ICONOCLASM

A Ritual-Cabaret for Forgotten Queer Ancestors

Welcome to the Roses - a cabaret in the in-between where the ghosts come to sing. This whole piece began from wondering - in all the vivid and formative tales that my elders told, where are all the queers? I mean - statistically speaking - I can’t be the only one in my entire family history?! And, besides, I feel it in my bones that I am not the only one. There are many reasons these stories wouldn’t make it to the present day - active repression and rewriting, an intentional forgetting and omitting, or differences in available language, among others. In so far as “people are made of stories”, to not see yourself in the stories around you means you must weave those stories, become those stories, or lose yourself. That’s the point of this whole ritual. I hope to give those named and unnamed queer ancestors the mic. And I hope to tell queer legends in which I, and others, can see ourselves (better) reflected. 

This is not history, not in a factual sense at least. It is story, legend, and myth. Iconoclasm means to break apart pre-conceived ideals of figures and reform them. An incredibly queer act if there ever was one. The real histories that inspired these tales perhaps did not play out as they have been mythologized here. But perhaps they did. It’s ultimately impossible to know for sure, we only know what following generations chose to share. But certainly they echo someone’s forgotten life that aches to be remembered. And they certainly resonated with my own queerness. This is as much a summoning of the past as it is a sharing of what is within me - because the ancestors are within as well, an interwoven knot of fire.

One day, we will all be ancestors. What tales do we want to leave for those yet to come? A bard is a carrier of myth and a singer of legend - truths that are not strictly fact but are nonetheless true. This is a queer ballad from me to you - to those that came before - to those yet to come. 

What will we become - the root, the rose, the silent seed, or all three?

Lyrics

PRELUDE

What will we become? What will we become?

The root, the rose, or the silent seed?

What will we become? What will we become?

Who makes history? Who is holding the pen?

Truth and heresy - who begins and who ends?

Who makes history? Who has lived to tell the tale?

Who makes memory? Who forgets?

What will we become? What will we become?

Who makes history? Who is called up to sing?

Who is listening when the bells start to ring?

Who makes history, Who is holding the mic

What is fantasy, What is wrong, what is right?

What will we become? What will we become?

The truth is in the showing, the wind is in the blowing

The seed is in the sowing, the leaf is in the growing

The bell is in the ringing, the song is in the singing

The voice is in the yelling, the tale is in the telling

The breath is in the breathing, the health is in the healing

The life is in the living, the word is in the speaking

What will we become? What will we become?

The root, the rose, or the silent seed?

What will we become? What will we become?

MOTHERS, FATHERS, CHILDREN

Come - come awake by the sea, by the sea

Braided brambles, gray cockles lying at our feet, dawn is gathering in the east

I will stand with the tide rolling in, rolling in

Hear the laughter of the waves carried on the wind

And the voices of all my kin as their numberless songs begin

And the wind turns the hair on their heads just as mine - ages before, ages hence

And their feet dance in the waves, and the sand coats their hands

My mothers, my fathers, my children

Grandmother, grandmother rings of pearls in her hair

And the silver of the moon a raiment rare, for a mantle the starlight fair

Arising, the horizon your earthly throne

Walking edges turning sea into sky and foam

In one hand a red red rose, in the other a knife of bone

And the wind turns the hair on her head just as mine - ages before, ages hence

And her feet dance in the waves, and the sand coats her hands

My mothers, my fathers, my children

Set the blade to the blossom, petals fly from her hand

Transforming into rosehips falling on the sand, tears of garnet strewn along the strand

Build a fire, boil water, gather up the fruits

Drink the thicker warming liquor before it cools

What remains shall sprout and root

While in slumber so the roses shall grow and vine

While in dream so unfolding is my garden fine, a thicket, a glade, a shrine

So now this final spell is cast, and the present is surrounded, held by the past

As the fruit enfolds the seed as time begins to bleed

Do not be afraid - she will lead

And the wind turns the hair on our heads, all in time ages before, ages hence

And our feet dance in the waves, and the sand coats our hands

My mothers, my fathers, my children

My mothers, my fathers, my children

DAVID EVANS

1883-1906

The story of David Evans’ tragic death at 23, with his only child (my great-grandfather) barely a month old, on a railroad bridge is legendary in my family. You can read the newspaper article below. Walking to work with his brother-in-law, both were caught on the tracks over the Mississippi River - George scrambled out onto a pier and held on while David tried to outrun the train to no avail. This song re-imagines the relationship between these two men - what if they were covert lovers as well as in-laws and work buddies, living in a world in which such loves are as high-stakes as trying to outrun a freight train.

SEEDS IN THE SOIL

Deep, dark underground in the moss and bark

Seeds in the soil awaken

Reap, sow, rising up from down below

Seeds in the soil awaken

Marry, bury, all the words your tongue can’t carry

Seeds in the soil awaken

Ring, sing, every voice that still is living

Seeds in the soil awaken

Seeds in the soil awaken

Davey - the young and foolhardy father

Davey- newlywed vows unspeakably green

Davey - living two lives, not long to discover

Davey - romance in secret finds ways to be seen

Love - will lead you to pathways untested

Love - will set you on journeys unknown

Love - like a freight train barreling on us

Love - like the leap into depths alone

LOVE LIKE A FREIGHT TRAIN

Davey said: don’t drink the water, don’t lose your head -

With a child at home, one more on the way, your love in your bed

I know the work ain’t easy, rail dust on your skin

But darling you look more handsome than you’ve ever been

Davey imagine if I could love you like her

Imagine if we could be more than a pair of feral curs

A den of foxes hidden in the rail ties

Tunnels threatening collapse beneath the heavy lies

Just give it time

Davey don’t quit me, you know I can’t do this alone

My steps are more labored and lame with each passing day in the sun

Summer sows her blisters on my tongue

And God and all his angels could never right this wrong

And we ain’t got time

Barefoot on gravel, the heat of the day on our backs

Swear the trains only run one way down these tracks

Smell like cinders and river and sweat

As if I didn’t know the end that you were getting at

As if I didn’t know how to feel

With the deafening swell rising close at our heels

With the grit of your hand on the small of my back

Who will turn, who will run, who will leap into the blackness

There are no shortcuts to life - Only shortcuts to death

ELLA “BESS” ERNST

1899-1931

Aunt Bess was always told about as an achingly, pitiably tragic figure. She died by suicide - gas asphyxiation - at the age of 31 and her body was discovered by her five year old nephew, my grandfather. Family lore has it that my grandfather ran into the house after school ahead of his father, a chronic chainsmoker, who very uncharacteristically put out his cigarette on the sidewalk instead of walking in with it. If he had - of course - the gas fumes that filled the house would have ignited and killed them all. Strange acts of fate abound. 

She left behind an 11 year old son - Carl “Sonny” Welch - my grandfather’s closest friend. She also apparently had a husband, the child’s father, but I can find no record of his whereabouts after this point. The trail dries up. He was never mentioned by family, Bess is buried with her parents, and Sonny went to live with his Aunt and Uncle. 

This whole tragic story was seldom discussed, but when brought up my grandfather, no doubt a result of this trauma, couched Bess’s story in anger and judgment toward her - he would call it the most selfish decision one can make - as was his feelings about suicide in general. With all the holes in this story, I wonder if that’s the full picture. WHY did Bess resort to suicide? What words and what tellings did she leave unsaid, impossible to understand? What’s the deal with Carl Welch Sr., her husband?

This song is the rage of a woman trapped - in an abusive marriage to a man she did not choose, raising a child she loves but whose origin she despises, seeing no possible exit, like an animal confined and cornered. 

This song is her outburst to freedom.

SHE’S NOT THAT KIND OF GAL

Rose in blossom, rose in bloom

Quickest to wither, gone too soon

Would you have flourished if given the room

She’s not that kind of gal

What of your fragrance, what of your grace?

Beauty will vanish without a trace

Why don’t you share it - and show us your face?

She’s not that kind of gal

What will become of a garden green

Left to the weather, the wind, the weeds

It might bear nothing, it might bare teeth

She’s not that kind of gal

Bess - your baby is crying

Bess - born of a father with hate in his eye

Bess - born of a marriage forced upon you

Bess - is it any wonder that you want to die

Rage - at a world that wants to destroy you

Rage - for not being what a “woman” should be

Rage - for not loving who a woman should love

Rage - will make ashes of all that you see

ASH TO ASH

I know you thought that these legs could never carry me

After all - you had the gall to up and marry me

Hands heavy on my neck, tried to bury me

Honey, I did that myself - tread carefully

This ain’t the calm before the storm, this ain’t a warning

I’m the destroyer, I’m a rip tide forming

I hit the ground and I’ll never stop running

Find the father of this baby and I’ll do him in do him in do him in do him in… 

Ash to ash, dust to dust

I’m more than one man’s lust

I’m more than I can trust

I want everything or nothing

Watch me close, watch me careful, let me out of your sight

And who knows what I’ll get up to when you turn out the lights?

Are you surprised that I’d put up a fight?

It’s either him or it’s me - somebody’s dying tonight

Give me a hope I won’t know how to use

Give me a rope and I’ll fashion a noose

Gave me a child that I’m bound to lose

Save one life - Put an end to me and you

Ash to ash, dust to dust

There’s no “should”, only “must”

My baby needs better than rot and rust

I’ll give him everything, or nothing

Got my baby on my arm, got his bruises on my back

Got the lipstick of my lover on a letter in my pack

Got the memory of the night you showed up drunk and jack-

Knifed her up against the wall, tore the pearls off her neck

I ran into the kitchen for the shotgun

I’ve got nothing to lose, and too much to outrun

If it’s the last thing I do I’ll save my son

And if I must “die” - well a mother does what must be done.

Breathe in, breathe out just like the tides

The choking stab your only bride

No more a lady, no more a wife

No more a mother, no more a blight

Hush, love, don’t scare the child

Sink deeper, deeper into the wild

And flooding arms, the vapor kiss

Passing… passing… passing… passing… passing… passing… passing…

Who is this pounding at the door

Cigarette between fingers

Put it out

Put it out

PUT IT OUT

RALPH PECK

1890-1968

Ralph Peck was my father’s granduncle - and as he died when my father was 15, he doesn’t remember a great deal about him. Mostly what he remembers was his absence. Ralph was quiet, reserved, kind and gentle - but excluded, wordlessly. He never married, never had children. Beyond these impressions, my father has no memory of him - and beyond that all is lost to death. 

There are many reasons a relative may be ostracized from a family. This chasm of unknowing led me to wonder why. And I began to think - in deeply rural Illinois (Orange Township is way in the middle of cornfields), what would the experience of a trans person be? Likely very closeted and repressed. Certainly othered, regardless of expression. And trapped to the point of bursting. Whence came this song. Another song of righteous triumph from an ancestor whose being was stifled in living.

THE FLOWER THAT IS LOCKED IN THE

BUD

Like the flower that is locked in the bud

Has always known how to kiss the sun

There’s a heart beating in your chest

And it knows where to run where to run where to run to

Ray - how history tried to contain you

Ray - a “bachelor farmer” - we’ve heard that one before

Ray - You’re a man in the cruelty of daylight

Ray - In the night you begin to transform

Burn - sometimes the only way to fly

Burn - is to set fire to all you once knew

Burn - from the ashes a new sun is rising

Burn - and all that remains is you

THE PHOENIX OF ORANGE TOWNSHIP

Three legged dog in the middle of the street, three mailboxes downstream

Big flood’s coming - can you feel it in the heat

Corn stalks tall enough to hide in, ‘least knee high by the fourth of July, 

Been waiting all summer long to catch your eye

Tell me is it right - tell me is it wrong to want to fly?

With these god-given bodies don’t we have to try?

Tell me is it right - tell me is it wrong to watch the flood carry us away?

The looks are hard, the lash is strong, too many stakes to leash us on

Too many scars to count - a contest no one wants to win

Losing ain’t much better off, caged in like a state fair hog

Is this the only choice for folks like us?

Tell me is it right - tell me is it wrong to want to die?

With this god-forsaken body, lord knows how I’ve tried

Tell me is it right - tell me is it wrong to watch the fire burn this all away

I’m an old sow roasting on a spit in the yard, skin will crackle, bones hard will break

I’m a wildfire, I am the phoenix of this town

Dress me in a skirt of flame, my sunday best, my blessed change

Transcendence is my middle name, descendants wear my crown

Transcendence is my middle name

Tell me is it worth a damn to hope for better down the line

With no child to my name what right have I? 

Child I’ll never know, long after I die

You are mine, and -

All I want for you is home.

WIDOW’S PEAK

Call me when you get home, baby, just to hear my name in your mouth - 

Nothing else falls so quietly on the waiting ground.

Come in - I haven’t much to give save this knot of twine, a shock of hair

Mottling on iris rings, footprints on the stair

Now come close - the space is too tight to breathe, weaving both your hands like a wreath.

When we dance all sinew and tendon boil, deliverance from our fitful toil

Light the rope, cast the end to the western wind - no turning back, carried on the backs of great birds

Unraveled our bodies soar - they were made for this

That night I am certain that you birthed me, folded feathers flat on quivering neck

And I know this can’t be fixed, I know this can’t be fixed by god alone

Show me how my widow’s peak fits with yours, how our fingers twirl in the air

And below all the bones and the blood of man holy ghosts stain both our hands

And I know this can be fixed!

MAE WILSON

1892-1992

Mae is one of the most looming, fabulous figures in my family lore. An actress, a singer, and a diva to the core, she sang on the radio with a young Ronald Reagan, with jazz bands on the river, and held lavish parties until the very end of her life with fabulous Rock Island creatives. Red velvet, crystal glasses, a baby grand piano, shimmering dresses. 

In 1920 she traveled out to Hollywood - then a small row of buildings in the L.A. foothills - to try to make it in the movies. She apparently never did - and returned to Illinois for the remainder of her life. I always wonder - beneath all the glamour, what is left?

Mae is, for all intents and purposes, a drag queen. She’s my drag mother. She’s very central to my queer identity - when I perform, when I put my makeup on, I’m thinking of her. This song is for her - a queen who has passed on thinking of what remains beneath the veneer of living. 

SHE’S A STAR

She’s a star let her shine on

Scarlet rose with her rubies on

She’s a queen, get your crown on

This is where the party’s at 

Mae - who knew you’d bear so many children

Mae - and not one of them from your own womb

Mae - with enough glitter and swellelegant charming

Mae - might make a woman dance right out of her tomb

Joy - is not a stranger to sorrow

Joy - can’t promise to keep you alive

Joy - Take it or leave it, might be no tomorrow

Joy - kick off your heels and come on inside.

TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT

The flowers on the table I can see they bloom

Been waiting here since Sunday but baby not for you

I tell you, I’m tryin’, I tell you I’ve been tryin’

To get away

The echoes in my chambers throw a crystal flare

I see my reflection aging, a stranger in the mirror

I tell you she’s cryin’, I tell you she’s been cryin’,

But she won’t go away

Wash away the mascara - Wipe away the tears

Wash off all the rouge - Wash away the fear

Now tell me what’s left?

Tell me what’s left of me when it all falls away?

I’m not getting any younger, neither are my dogs

Am I just a flash in the pan or a slow roasting log?

I tell you I ain’t dyin’, I tell you I ain’t dyin’ yet

But I will die someday

Throw away my crystal - pour out the champagne

Washed out by the spotlight - watch it all go down the drain

Tell me what’s left?

Tell me what’s left of me when it all falls away

Tell me what’s left, what have I got left, you can’t take it with you when you go!

This is all that’s left of me

Take it or leave it

RICK LANGDON

1955-1988

Rick Langdon was my mother’s closest friend as a young person, from high school into college. Rick came out as gay, which was not rare in 1970’s suburban Illinois, and they moved to opposite ends of the country and fell out of touch for a time - until they reconnected at the end of his life. Rick was dying of AIDS, at the height of the national crisis. There is no understanding the grief and trauma of this event. While Rick was not a blood relative, his life story figures hugely in mine. My mom tells stories of his life glowingly, and the story of his death with great mourning. In the years after I came out, she invoked his name often as she came to terms with the grief she still held and my own queerness. And I think he is certainly an ancestor.

This song, unlike the others, is not Rick telling his life story. I was surprised that this song arrived instead as a message of hope to the audience - whoever needs to hear it - that it gets better. Whatever it is. 

PETALS AT THE ALTAR

Petals at the altar

Silken, fallen brother

Life for life exchanging

‘Ere your light is fading

May no fire set aflame

May no voice lay the blame

May the scouring hand of death

Spare your name

Rick - you never meant to let go

Rick - life cut short in its beautiful prime

Rick - one of millions led to the slaughter

Rick - stolen long before your time

Death - always it winds its way in

Death - at the moment when living looks bright

Death - lovers lost with their lives just beginning

Death - coming home only after they’ve died.

IT GETS BETTER

Put your hand in mine, darling it’ll be okay

All of this will be fine, there’s nothing left to say

I have seen a lot, let me tell you, and I’ve felt a whole lot too

In a few short years what I been through, well I guess I up and flew

It never feels like enough - the daylight that we’re given

Even when the going gets rough I swear to you it gets better

Oh I tell you true it gets better

No one loves you better than you love yourself, there’s no one quite as brave

No days of sickness, nor days of health can be carried to the grave

I have loved and I have lost it all but I’d lose it all again

Just to know that this life ain’t made for living small and it ain’t made to pretend

It never feels like enough the daylight that we’re given

Even when the going gets rough I swear to you it gets better

Oh I tell you true it gets better

Every kiss that takes your breath away, may it last forever

Every beat that makes you want to sway may it hold you together

Every hateful word spit right at your face may it lose its power

May my death and a hundred thousand keeping pace only make you stronger

It never feels like enough the daylight that we’re given

Even when the going gets rough I swear to you it gets better

Oh I tell you true it gets better

Put your hand in mine - darling it’ll be okay

There’s a future and it's brighter than our wildest dreams

And I have seen it

You just won’t believe it

We can make it better -

You’ll see.

EPILOGUE

Time does not tarry - It’s the quick - it’s the cherry

Death is the river - it’s the wick - it’s the giver

The Gathering - The Quickening - Forward

Bright as the dawning and slight as the willow wand

They peer through the roses, they reach between branches

The Circling - The Weaving - Forward

Soil in the garden roils like the ocean

Hands overturning - grandmothers’, granddaughters’, and mine

The Sowing, The Reaping - Forward

Gather your wild and tamed, unborn, unnamed, to the flood

All the wizened shame you carry falls away - no death can bury

No death, no breath can bury

No death, no breath can bury

No death, no breath can bury

What do we become, what do we become?

The root? The rose? Or the silent seed?

Or all three?

Or all three?

Or all three?

Carlisle Evans Peck is a fiscal year 2024 recipient of a Creative Individuals grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board. This activity is made possible by the voters of Minnesota through a grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund.