I was seven years old in the mid-90s — complete with a dad desperate to be “cool” — when I saw my first John Waters movie. One of my sisters picked up Cry-Baby or Hairspray and my life changed forever. We watched both movies incessantly. I didn’t want to be Wanda, or Hatchet Face, or Penny Pingleton, or Amber Von Tussel. I didn’t want to be Allison Vernon-Williams (except during “Please, Mister Jailer,” because holy hot DAMN does she look good). I wanted to be the baddest white dancer in town: Tracy Turnblad.
Tracy Turnblad, played by the fabulous Ricki Lake, is the heroine of Hairspray: a plus size, badass, slightly trashy dancing machine with excellent style, who never let the naysayers keep her down. She is confident in her body, in her budding sexuality –a rare depiction in a plus size woman, even to this day– and knows exactly who she is as a person. She is outspoken about her beliefs, becomes a model for “The Hefty Hideaway,” bags the bitchy girl’s super hot boyfriend, and helps racial integration on television become a reality in 1960s Baltimore.
Dance parties were common in my house, but Tracy had me learning all the moves to the dances that I would never get to do in my own high school. I can still do the whole “It’s Madison Time” sequence, and do, every time I watch Hairspray. It makes me very popular at hunting lodges for rich weirdos.
Tracy Turnblad didn’t care what anyone thought of her; or of her weight, her outfits, her hairdos, her dance moves. She just went into the world and lived her unapologetic truth. She WAS big, blonde (at that moment), and beautiful.
I wasn’t a big child – average, maybe a little chubby sometimes, but not overweight. That didn’t stop my sister from telling me how fat I was, or monitoring my diet to keep me thin. My dad’s nickname for me was “Chunky Monkey.”
As time went on, I became the buxom, curvy woman I am today. It wasn’t easy. I’ve had my moments of self-doubt and, “Oh my God, I am a gigantic, disgusting pig!” However, I had Tracy on my side. Tracy showed me I could date a hot guy, dance with abandon, wear whatever the hell I want, and be proud of myself and my body. You wanna wear a crop top? Wear it! You want to speak out about social injustice? Speak your mind! Your haters say you have roaches in your hair? Have a sexy dress made that is actually covered in a roach pattern!
I danced at every dance in middle school and high school. The first year or so I was alone in the middle of the room, until my friends learned how to dance and started joining me. I got the nickname “Bootyshaker.” When I worked at Starbucks, my coworkers started calling me “Dancing Machine.” I dance while I drive my car. I dance while I walk. I wear crop tops. I don’t give a fuck what people think about me, and I owe it all to Tracy.
I got to meet John Waters last year. While waiting in line to have him sign copies of his new book, I nervously texted my sister about it. What do I do? How do I thank this man for giving me my idol? “Good luck, Tracy!” she answered. Suddenly, I wasn’t nervous anymore.
