Photo Project: Fat'Her'hood by Kranti Remala | Drag Dad

Not the kind that only exists on protest placards or in courtrooms, but the kind that lives quietly inside homes, inside marriages, inside the way we choose to raise a child. For me, activism was not merely about speaking on panels or performing on stage as SAS. It became deeply personal the moment I chose to be both a father and a drag artist at the same time.

To call myself a father was intentional. A binary-led word, yes. A political word, absolutely. But also a word of my own choosing. In a world obsessed with fitting queer people into digestible narratives, I wanted to claim language on my own terms. I did not want society to decide what I should be called based on how I present on stage. I wanted my child to know me not through ideology, but through love.

Growing up as the youngest in my family, I was used to being protected and pampered. I carried that childlike softness into adulthood, often approaching life with curiosity rather than fear. When I married my partner, it was not just the merging of two people but the merging of two worlds. She came from a space where conversations about gender diversity and sexuality were unfamiliar, while I had built my identity around questioning gender politics and rigid societal structures. Our relationship became an act of activism in itself — two people choosing to understand, unlearn, and grow together.

Being open about my bisexuality and my trans-ness allowed vulnerability to enter our marriage. Vulnerability is political when you are queer. Loving openly is political when your existence is debated. When I step into drag as SAS, embodying glamour, defiance, and femininity, it is not just performance. It is resistance. And when my partner sits in the audience cheering, it becomes a shared resistance — a quiet but powerful assertion that queer joy deserves celebration.

Parenthood brought a new dimension to this activism. When we learned that we were going to have a child, my excitement was entangled with fear. I questioned whether it was fair to bring a child into a world that continues to police queerness. I worried about the discrimination they might face because of me, because of us. I wondered whether I should soften my visibility, reduce my drag, make myself smaller for their safety. These were not abstract fears; they were shaped by global conversations that paint drag as dangerous and queer parents as irresponsible.

In recent years, especially in parts of the West, drag has been targeted by right-wing rhetoric, with attempts to ban drag performances and falsely label drag artists as threats to children. Watching these narratives unfold made me question my own path. Could I be both a public drag artist and a responsible parent? Would my child one day be forced to defend my art before they were old enough to understand it?

But activism is not always loud confrontation. Sometimes it is the refusal to shrink.

It was both a political and personal stance to embrace fatherhood while continuing my drag practice. I refused to internalize the shame imposed on queer bodies. A child does not judge a parent’s clothing, makeup, or stage persona. A child responds to the love, security, and care they receive. If I raise my child with empathy and openness, they will understand that self-expression is not something to fear but something to celebrate.

As a queer person, I deserve the fullness of life — partnership, artistry, parenthood, and joy. For too long, queer people have been told to choose. Choose respectability over authenticity. Choose safety over visibility. Choose silence over expression. My activism lies in rejecting that forced choice.

Being both a drag queen and a father is not a contradiction. It is a declaration. It is proof that art and family can coexist. It is evidence that queerness is not a barrier to nurturing, teaching, and building community. If anything, my journey has deepened my understanding of love. It has made me more intentional, more aware, more committed to raising a child who knows compassion before prejudice.

I am not naive about the challenges ahead. I know there will be questions, perhaps stares, maybe even hostility. But I also know that hiding would teach my child fear, while living truthfully teaches courage. The world may not yet be fully ready for queer parents who are visible and proud, but progress has never waited for permission.

This story is about activism because every time I step onto a stage in drag and return home to hold my child, I am challenging a narrative that says I cannot be both. Every time my partner and I choose love over conformity, we are rewriting what family can look like. Every time we teach our child empathy, we are building the world we once wished for.

Activism, for me, is raising a child without shame. It is continuing my art without apology. It is existing fully — not in fragments, not in compromise, but in wholeness.