a&e features
Yes, chef!
From military service in Syria to cooking in coastal Delaware, Justin Fritz delivers comfort and connection
Driving down the long stretch of road that connects Rehoboth to Bethany Beach, I’m thinking about the morning ahead of me. I’ve done tough jobs before on subjects I knew nothing about. But when it comes to this assignment – profiling a local chef – I can’t help but worry that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.
I eat food. I love food. Ironically, I can’t cook.
Sure, I can make a passable meal in a pinch, but when it comes to innate culinary skills, I don’t have the gene. That means I eat out often. Even when the food is good, the experience is rarely inspiring. I have no doubt that the guy I’m about to profile can cook, but for me, food is fuel, not fun. Writing about eating feels like reading about dancing. You can understand the mechanics, but the magic is harder to capture.
Sooner than I expected, I reach my destination. Rising quietly from the dunes, the weathered cedar shingles and wraparound porch of The Addy Sea Inn gives off the kind of understated confidence money can’t buy. Built in 1904, it doesn’t try to impress you. It just does. I pull into a gravel parking space, step out of the car, and take a breath. Already, I sense that I’ve misjudged what this morning will be.
Inside, breakfast service has just wrapped, but the dining room is still humming with energy. Plates clink. Fresh coffee is brewing. After a quick round of introductions with the staff, I’m ushered back to the kitchen, where Executive Chef Justin Fritz is waiting.
The room is modest, only slightly larger than my kitchen at home, anchored by a narrow stainless-steel island that serves as the operational center. Whatever the kitchen lacks in space it makes up for in technology. The appliances are state-of-the-art and the multi-tiered glass oven on the wall looks smarter than I am.
There’s no brigade of line cooks. No shouted orders. No “Hands” or “Yes, chef!” echoing off the walls. There’s just me and him. It’s a one-man show.
His first wedding tasting is less than an hour away, but instead of rushing, Justin offers me the grand tour. Pride radiates from him — not ego, but something quieter. We move through the inn, past guests and staff he greets by name, out onto a porch overlooking the beach and Atlantic, where meticulously planned weddings unfold like carefully choreographed dreams.
“This whole place transforms,” he says, gesturing toward the lawn. “We pitch a 90-foot tent in a yard that can accommodate 150 guests. We set the DJ and the bar up in the back on a floating deck that becomes a dance floor.”
On our way back inside, we stop to see herbs growing in a double row of hanging planters — mint, basil, strawberries trailing down the wall like decorations you can eat. It’s not performative. It’s practical. Everything here has a purpose.
Back in the kitchen, the tempo shifts. There are no printed-out recipes or neatly arranged mise en place. Justin stops talking just long enough to consult the whiteboard hanging on his refrigerator. There are notes – words, not sentences – cueing him on all the things he needs to remember.
When he finally goes into action, it’s intense, but controlled. Justin knows every inch of his kitchen and moves efficiently to gather what he needs to get five different entrees into the oven. I try to be a fly on the wall, but I’m the elephant in the room. I try, and fail, to move out of his way.
After our fifth near-collision, he laughs. “You just stay there,” he says. “I’ll move around you.” And he does.
Justin’s path to The Addy Sea Inn wasn’t linear, and in many ways, that’s what defines him. After culinary school and early professional success, he made a decision that shifted everything: He enlisted in the Army Reserves alongside his younger brother. In an unexpected twist, Justin completed the enlistment process first, while his brother’s path was delayed pending a medical waiver.
Initially, Justin’s role had nothing to do with food. He worked as a computer technician, repairing advanced equipment — a technical, methodical position that stood in stark contrast to the creative environment of a kitchen. Then, as often happens in Justin’s stories, his circumstances changed. A casual conversation with a commanding officer one afternoon led to a sudden reassignment.
“He said, ‘You’re supposed to be at the range. Get in the car — I’ll explain on the way.’” Justin recalls. “Next thing I know, I’m deploying.”
The destination was Syria. And instead of working with electronics, he found himself back in a kitchen — only this time, under conditions that redefined what cooking meant.
“They didn’t want military cooking,” he says. “They wanted home cooking.”
That expectation, simple on the surface, became extraordinarily complex in practice. Ingredients had to be sourced from local markets where quality and safety were inconsistent. Refrigeration was limited. Water couldn’t be trusted. Meat arrived butchered in ways that required improvisation rather than precision.
“One time I ordered lamb,” he says. “It came back as bones. Just bones. I scraped the meat off and turned it into sausage because I couldn’t waste it.”
So, Justin adapted. He baked bread from scratch, created meals that could be eaten days later, and found ways to bring a sense of normalcy into an environment defined by uncertainty. French toast, burritos, pretzels, tiramisu — dishes that, under different circumstances, might have felt routine became something else entirely.
“I think people underestimate what food means,” he says. “It’s not just eating. It’s memory. It’s comfort. It’s safety.”
That last word lingers.
By the time Justin arrived at The Addy Sea Inn, he carried more than just professional experience. He brought discipline, resilience, and a perspective shaped by environments far removed from coastal Delaware. But he also brought uncertainty.
The new role required something different from what he’d done before. Here, he wasn’t executing someone else’s vision — he was responsible for creating one.
“I realized I get to do this,” he says. “I get to build this.”
What he has built is both ambitious and carefully controlled. Under new ownership and with a growing team, The Addy Sea Inn has evolved into a sought-after destination for weddings and events. The scale has increased, but the operation remains intentionally lean, which puts more pressure on Justin to deliver.
A single day might include breakfast service, take-away lunch preparation, afternoon tea, wedding tastings, and a full-scale event execution. Layered on top of that are cooking classes, early-stage digital content, and a catering business Justin has deliberately paused so he can focus on something more cohesive.
“I want to grow the culinary side of this place,” he says. “Not just more events, but better experiences. Classes, tastings — things that bring people into it. I love teaching. I love sharing it.”
It’s a vision rooted less in expansion and more in depth. Not more for the sake of more, but more meaningfully.
When I return a few days later for breakfast service, the experience feels both familiar and entirely new.
The day begins with sunrise. Before anything else, Justin pauses and brings his team outside. It isn’t a long break, and it isn’t framed as anything formal. It’s simply a moment — watching the light shift over the water, occasionally catching sight of dolphins moving just beyond the shoreline.
Then, without ceremony, the work begins.
Eggs crack. Bacon sizzles, potato pancakes bake on the grill. Orders move in and out with steady consistency. There’s no frantic energy, no sense of scrambling to keep up. Instead, there’s a flow — continuous, measured, almost meditative.
“It doesn’t always feel like work,” he says.
Watching him move through the morning, it’s easy to understand why.
Hours later, after the hustle and bustle of the first meal has ended, Justin turns his attention to a larger, albeit more creative task — cupcakes for two themed parties. Already inspired, he lifts a heavy electric mixer onto the counter and pushes a flour-dusted binder in front of me.
“I’ll bake the cupcakes. You make the butter-cream frosting,” he says, flipping to the page with the recipe. “Double it.”
The request sends me into a mild panic, especially since it requires math. But Justin believes I can do it. To my surprise, so do I. The first batch of chocolate cupcakes are already out of the oven before I finish the first bowl of frosting. Since all I have to do is repeat the process, I’m starting to feel relieved and maybe even a little cocky. That’s when it hits me.
“Chef, I made a mistake…I forgot to double the amount of vanilla. I need to do it over.”
“It’s fine,” Justin says casually, swiping a small disposable plastic spoon across the silky surface. “It tastes great. Focus on the next batch.”
The result, two exquisitely decorated cupcakes, are almost too pretty to eat.
“These are yours to take home,” he says as he carefully packs them away in a to-go box.
I start to protest, to tell him he should save the best for himself or the other guests. But I stop myself and pause and savor the moment. This one, I keep.
Chef Justin Fritz resists easy categorization, and that may be part of what makes him so compelling. He is classically trained, but without pretense. His military background suggests rigidity, yet his approach is flexible and intuitive. He carries himself with a quiet confidence, never needing to announce it. Part Jason Bourne, part Willy Wonka. Justin isn’t just cooking food, he’s making magic.
By the time I leave, my understanding of the assignment has shifted. What I expected to be a story about food has become something broader, more nuanced. It’s about care. About connection.
That sense of purpose extends beyond the kitchen. When I ask Justin what’s next, he speaks not just about growth and ambition, but about balance — about building a life that allows space for both. There’s a quiet acknowledgment of Cheyenne, his partner of five years, woven into that answer. Not as a headline, but as something steady and grounding, part of how he measures what comes next.
I arrived thinking I would write about a chef. What I found instead was someone who uses food as a language — a way to communicate, to connect, and to create something that stays with you.
The only way to experience Chef Justin’s cooking is to step inside his world — by checking into The Addy Sea Inn (www.addysea.com) or securing a ticket to one of the inn’s limited public events, including the Spring Soirée and the Toys for Tots Holiday Fundraiser. There’s no standalone restaurant, no reservation to book online. His food exists within the rhythm of the inn itself.
In louder, larger kitchens, “Yes, chef!” is a command — sharp, immediate, unquestioned.
But here, at the edge of the ocean, it lands differently.
Not as an order.
As trust.
And maybe that’s the real story — not the food, not the title, but the quiet, deliberate way Chef Justin Fritz makes people feel something they don’t forget.
a&e features
The mastery of love
The world knows Eric Anderson as Billy Porter’s partner, but in Rehoboth Beach, he has a story entirely his own
The world knows Eric Anderson as Billy Porter’s partner. In Rehoboth Beach, Del., he has a life — and a story — entirely his own.
My first time with Eric Anderson was hot — very hot. Before he arrived, I sat waiting, overthinking everything. When he finally appeared in a loose-fitting T-shirt and purple shorts, I understood why he attracts attention. Eric is the kind of man who changes the energy of a room simply by entering it.
After a quick hello, we got right to it. Techno pulsed through the room as Eric told me how to move, where to place my hands, when to breathe. My heart pounded. My muscles ached. I bent, twisted, and stretched while sweat ran down my back and burned my eyes. I didn’t bother wiping it away.
To be clear, Eric and I were not alone. Five other people were with us — and the yoga studio at SoulFire Collective in Rehoboth Beach was heated to 87 degrees.
“If you are always racing toward the next moment, what happens to the one you’re in?” Eric asked, opening his power yoga class and inviting us to leave whatever had followed us through the door and surrender to the present. Surrender did not come easily. At 58, I’ve done enough yoga to know the difference between discomfort and imminent death. Halfway through Eric’s relentless flow, the distinction began to blur.
A playlist of techno and remixed pop — including “Live Like You Were Dying” — carried us from one demanding pose to the next. Eric moved among the mats with the energy of a nightclub DJ and the calm of someone who trusted our bodies to go further than our minds believed possible. Nearly an hour later, when the music softened and I collapsed onto my back in savasana, he laid a cool cloth across my forehead. I exhaled — relieved, and maybe a little disappointed, that my first time with Eric was over.
At the end of my mat, a handwritten note congratulated me on my first class and invited me back — a small benediction after the storm. Then Eric closed the class by repeating the question with which he’d opened. For a man whose relationship with actor and singer Billy Porter has drawn him unexpectedly into the public eye, it sounded less like a yoga mantra than a personal creed.
The next time I meet Eric, there is air conditioning and caffeine. We are at Starbucks, where I deliberately order the largest drinks available, as though volume alone might buy me more time. He chooses a matcha, and I order herbal tea. My heart is pounding again, faster than the soft rock drifting from the speakers above us. Although I’ve already spent more than an hour with Eric, I know almost nothing about the man I’m about to interview.
Neither, it seems, does anyone else.
Celebrity outlets offer a handful of biographical details: a Rehoboth Beach teacher and yoga instructor with a master’s degree from Columbia University. Gay publications have been less restrained. One introduced him as Billy Porter’s “total hot stud,” called him “a snacc,” and praised his ability to “rock a Speedo.” Queerty distilled Eric’s identity to five words: “Porter is dating a teacher.”
All of it tells me how the world sees him. None of it tells me who he is.
I know from our text exchanges that Eric is slammed for time. He is scheduled to travel to New York later that day and fly to WorldPride Amsterdam the following afternoon. Billy is among the headliners for the opening-night Unity Concert and is also slated to perform at the Wedding Party XXL alongside KI/KI, Bimini, and the Vengaboys. Eric still has to pack. This, I’m beginning to understand, is part of loving someone famous: there is almost always an itinerary, another city, and a specific time and place Billy needs to be. Even here, with two untouched drinks between us, the clock is ticking.
As soon as we sit down, I open my laptop, ready to get to work. My mind is focused on the list of questions I’ve prepared, and I’ve already anticipated the shape of most of his responses. Then I look up and see Eric sitting perfectly still, smiling, and taking in the moment. He hasn’t even taken a sip of his matcha yet.
I quietly close my laptop and breathe.
Within minutes, the interview softens into a conversation.
Eric earned a bachelor’s degree in history from the University of Delaware and a master’s in public school leadership from Teachers College, Columbia University. He began his career teaching mathematics before moving into school administration, eventually serving as vice president of the Charter School of Wilmington and head of school at Sussex Academy. Today, he teaches mathematics and social studies in the Cape Henlopen School District. He also coaches soccer and leads yoga classes at SoulFire Collective in Rehoboth Beach.
His return to the classroom was deliberate. Eric knows some people assumed there must be a story behind his leaving administration—that he had done something wrong or that teaching represented a demotion.
“I want to make it clear that I went back to teaching by choice,” he says.
As a child, Eric played school. Teaching has always felt natural to him, less like an occupation than an expression of who he is. Administration was different.
“It felt like work,” he says. “It wasn’t where my passion was, and it didn’t bring me joy. Going back into the classroom was simply me choosing joy.”
The more Eric talks, the clearer it becomes that teaching is not merely a job but a vocation. His mother is white and his father is Black, and growing up biracial was not always easy. “I saw the best and the worst of both,” he tells me. Those experiences helped shape his desire to become a teacher — to be the kind of person who could make a meaningful difference in a young person’s life.
Just then, Eric glances over his shoulder and locks eyes with someone across the room. He waves and flashes what is quickly becoming his signature smile. My first thought is that someone has recognized him as Billy Porter’s partner.
I’m wrong. It’s one of his former students.
Inevitably, our conversation turns to love — and to Billy. I’ve made it clear that I’m here to write about Eric, not Billy Porter. But separating the two entirely would be as artificial as defining Eric only by their relationship. Billy is now an essential part of his story.
Eric met Billy at a Christmas party hosted by mutual friends who had been trying to introduce them all night. It wasn’t easy — the party was crowded, and the two men never quite crossed paths. Eric stayed for the afterparty, where a friend nudged him and nodded toward the room: Billy was looking his way. Romance never crossed his mind.
Eventually, they started talking. Eric has never had much patience for small talk, and he wasn’t interested in cataloging which celebrities Billy knew. He skipped it entirely and went straight for the deeper questions — what Billy believed, how he saw the world, what mattered to him. They ended up at the kitchen table, trading life philosophies until 5 a.m.
What struck Eric most wasn’t the conversation’s length. It was its depth. Billy wasn’t who he expected. Neither was the conversation. By the time the sun was coming up, Eric was less surprised that they’d talked all night than by how much, it turned out, they had in common.
They had dinner the following evening, and Billy invited Eric to spend the weekend with him in New York. There, Billy took him to see Nicole Scherzinger in “Sunset Boulevard.” Right before the show started, he casually introduced Eric to a friend named Katy. Back in their seats, Eric asked how Billy knew her.
“BITCH,” Billy replied, “that is Miss K-A-T-Y P-E-R-R-Y!”
For all the glamour surrounding their courtship, Eric describes the foundation of their relationship in decidedly spiritual terms. His favorite book is don Miguel Ruiz’s The Mastery of Love, which explores how fear, expectation, and the need for approval can distort relationships. Its philosophy closely resembles Eric’s own.
On the surface, Eric and Billy inhabit different worlds. Eric is a deeply spiritual teacher rooted in a small coastal Delaware town. Billy is a celebrated actor and performer whose larger-than-life persona commands stages around the world. But when I ask Eric how the relationship works, he doesn’t hesitate.
“I know that I can be my authentic self with him, and he can be his with me,” he says. “We love each other unconditionally.”
The words could sound rehearsed. Coming from Eric, they don’t.
The red carpets, famous faces, and international travel are not what matter most.
“It’s all about the people,” he explains. “I love Billy’s family and friends, and he loves mine.”
Authenticity surfaces repeatedly in our conversation — not as an abstract ideal, but as Eric’s determination to trust what feels right for him, even when other people may not understand it. I tell him about growing up in Pittsburgh and spending much of my life trying to fit the person I was into the person the world expected me to be. Eric listens intently, then pauses before responding.
“Fuck the system.”
It is blunt, funny, and entirely consistent with the man sitting across from me. Dating Billy may have dramatically increased the number of strangers who have opinions about Eric, but it hasn’t increased the number whose opinions matter to him. He is remarkably unconcerned with what people he doesn’t know think — or say — about him. The attention is new. His response to it is not.
For Eric, authenticity isn’t about asking the world for permission to be yourself. It’s about deciding that permission was never the world’s to give.
That instinct—to look inward rather than outward for permission — predates Billy.
Eric initially turned to yoga for a practical reason: he wanted to improve his physical performance on the soccer field. It didn’t take long for him to realize that something else was happening. Yoga was strengthening his body, but it was also grounding him.
Over time, the physical practice became inseparable from the mental one. The poses, the heat, even the strength required to hold his body in place became less important than learning how to quiet the noise around him, stay present, and listen to himself. The man who had pushed me through an hour of sweat and discomfort wasn’t simply teaching people how to move their bodies. He was asking them to practice something he had learned to do himself.
That sense of being grounded has become particularly important in a relationship that often requires two people to live very different lives. Eric is quick to point out that he and Billy have separate careers, separate ambitions, and goals entirely their own. Neither expects the other to abandon an individual life simply because they have chosen to build a relationship together.
When Billy left for London to star in “Cabaret,” distance became part of their routine. They FaceTimed every day, a practice they continue whenever they are apart.
“I tell Billy everything,” Eric says.
Being authentic with Billy doesn’t require the two men to become more alike. If anything, the opposite seems true. They are comfortable following their own career paths, living separate lives when circumstances require it, and giving each other the freedom to pursue what matters individually. Then they come back together — not because either has put his own life on hold, but because they have chosen to share those lives with each other.
When we finally look at the time, nearly 90 minutes have passed. Eric still needs to pack. New York is waiting, Amsterdam after that, and somewhere there is undoubtedly an itinerary telling Billy exactly where he needs to be and when.
But for a while, neither of us was racing toward the next moment.
We were fully inside the one we were in.
a&e features
What ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’ can still teach us
Producer David Collins on lasting impact of hit series
It’s hard to imagine where LGBTQ+ television would be without “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy,” the trailblazing reality series that premiered in 2003.
Each episode of this Emmy-winning show saw a group of gays converge on a struggling man — the titular straight guy — and offer nonstop wit while organizing his endlessly messy life. This program about a group of homosexual helpers took the world by storm, furthering the love of gay television begun by shows like “Will and Grace” but bringing it into the growing medium of reality TV. Of course, it wasn’t perfect; “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” often cast its experts less as multi-faceted queer folks and more as sources of early 2000s gay jokes. But despite these pitfalls, it’s undeniable that the original program explored the realities of being gay in a way audiences had never seen before. It was a monumental piece of LGBTQ+ representation, and its success is largely owed to the man who fought to get this show made: producer David Collins.
Collins spoke with the Blade from his Los Angeles home, where he’s spent the past few years living with his husband and his two daughters. David spoke fondly of his many years in the industry, detailing how it feels to be such a huge part of LGBTQ+ history. He explained, however, that he didn’t initially set out to alter how queer people were seen on television. “I never went out to make gay television,” said the producer. “I went out to tell great stories.”
“I’m a hillbilly from Ohio, and I thought I was going to be an editor,” David laughed, looking back on his career. “I interned at the Cincinnati Film Office, and I showed up to work my very first day, and the film commissioner was like, ‘Get to the airport right now and pick [someone] up. Don’t talk to them.’ Well, I ended up picking up Jodie Foster.” Collins raved about this car ride that changed his life, with the pair becoming friends and Foster pushing him to become a producer who puts their own media out into the world. Eventually, he did just that, and after learning about the wild new genre that was reality TV, he pitched a series to Bravo: “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”
“I was obsessed with Esquire magazine, and they had five categories: fashion, grooming, interior design, culture, food, and wine. So I gave them each a gay, and the Fab Five were born!” Collins said, describing how viewers quickly fell in love with the concept and earned the program four seasons and an Emmy for Outstanding Reality Program. He spoke about how proud he felt creating a show that centered real gay people, not characters in a story, remembering, “To stand in the middle of Times Square and look up and see this massive billboard with the original Queer Eye guys…it wasn’t even a dream come true, because it wasn’t a dream I had even fathomed.”
With his series, people were watching actual gay men and learning the realities of a queer culture that had always been portrayed as a danger to society. Collins tearfully recounted hearing about queer people using the show as a way to connect with their family, saying, “What I’m most proud of that’s come out of Queer Eye [are] the conversations that that series has allowed to have people around their kitchen tables with little boys in Ohio like me who were scared to death that they were going to burn in hell because their pastor was telling them that they were a sinner.”
Now, for all of its trailblazing, the program wasn’t wholly positive; the show’s focus on the central ‘straight guy’ meant it rarely delved into the lives of its Fab Five. Collins regretted that lack of depth but understood that earlier audiences weren’t accustomed to such a nuanced look into queerness — that would have to wait for the reboot.
When “Queer Eye” came out in 2018, audiences were introduced to not only a new Fab Five, but a whole new format (that didn’t rely on a straight person). Now, the series would assist queer folks and allies alike, spotlighting these individuals as well as the queer experts helping them improve their lives. The show has been applauded for its amazing makeovers, but where it truly stands out is its representation, offering a look into individuals across the country and the struggles — along with the immense joys — of being queer in America today.
Fans were disappointed to hear that “Queer Eye” would be ending after its 10th season, but David stressed that they wouldn’t have to be sad for long. “What I will say to you is this: hang tight,” he teased. “There’s yet another version of ‘Queer Eye’ to come, and we’re working on that now.” In the meantime, Collins is continuing his work with new shows like the “House of Stassi,” a series centered on “Vanderpump Rules’”prolific waitress. He’s excited about these new projects, but emphasized that his heart will always belong to “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” and all that it continues to do for viewers 19 years after its finale.
“It’s not about your new outfit or your new couch or your new whatever. It’s about your humanity,” said Collins, speaking about the core lesson he hopes people take away from the Queer Eye franchise. “It’s about seeing yourself. It’s about dignity. It’s about how confidence breeds success.”
A valuable message that queer folks can benefit from even more now than they did in 2003. And, while it’s unclear just what lies ahead for this franchise, one thing is for sure: “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” helped people everywhere understand the power that exists within our queerness. It’s a truth that has impacted countless pieces of LGBTQ+ television today, and it’s one that Collins promises to keep alive through whatever hit show he creates next.
a&e features
Jason DePuy on coping with homophobia in ‘Big Brother’ house
First drag queen contestant on CBS show fought to stay positive
One week after Jason DePuy (known as Salina EsTitties on “RuPaul’s Drag Race”) was bullied and eventually evicted from CBS’s “Big Brother” house, the queer drag performer is still emotionally processing his feelings.
During his 24 days in the reality TV competition, DePuy often had a rough time, with fellow cast member Kamuela “Kamu” Kirk making homophobic comments and feeling isolated.
In a conversation with Head of Household Rick Devens, Kirk left viewers upset when he said, “Bro, miss me with the drag stuff. Miss me. I’m still an MMA guy, and I have an image to uphold.”
Former “Big Brother” contestant Frankie Grande called his words ‘homophobic’ and ‘gross.’ Another comment, where Kirk said he wanted to end DePuy’s career, also received strong backlash online.
Now that he is out of the house, DePuy has been shocked and deeply touched by the love from “Big Brother” fans and former contestants. We chatted with DePuy for this Blade exclusive.
“To know that my community was rallying for me outside the house was the most wonderful thing. Seeing how much people were just wanting to shower me with love was incredible. Even my friends, I went to say hi and give them a hug, and they’re like, ‘Uh, uh, come here.’ They had to hold me and let me know America was feeling for me in a way that I had no idea.”
He added: “To see that reality was just overwhelming, and I couldn’t ask for more.”
Known as a messy player in the house, DePuy often had to fight to stay positive and stand up for himself.
“No one was coming to my rescue. In real life, it’s easy to block people, but in the house, I didn’t have that luxury, so I had to find it within myself to learn how to speak up for myself in a way that wasn’t nasty or biting. I didn’t attack anyone personally, which is what I was the most proud of.”
DePuy acknowledged he has had a history of putting his foot in his mouth when it came to certain “Drag Race”moments, being in the public eye, and making a fool of himself. “I’ve learned my lessons; to see how I handled myself in the ‘Big Brother’ house was amazing.”
While DePuy has been sober for 14 and a half years and has a strong spiritual foundation, in the Big Brother house, he often felt like he couldn’t communicate what he was feeling.
“As a queer person, a person of color, a drag queen, I have to be very careful about how I move. I don’t have the luxury or privilege to just act a certain way or say a certain thing. I have to be very careful; I’m representing me. But who I am is a Latino, a person of recovery, a drag queen, a queer person in the community. I know that there’s a lot of pressure that comes with that. I felt it was safer for me to sit there and just breathe than try to do anything crazy.”
He continued: “I couldn’t speak to the personal attack that was happening in the house, because in my mind I was like, ‘no, this is a game, and I have to play it, put that aside.’”
Not only can viewers watch the episodes, but they can also watch the live feeds of what’s happening. Seeing the fans’ social media posts from people who had watched the episodes and the live feeds also contributed to DePuy realizing that his feelings of discomfort were valid.
“To know that I wasn’t delusional in those moments, that others could see what was happening, has been a lot to take in. Fans and friends let me know the comments made went beyond the game…I’m like, ‘Oh, so my instincts were correct.”
One of the most poignant moments on the live feeds occurred when DePuy was crying, alone in his room, and said how he missed his gay community.
“I really missed my friends. I missed my queer community. We’re so colorful. We’re so loud. We’re so vibrant. We speak off the cuff, and we’re very truthful and honest with how we speak, and it’s fun. We have fun lingo.”
DePuy had to censor his expressions in the house. “Because I can say one thing, but it can mean something different to straight people than it does with my queer brothers and sisters. So, there was a sense of code-switching that I had to do. I had to even put aside some of my queerness in a way sometimes to fit in.”
DePuy was thrilled to be the very first drag queen to ever be cast on the show.
“I’m honored to have been chosen. There’s a million drag queens out there, and to know that I was a contender to come in the house and not even be in drag was like a wow for me. I’m over here in Hollywood, running around these streets with a wig and heels just to make a dollar to survive, and I have to rely on drag to do that. And then to be offered this opportunity and be given the privilege to say, ‘hey, you don’t have to put on the wig for you to be valuable here,’ is just insane to me.”
Prior to his shows, DePuy has been hustling for 15 years, flipping burgers and doing drag at night.
“That has been my life these past since I was 17. So it’s been a long journey; the opportunity to do this out of drag is a very big blessing. I’m honored and grateful to be the representation of my community.”
If you missed Jason on “Big Brother: Unlocked,” the episode can be seen on CBS.com. He will be back on the show for the finale.
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The mastery of love
Enlarging the Supreme Court keeps making more sense
Gloria Steinem dies at 92
Trans people need a politics of ordinary life
