Serving Face, Not Body

“Moandays” and “Hoelidays” pop up as announcements on my phone—alerting me that a drag queen has begun a live stream. These catchy titles do not indicate the content of the stream but rather are puns that remind me of reading, shade, tea, and other queer, drag queen lingo that often involves some sort of sexual innuendo. I open the stream to find an animated drag queen dancing to background music—Stream Starting Soon. This waiting room environment feels very reminiscent of when a club kicks people off the dance floor and announces the drag show will begin shortly. Instead of being sidelined with a drink, making small talk with my friends over the loud music and breathing in the fog machines, I am at home, watching this on a tiny phone screen in the middle of the afternoon. How can this be considered a drag show when it is not live in bodily co-presence? How can this be considered nightlife when it is not technically nighttime? This article will explore the nature of a drag queen Twitch stream as one that mirrors a queer community nightlife space; instead of alcohol-infused gay bars of the past, a drag stream may be a more accessible interaction ritual to join. The Future of Drag Is Online The success of RuPaul’s Drag Race and mainstreaming of drag culture cannot be overstated (Crookston; DeAnda), which has arguably led to an increased visibility for drag queens everywhere. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit and bars closed their doors, however, many drag queens moved their content online (Crookston; Persaud and Perks). Persaud notes that streamed shows like Black Girl Magic started up as a way to keep the drag community alive during the pandemic, and also to support drag queens financially during economic upheaval. In their study of early-pandemic drag queen streams, Crookston suggests that the online era of drag performances was merely a continuum awaiting the return of live, in-person shows—asserting that we may emerge from the pandemic with “a renewed appreciation for the importance of liveness and copresence” (145). I argue that the shift to online not only maintained the same level of liveness (as asserted by Persaud and Perks and their theory of queer mediated liveness) but also maintained and arguably expanded the notion of co-presence. While Persaud and Perks’s article covers the intersection of Twitch, games, and drag queens, I deviate from their study to more deeply engage with the ideas of co-presence and subculture and nightlife, which to date have not been explored thoroughly in the (online) Twitch environment. Offline, the drag queen subculture was born at night and in bars and clubs (Crookston; Bailey); however, these spaces mostly birthed liberation for only White gay men, while often excluding other queer people who face multiple forms of marginalisation (Bailey; Ghaziani; Meek). As well, since queer spaces (such as bars) often carry the connotation of alcohol and substance use (Tutenges and Bøhling), which has been noted to disproportionately negatively affect marginalised communities, specifically the LGBTQ community (Akre et al.; Caba et al.; Meads et al.), the queer community needs access to more third spaces away from the places targeted by alcohol advertisements (Whiteley et al.). For the purposes of this article, I encourage borrowing from Ghazini who suggests a terminological move away “from gay bars to queer nightlife” (Ghaziani 23, emphasis in original), which highlights all of the queer possibilities the night has to offer. Johnson notes that the reasons for going live on stream range from financial motivations of opportunity to happenstance of timeslots and other pragmatics in between (13). Using moore’s engagement with Halberstam to question the temporal and special location of the nightlife space, this article speaks to the notion of how queer temporality changes this notion of queer nightlife spaces on Twitch. Specifically, this article picks up where Persaud and Perks leave off—discussing the nightlife aspects of drag queens on Twitch. Especially important to this discussion is how Twitch allows the queer community to happen at any time of the day, and without the need to go to a bar. In society today, particularly in the United States, drag queens and gay bars have come under fire, targeted by those with conservative agendas. Even daytime events for drag queens, such as children’s storybook hour, are subject to protest and harassment. In addition to positing that drag queen streams on Twitch represent a third space for nightlife away from the typical gay bars associated with the LGBTQ community, I argue, in conjunction with Jodén and Strandell, that Twitch therefore is an interaction ritual (Collins). I also assert that queer and/or drag queen nightlife spaces on Twitch enable interaction rituals to occur in a more opportune and inclusive way. For example, sober, neurodivergent, or rural queer folks now have a space to join in queer nightlife that may not be otherwise accessible to them. The lack of bodily co-presence in a Twitch environment does not deter people from experiencing and joining in online queer drag queen nightlife spaces. Instead, Twitch allows for these spaces commonly associated with interaction rituals (bars, clubs, concerts, etc.) to be moved into the online space, joinable at any time of the day. I hypothesise that the joinability of the space lies in the anonymous approach afforded by Twitch, which allows for people who cannot join a public queer space safely to be able to experience and participate in queer nightlife culture. In other words, I argue it is possible to engage in interaction ritual chains when identifying traits are anonymised and copresence is virtual, and therefore safer for participants to be their authentic selves. Briefly, I will review Twitch and Queer Theory to set up the discussion that will be framed out with drag queen specific examples of this nightlife phenomenon. What Is Twitch? Twitch is an online streaming platform, mainly focussed around streaming videogame play (Johnson; Taylor). Scholars have defined Twitch as facilitating a “socially enjoyable experience” with an “easily joinable community” (Wulf et al. 341). On Twitch, people can join anonymously—not only are faces not streamed, but people can join with pseudonymised names and handles. DeVito et al. note that self-presentation goals (i.e. out of the closet) can be somewhat limited on sites that are not based on privacy and anonymity. Paradoxically, the anonymity and privacy allows for LGBTQ individuals to be more out in a space they deem safe, afforded by such privacy and anonymity. Anonymity is important for LGBTQ community members who are not out, or are exploring their sexuality and gender identities, explaining the prevalence of semi-anonymous hook-up apps (Ahlm). Hartal notes that anonymity is one important aspect of creating queer safe spaces (1067); and Fox and Ralston note that LGBTQ community formed more easily when participants joined together and answered questions anonymously (641). These anonymous communities support particularly Fox and Ralston’s anonymous question answering, a prime feature of gay Twitch streamers (Munnelly). Twitch, whether chatting or gaming, can be considered a third space, or an informal hangout spot like a coffee shop (Munnelly; Hamilton et al.). Johnson pushes the third space metaphor further to describe Twitch as an agora (one person talking and many people watching and listening). Despite this attention and power, these microcelebrities (Uttarapong et al.; Chan and Grey; Lee et al.; Persaud and Perks) experience an unequal distribution of money (Houssard et al.), which is particularly apparent among marginalised streamers, who are also subject to harassment (Uttarapong, Cai, and Wohn). Twitch has also been shown to strengthen offline friendships (Sheng and Kairam), support users going through a difficult time (De Wit et al.), and affect the discussion of mental health in a stream (LaMastra et al.). Notably, Twitch has been labelled a form of “Performance Play”, which describes the phenomenon of streaming one’s gameplay while building community (Pellicone and Ahn 4865). The performance could, and should, be read as an authentic persona, which Lam and Raphael note must remain truly authentic if fans are to buy in to the celebrity portrayed on screen. If the persona fails, or feels inauthentic, this could lead to a drop in fans. This performance for drag queens is what Persaud and Perks note as queer mediated liveness—or the complex (possibly impossible) navigation queer drag streamers must navigate to be all at once knowledgeable and approachable and funny and entertaining. Streamers who promote their own constructed self, versus putting out a fake persona, strengthened the interaction between streamer and viewer, and thus the community as a whole (Freeman and Wohn). Further research on community found that people engage in streaming content because “they are drawn to the unique content of a particular stream, and they like being interacted with and participating in that stream’s community” (Hamilton et al. 1315). Thus, in general, these forms of Twitch streams can support communities even when there is a high linguistic barrier to accessing a queer space in a Twitch stream (Munnelly). This complex navigation between linguistics and identities and communities can be seen throughout queer history and queer theory more broadly. Queer Theory Queer theory is a weighty and complex topic well beyond the scope of this article; however, a few key notions are important to exploring Twitch and drag queens. In addition to Ghaziani’s expanded definition of queer nightlife, madison moore offers a highly useful term for considering queer nightlife spaces. Following in same vein as Munoz’s ephemera, moore theorises that ‘the sleaze’—or the remains of the dancefloor (cups, spilled drink, confetti, glitter, etc.)—is a way of making queer spaces and queer memories more tangible and less mobile (195). Warner emphasises that queer spaces are often fleeting, mobile, or transitory by need so as to remain covert, safe, or to avoid being shut down (202-3). In thinking about these queer mobile spaces (mobile phones, for instance), definitions of time (when is the queer space happening) and space (where is the queerness gathered) are important to unpack with queer theory. Twitch, as a mobile Website, is now disrupting our academic notions of tangible or intangible space. Not only are participants joining in at any hour of the day across the globe, but the notions of time and space are also contingent upon the participatory nature of the stream. For example, are there recaps, past jokes, things already discussed that one must consider lost in time and space? I believe returning to Warner and moore’s understandings of both queer spaces (and counterpublics more broadly), as well as the queer nightlife space, the participation, liveness, and copresence enabled by Twitch, makes Twitch exist as a queer space. However, the fleetingness of these moments are what keep this space existing in the same way all queer nightlife has existed—as mobile and transitory. And while moore argues that the sleaze can never be recreated in an online space, they propose that it can be approximated through the lights, sounds, emoji, noise effects, and even bodies collocated in the space (123). Further, the drag queen specific emoji, pop culture references, lighting, and makeup all bring about parts of the Twitch interaction ritual highlighted by Jodén and Strandell: indicative of successful interaction rituals are synchronized expectations/behavior (e.g., extensive, rapid and collective hype train and raid-responses), shared symbolic objects (e.g., emojis, memes and inside jokes), and barriers to outsiders (e.g., shared experiences/knowledge of stream/gameplay). (1983). If we think about all acts of queerness as needing the elements of an interaction ritual (shared symbols, inside jokes, etc.), such as the hankie code, and if we also think of queer spaces as those that move around, change, and adapt (pride parades, pop up events, etc.), then we can not only see how a stagnant nightclub or bar becomes exclusionary, but how this is only following in the same vein of queer pasts – birthing liberation for some and not those who are multiply-marginalised (neurodivergent queers, for example). When drag queens stream on Twitch, however, they can recreate this nightlife any time of the day in a space that is equally just as fleeting—participants come and go as they please—but this creates more opportunities to join and participate in the interaction ritual of a queer nightlife space. This lack of bodily co-presence, the anonymity, the drag queens, and the mobile fleetingness all fuse together to make a safer, queerer space for participants to join and access queer nightlife space, where participants can remain anonymous, interact as they please, and exist in the collected time and space from any unique space in time. What Drag Streams Are Like Twitch, more than another streaming site, is not like a regular drag show. On Twitch, the virtual presence of a drag queen is not just lip-syncing, or telling jokes, or doing make-up tutorials... This queen is also playing video games—nails clacking on the keyboard almost like Drag ASMR. This queen is also carrying on the burden of responding to chats, acknowledging the crowd, thanking subscribers and tippers, and more: an impossible burden. When someone joins a Twitch stream (any Twitch stream) they can remain silent, passively watching, anonymous and known as a lurker. Or, they can become a more active participant, sending chat messages and emoji (sometimes channel-specific emoji), using channel points to send messages (earned through hours of watching streams), or sending money in the form of bits (purchasable via Twitch). Like an in-person drag show, Twitch uses these bits and other subscription features to support digital patronage options (Wohn et al.; Johnson). Wohn et al. noted that people often give money to streamers for a variety of reasons, such as emotional support or financial support. These forms of active participation are a way for the audience to interact with the streamer. One of the key elements, as Persaud and Perks note, are the pop culture references that a drag queen may shout when someone subscribes to the channel (478). Munnelly has explored these pop culture references even in gay (not drag queen) Twitch streams where people will thank subscribers by suggesting they get “a lifetime supply of Anastasia Beverly Hills Cosmetics”—a reference to RuPaul’s Drag Race (para. 26). More interestingly, drag queens such as AnabelleLektor (fig. 1) have enabled participants to send media commands that trigger video overlays (for example, a system interface known as Triggerfyre), introducing a new way to not simply shout a pop culture reference, but to send and receive them. Participants must know the code—similar to the semiotics of the hankie code—and be a monthly subscriber to send the code, and the media clip will pop up on the stream for all viewers to see. This becomes an interesting and newfound aspect of the mediated dimension of Twitch and drag shows, when compared to the more passive offline form of drag shows. In a live drag show, the interaction between queen and audience is more one-sided, and focussed on donations almost exclusively (Crookston 141). Personally, the only time I have interacted with a drag queen at a live show, outside of tipping, was when she poured free shots into my mouth. On Twitch, the emoji, channel points, and media commands are each a way to interact with the queen that do not require money and also allow for a one-on-one response, as the drag queens will often see and respond to these and other messages that are not solely tied to money. For example, a player can send a 1-coin alert to announce when joining the stream, but players earn roughly 20 coins when watching the stream for 10 minutes (varies by channel, subscriptions). This free currency earned by watching is usually just to cash in funny reactions or to interact with the streamer more. For example, I have seen “hydrate” as a redemption—making the streamer drink water, or “highlight my message” —making the streamer read the message sent aloud. When people do interact with money, such as a bit donation, subscription, or tip donation, these also appear on screen for everyone to see, often with an emoji, sound effect, or media clip, which the drag queen acknowledges. If enough of these tips, subscriptions, and bits are given in close enough amount of time, they add up to trigger what is known on Twitch as a HypeTrain. In the particular scenario in which I captured the screenshot of fig. 1, I watched a HypeTrain fuel a dance party where the drag queen triggered lighting effects, participants joined in with dancing emoji, and the whole stream turned into a simulated nightlife experience, as shown below. Fig. 1: Screenshot of the Drag Queen AnabelleLektor. (Screenshot by Patrick Munnelly.) This special form of nightlife—drag queens on Twitch—carries all the same burdens as other Twitch shows, such as good lighting, camera equipment, and purchasing games (Brewer et al.; Johnson; Taylor), but also requires the increased labour of recreating the nightlife through the special effects, music, and culture (which is less of a solo burden in the club). This can be seen through fig. 1, which displays the drag queen using not only the Twitch overlay lighting effects, but also costuming and makeup to make the approximation, in moore’s framing, that adds to the nightlife experience. During this HypeTrain, no conversation was taking place, but community was happening. People were dancing—sending emoji in the chat of the dancing jellyfish from Spongebob—emulating the queen who was dancing from her chair. Participatory chat messages, emoji, and animated videos (triggered by chat commands) were also sent supporting the notion her liveness in which she was able to respond to messages in the moment. Whether or not the HypeTrain started because people were excited by her, the stream, or the gameplay (I tuned in too late to this particular stream to know), they threw enough cash her way—similar to when a host drag queen tells the crowd to tip the drag queen dancing by throwing money at her—to start this HypeTrain (via the Twitch system itself). Then this queen used the HypeTrain to turn the stream into a queer nightlife dance party, supporting the notion of an interaction ritual happening through Twitch. In this regard, not only is a HypeTrain not possible at an in-person drag show, but this form of social interaction is arguably more rewarding and co-present than an in-person drag show. While at a club, people would be dancing along with the queen and tipping her, the queen is the one driving the tips and controlling the dance. On Twitch, this HypeTrain was spontaneous, and even though people were separated in time and space, they still gathered together to unite in non-bodily co-presence. Further, while people are joining the stream to watch the queen perform, play games, make jokes, or just chat, the social interaction is strong via participants sending chat messages, emoji, or the TriggerFyre commands—illuminating pop culture references, media clips, and sound effects. In reference to the fleetingness, this moment lasted only a short time; and in terms of the sleaze, there were no physical remains of this moment. That did not matter, however, because I argue that remains of the dancefloor lived on in the chat. The dancing jellyfish emoji simply got pushed up and swept away as the chat resumed and new messages took over. It also did not matter that each of us were collected physically; Twitch became the walls, and the queen became the roof above all of us. We could each have been individually dancing and sweating, or sitting and staring at the phone, which is precisely what I was doing. I was not dancing or singing or sweating or touching. I was only looking at this phone, living (perhaps vicariously) through this queen. It did not matter to me that she was separated by a piece of glass, minimised down to an inch or so of screen space. To me, this felt like a club, like a night out, but one where I was home and still had the whole night ahead of myself. Conclusion In a contradictory study, Vandenburg wrote about a large-scale concert on Twitch and how, while collective, the concert failed to produce the same levels of excitement as an in-person event. As Vandenburg alludes to, this is possibly an area of research for future studies, where the consideration is when a number of participants on Twitch becomes too large to participate, perhaps collapsing the effects of collective effervescence by the volume of messages overshadowing the individuality of participation (430). Although, at a smaller scale like these drag queen shows, Mizrahi-Warner et al. state that online social interaction rituals can be still supported through emotional presence versus physical presence, or what Yang et al. note as being virtual presence (28405). As such, queer drag queen streams on Twitch are an ideal space for replicating an experience of interaction ritual through the collective effervescence fueled by the Twitch system: lighting and sound effects, media overlays and pop culture references, HypeTrains and bit-donations, and more. While each of these are not unique to a drag queen stream, the drag queen’s presence, authenticity, and stage presence translate well on Twitch where the audience can remain just as anonymous as a club, but can remain safely in their home without the peer pressure of alcohol often found in gay bars. Let us return, then, to the original question: can drag queens on Twitch be considered a form of queer nightlife, given the missing components such as music, alcohol, and dancing? We should amend this question slightly to: can we experience collective effervescence and an interaction ritual with the queer nightlife of a drag queen when we are separated by space and time? As seen from the above reading: yes! As Ghaziani notes, it is not simply the bar or club that creates nightlife, but rather the interaction between bodies that are present. Using the Collins model of interaction rituals, drag queens on Twitch not only gather folks together into one space, but they also produce membership symbols (fandom symbols) and emotional energy, again as can be seen from fig. 1. Various Twitch streams of gaymers, flags, emotes, language, and bodies all produce queer semiotics (Munnelly) that could be read as an interaction ritual, producing collective effervescence. As well, given the mobile quality of queer nightlife spaces, this metaphor carries over into Twitch as an environment that can be mobile, fleeting, temporary, and exists in any participant’s time and space of their choosing. Given the increased threat in the United States of going to a gay bar—from gun violence to conservative hate speech—it makes more sense now than ever to have queer spaces that can not only remain covert, but can be safely joinable from anywhere, particularly for our neurodivergent and sober or even lesbian and trans community members who are often excluded from gay bars. Thus, when drag queens stream on Twitch, they allow for community to be formed and for collective effervescence to still exist where a queer nightlife space can still form a social interaction ritual. We do not need to be collocated bodily, our non-bodily presence is arguably just as queer as any other space... We will come and go as we please, we will remain mobile and fleeting, covert and anonymous, and we will remain safe and queer. 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