Image Description: Silky Nutmeg Ganache smiling at the camera — wearing bold reds, yellows, and blues. Silky is also rocking a beautiful fat/long braid to the side.

Dear Dr. Silky Nutmeg Ganache, PhD

You entered the workroom boldly — wearing complementary blues and big hair with a half-eaten sugar cookie tucked away in your breast. What more could any reasonable fan ask for? You were determined not to be erased. You let people know upon entrance that you were loud, Blackity Black, queer, and fat as fuck. You and I both know they discounted you as soon as you entered the workroom. They relegated you to a fun and sometimes obnoxious personality, not the two time challenge winner (and eventual finalist) that you are.

There are things they will never understand about us bold, Black, fat, and queer humans. You see, our pain is intimate and layered. Our joy is infectious and energizing. And yet, we’re treated as disposable beings when we make even the smallest mistakes. Folks soon forget that we were once their perfect side-kick, expecting the most from us even though we’re treated as second class humans.

Silky, you are not perfect. You’ve made mistakes throughout this season of drag race. And, at the reunion you showed us the importance of owning the moments when we fall short. Below speaks to my journey watching and learning from you during season 11; exploring my histories as an imperfect being in my Black fat queer body, truly remembering.

Image Description: Silky looking at the camera while she bites on a cookie. Silky is wearing ruffly blue.

Belly Fat Was In Style All Season

What continues to linger most with me is that you had your belly fat exposed this entire season — that alone is unheard of for a fat person on television. Your freed belly interrupted my thought. You seem so liberated, reminding me that possibility exist, and it is a real thing.

Silky, I’m certain you’ve made young fat kids and adults think about the ways we (fat folks) internalize fatphobia.

I remember it being summer — a Houston summer, surely above 100 degrees. I was ten years old. My friends asked me to go swimming with them in the pool at our apartment complex. Their older brother was in town and was to be our chaperone. This is the only reason my mother allowed me to participate in the summer fun. I jumped in feet first. The water felt so good that I stayed under a little longer than usual. I remember swimming up for air. My naps hit that familiar warm place — piercing the edge of the water and reuniting with the sun for the first time in a long time. I exited bliss to abruptly enter terror — in the midst of breathing a welcomed breath, I heard my friends laughing at me. I needed to know why. My friends were pointing and laughing, until one of them yelled, “take off your shirt, man.” I then understood they were laughing at me because I jumped into the pool with my shirt on. I was still puzzled on how this expectation could be coming from them — three other fat pre-teens. They should know the fat code says leave your shirt on. However, it was apparent that they had been living by an entirely different code all along. Just like that, the norms changed at the pool in that moment — if even for a short period of time. I took off my shirt too. I had welts on my back and stomach where the water and shirt conspired against me, almost telling me that your body deserves better. I jumped in again. The water felt even better than my initial jump. Us four fat boys played in the water for over an hour. I was so inspired by the joy and possibilities after setting my body free that I walked back to my apartment shirtless and soaked. I got looks from other kids and adults, but I was holding on to my joy. When I entered my apartment, my brother asked where was my shirt? I said I went swimming. He responded, half laughing, “I can tell. There must have been other fat kids there for you to take off your shirt.”

Silky Gets Naked for Photobomb Mini-challenge

Image Description: Silky smiling at the end of the drag race runway. Silky is wearing this beautiful dress with shades of green and blue.

It was episode two. The challenge was around the art of photo bombing. All the queens made me at least giggle a bit, but the nerve of you to get butt ass naked on the cardboard cut-out of 45 supporter, Tom Brady. Serving Poetic Justice realness with the braids (though not quite the box braids Janet had) and of course showcasing your beautiful mug. And this was not a stunt — a way to exploit fatness for an unfunny joke. You’re comfortable in your Black fat queer body. Every roll, every blemish, and every stress mark truly honored and cared for. You’re that gurl.

I remember each breath I took burned as I ran across the airport. Poor signage, out of order moving sidewalks, and staff committed to having no empathy worsened the situation. My heart felt like it was going to hop out of my chest. It wouldn’t be until the following year that I figured out this was due to much more than my moving body — my undiagnosed anxiety at the time played a role in taking this moment from extremely uncomfortable to fuck it, I’ll stay at this airport forever. I arrived to boarding in a full out sweat, drenched. All eyes were on me. Everyone watching this queer body quickly move down the isle, contorting every which way, attempting to redirect my thighs inward. I finally get to my seat, and now it’s time to put on my without a gallery. I barely get it to snap in place, and it’s painful- squeezing my tummy fat and perhaps slowing down circulation around my thigh. But I’m happy. Just happy it fits and I don’t have to ask for a seat belt extender. No harm done.

Silky Literally and Figuratively Bust Down Walls

Image Description: Silky posing at her dragcon booth — the background looks like she is in a grocery isle full of chips. Silky is wearing a beige mumu of sorts with beautiful big hair.

Silky, you provided hearty laughter every episode, but the funniest exchange all season was between you and Ru during the mini-challenge on episode 3. Perhaps, one of the funniest scenes in all of drag race. The queens had to convince RuPaul, who’s working the stage door for a Seduction concert, to let them into the event. Here’s the play-by-play.

You do some kind of illusion with your breast — no shade, but it looked like the violent waves from the Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze 90s classic, Point Break.

Ru hits the siren, which means try something else immediately.

You threaten to knock down the door with a football tackle.

Ru, in disbelief, basically dares you to do it.

You then make the funniest Black-ass grunt/okay accepts the challenge.

You run into the store shaking the entire set, there’s a metaphor here.

Ru is now shocked and in hysterical laughter. Some kind of alarm is blasting and Ru ask you if you hear it.

Ru is now shocked and in hysterical laughter. Some kind of alarm is blasting and Ru ask you if you hear it. You respond, “No. All I hear is come-in, and you open the door and walk in.

Technically, you won this challenge. However, Ra’Jah O’Hara and Nina West were funny as well.

I remember he told me I was reading into it. And further, stating that I was overreacting. I was hot. Sizzling even. This is often the technique of our oppressors — to gaslight, convincing the marginalized that very real issues are a figment of our imagination. He said this in front of a few other friends. I went mute for the entire evening. I couldn’t believe he didn’t see what I saw. He didn’t make the connections I see so clearly. We gathered later where he grabbed my hands and looked me in the eyes and said, “Cody, I’m your brother. I love you. There is no issue.” It finally struck me that my past trauma could have been the origins of this entire mess. And why wouldn’t it be? My lived truth is that people treat me as if I’m not worthy of love and empathy, and as if they have infinite access to my body. People treat me like I should be thankful I was granted life. They would prefer I die off and stop consuming the bare minimum of resources so they can have more.

Silky, I thank you for your charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and talent. In particular, your nerve is what wows me. You do the things I dream of. You publicly speak the way I would talk to only my closest homies. And Sis, you can move! Effortlessly. I’m reminded of the sequin runway challenge; you wore this beautiful blue flowy material and you ran down the runway a la Diana Ross. Ugh. So delightful.

I want you to know that I see you as full — beyond the ways you let us down at times and beyond the ways you fail yourself. I also delight in your beautiful contributions to dialogue around fatness and fatphobia.

I ADORE you. Get it? LOL

So, I’m punny. Fight me.

In Solidarity,

Cody Charles

This piece is dedicated to Latrice Royale, Jaidynn Diore Fierce, Mystique, Stacy Layne Matthews, and all the other Black fat queens who are often overlooked for their talents and gifts. I love you.