CELEBRATING PRIDE INRURALOHIO
Chillicothe’s ‘Drag King,’ finds support, solidarity
CHILLICOTHE – Jess Bowen isn’t going to sing Celine Dion for you.
For a while, when it came to drag performances, that’s all Chillicothe knew. When the tightknit, rural LGBTQ community wanted to celebrate pride, there were only older, cabaret-style queens.
Jess, a self-described “psycho Mick Jagger,” when she dons her alter ego “Pedro Grande,” has been preparing for the First Capital Pride Coalition’s drag show the only way she knows how: Fireball and adrenaline.
Behind the stage curtains of the Chillicothe Elks
Lodge #52 Jess tosses back another shot, allowing the cinnamon-tinged burn of whisky settle her nerves.
It’s a safe bet that the founders of the fraternal order who built the Elks Lodge in 1827 never would have imagined that their space would be dominated by dozens of drag performers and hundreds of allies and members of the LGBTQ community across rural and Appalachian Ohio almost 200 years later.
Since Columbus’ pride parade was canceled be
cause of concerns over the pandemic, Chillicothe’s festival during the weekend of Aug. 20-22 was one of the state’s largest celebrations of pride this year.
The lights dim as the emcee, sporting a sailor’s cap and rainbow tie-dye, hushes the crowd as the first few shakes of a tambourine and notes from a bass guitar usher in an unmistakable late-aughts banger.
“So one, two, three, take my hand and come with me / Because you look so fine that I really wanna make you mine.”
Jess saunters onto the stage as Pedro Grande as the first few bars of Jet’s “Are You Gonna Be My Girl?” reverberate through the audience’s cheers.
The transformation is complete as she struts across the room, rocking a mascara-made beard, black leather pants, combat boots and a cutoff vest while dollar bills follow in a flurry behind her.
Arms raised, Jess gestures to the crowd to cheer louder while grinning ear to ear.
Nearly 12 hours before Jess takes the stage, she stands, hips cocked, in the Yocantangee Park in Chillicothe contemplating how best to set up one of the tents for the First Capital Pride Coalition, the nonprofit group running the festival.
Striking a cross between a county fair, farmer’s market and 5k run, folks sell funnel cakes and tie-dyed jewelry while organizers hand out rainbow-colored buttons with your preferred pronouns emblazoned across them.
Toddlers wave rainbow flags and the county’s Recovery Council has a booth to offer advice and provide support for those affected by the opioid crisis.
Cat Thatcher Bowen, Jess’ wife, marvels as community members and people from as far as Columbus and West Virginia, pour into the park before the group marches to the Ross County Courthouse on Main Street.
“Growing up, this would have never happened,” said Cat, a Chillicothe native. “It was so taboo, only a handful of people you knew were gay.”
Long before the 51-year-old was the coalition’s vice president, she ran Cardo’s, a chain restaurant in town where she started hosting “Every Other Sunday,” nights when the local pizza place turned into a gay bar.
“It brought us out of the hollers,” Jay Bowman explained while a group of 50 or so people marched from the park to the courthouse.
Jay, another longtime Chillicothe resident and a gay man who organized the coalition’s drag show, said during the 1980s and 1990s there were a few, obscure gay bars in town, but they did not last.
“Every Other Sunday,” the subsequent support groups those nights spurred and the eventual establishment of the First Capital Pride Coalition have catapulted Chillicothe into a beacon of support, he said.
“It’s huge,” Jess said, “just to think about the younger people, the ones who might have a bad home life, who don’t know who they are just yet. To know there is a community of support is amazing.”
Despite a deep passion for music, a high-school theater background and a recognition that she was gay at age 6 after watching a Shania Twain music video, Jess never really felt confident until she came out as lesbian.
After graduating from high school in 2008, Jess spent a brief stint away from Chillicothe, but wound up back in her hometown, broke up with her boyfriend and found herself at one of Cat’s “Every Other Sunday” events.
“I dated one girl, kissed a couple others, and then I laid my eyes on Cat,” Jess explained.
She and Cat have been married since 2017, and the couple has been together since 2009. Her wife, their dogs, George and Sully, and the local LGBTQ community are Jess’ family.
After a childhood of chaos – a father who struggled with addiction, an absentee mother and distant relative who sexually abused her – Jess has learned in adulthood to forgive herself.
She prides herself on lending that empathy and support to everyone in her life.
“Maybe I should’ve become a therapist,” she cracked while flicking a Camel Crush into the firepit in her and Cat’s backyard sanctuary.
Jess is devoted to Cat and ever-proud of her wife’s leadership in the community, but advocacy still makes her uneasy, even though there was no trouble during the march earlier that afternoon.
Since the Pulse nightclub shooting in Orlando, Jess has been on particularly high alert.
“I don’t always need to go wave my rainbows,” she said. “I’m uncomfortable in those situations sometimes because there are always so many psychos. I just want to do my thing in peace.”
But while performing as Pedro, Jess can let go of some the fears that gnaw in the back of her mind. Years ago, she had posted dress-up photos on Facebook, just joking around with Cat and Cat’s son, Michael.
One thing led to another, and Pedro made his official debut back in 2015, bringing some spice to a community of mostly drag queens swaying to slower pop numbers.
“It’s a bit of an out-of-body experience,” Jess said. “I really feed off the energy of the crowd.”
She is a natural.
After the drag show’s emcee calls for a brief intermission, beneath the floorboards of the stage, queens, kings, a burlesque dancer and a trio of straight dudes rocking white dress shirts and boxer briefs crowd the basement of the Elks Lodge.
Jess comes back from her second performance – a showcase of Prince tunes – running her hands through her hair, stressing about her final act, when she’ll channel Lil Nas X in a medley of his hits “Industry Baby” and “Montero (Call Me By Your Name).”
It’s been a long day. The show is pushing past midnight and Jess, while an experienced improviser, is settling back into her nerves. Adrenaline and alcohol content are both waning when Cat suddenly appears, rushing across the 1970sstyled carpeting.
“I’m here, I’m here! Anyone care if I smoke a cigarette?” she asked, gesturing to the room, before lighting up when no one responds.
Cat attempts to reassure Jess, and promises to fetch the security guards manning the front doors, to ask them if they’ll drag Jess, decked out in an orange prison uniform, onto the stage while mimicking the start to Lil Nas X’s “Industry Baby’s” music video.
Up in the rafters of the Elks Lodge, dozens of attendees overlook the show. The woman handling the spotlight redirects the beam to focus on Jess – Cat has pulled through and two security guards escort a jumpsuit-clad Jess across the stage.
“Call me when you want, call me when you need / Call me out by your name, I’ll be on the way like,” Jess lip syncs as Lil Nas X blares throughout the lodge to thunderous applause.
The moment – which mirrors the night – feels natural, but really, it’s earned. It’s not enough for Jess, Cat or the other drag performers and members of the community to be accepted. They want to be celebrated.
Jess pauses to catch her breath as the music subsides, flips back her hair and winks at the crowd.
Pedro has delivered once again. Céilí Doyle is a Report for America corps member and covers rural issues in Ohio for The Dispatch. Your donation to match our RFA grant helps keep her writing stories like this one. Please consider making a tax-deductible donation at https://bit.ly/3fnsgaz. cdoyle@dispatch.com @cadoyle_18