Cause I've seen, oh, blue skies
Through the tears in my eyes
And I realize
I'm going home

The movie ended, the cast took their bows, and we filed out of the theater. By the time I removed my makeup and got into bed it was 2:45 a.m. Somehow, I still felt great. The power of Rocky Horror had overcome me once again, and I felt more vitality and joy as a result.

Of course, it isn’t The Rocky Horror Picture Show itself that transformed me. It was embracing my trans-ness again. Being in community with other weirdos who will stay up until 3 a.m. to shout comebacks at a movie that is over fifty years old helped. And then there was the catalyst, the legacy of Tim Curry, who has been an important figure to me for so long.

Since the screening, I’ve once again been watching the movie repeatedly and listening to the soundtrack nonstop. My makeup adventures reminded me how much I used to enjoy experimenting with gender presentation and daring the world to have a problem with it. I am much happier in my body at present, and I now understand that doesn’t have to mean that I give up what used to bring me a sense of power.

People have different definitions of what it means to honor Tim Curry. To me, honoring Tim Curry means flaunting what makes you who you are and living with fluidity instead of rigidity. It means connecting with my younger self and his passions instead of forgetting them.

Moving forward, I want to bring that version of myself to sit beside me more often. I want to tell him that I'm very happy now, but I miss him and am grateful for him and would appreciate his fashion advice because these days I'm too reliant on polos that give "golf dad."

And maybe then I will give him a hug, take his hand, and join him in doing the Time Warp again.