Wow. Just wow.
The trans woman […] is not performing womanhood as mimicry. She simply is a woman, on the terms she was able to secure, which are violent and partial and which cost her everything she had. And she watches a man perform womanhood as mimicry, as a knowing costume, as the thing one puts on and peels off, and she watches the crowd reward his version above her real one. His artifice is legible and safe and funny. Her reality is the thing that makes people uncomfortable, because her reality cannot be switched off when the set ends, and a womanhood that cannot be switched off is a womanhood that makes a claim on the world, and claims are exhausting, and the crowd would rather have the version that knows it is a joke. Her reality is the problem. His artifice is the celebration. Everyone present has already decided which of the two they are able to love, and it is not her.
[…]
The drag show is the scene at its most celebratory and most unanimous and most certain of its own goodness, and it is also the occasion that most nakedly enacts the preference for the performance of transfeminine womanhood over the lived fact of it. The woman who can rise and perform is folded into the celebration. The woman who cannot, who is merely living her gender at cost with no act to offer, stands at the back. And if she names what she feels back there, the silencing I described at the start of this essay engages, and she is a TERF or a right-winger or a woman with internalized work to do, and she goes quiet, and the evening proceeds. The exclusion is not a bouncer at the door. It is subtler and more complete than that. It is an atmosphere with abundant welcome for her gender as spectacle and no welcome for her gender as a serious and expensive way of being alive. No one throws her out. She is simply taught, slowly, that there is no chair for her unless she is willing to perform, and that her seriousness, her reality, the one thing she cannot switch off, is the very thing that renders her unwelcome.