Earlier this year, I walked into the dining room at Godfrey’s, where I perform six times a week, ready to start the weekend drag brunch when a man at the bar stopped me in my stilettos.

It was Rodney Williams, a dance instructor and choreographer, who taught through the city of Richmond’s Park & Recreation department. Back in the ‘90s, I enrolled in one of Rodney’s summer classes, and in addition to introducing me to hip-hop and jazz, he gave me my first glimpse of someone who looked and acted like me. Rodney lived his life unapologetically.

I’ve wanted to be a similar example for young people ever since. But it wasn’t always easy.

As a student at John Marshall High School in the early 2000s, I set my sights on the “Mr. and Miss Justice” pageant – a nod to the school’s namesake and mascot, founding father and fourth chief justice of the U.S. Supreme Court, John Marshall. I prepared a spoken word performance and recruited friends to help me. They made signs and tie-dye T-shirts to campaign for me. I was ready.

But as my senior year approached, the school leadership made a big change to the program. They dropped the Mr. category, which meant that I couldn’t compete. I was very active and successful in other aspects of high school, including JROTC [Junior Reserve Officers Training Corps] and Student Council Association. But this competition was supposed to be the crowning experience of my high school experience — a chance to share an authentic side of myself in front of a jury of my peers and gain their total acceptance of me. I was heartbroken.

Shortly afterwards, my friends and I visited Godfreys, now home to Richmond’s famous drag brunch, for the first time. As luck would have it, it just happened to be during a drag show.

Alvion Arnell Davenport at Pride Night with the Richmond Flying Squirrels in 2025. Photo courtesy Virginia Pride

To be honest, I was appalled by the presence of a man in women’s garments, bouncing around for dollars. I was also appalled by the queen’s outfit, whose boots, wig and drag had one thing in common – the color seafoam green.

Ultimately, my first drag appearance started as a teenage protest of sorts. It took some prodding and cajoling, but my friends and a family friend who served as the club’s emcee eventually convinced me to compete in Godfrey’s monthly Calendar Girl competition. I poured all the hopes I once had for winning the Mr. Justice pageant into competing for the title of Miss Calendar Girl February. I won that month and kept winning through the rest of the year.

It was gratifying to be in a room full of people that looked like me, loved on me and rallied around me with support, clothing, makeup tips and — of course — cash. It fulfilled my dream of social acceptance and allowed all of the talent and crazy ideas I had stored in my head to finally come to fruition. It helped me to understand that there is a place for everyone. And the drag community became my place.

Today’s young drag queens would be surprised by the lengths we had to go to to create the illusion of drag in the early aughts. There were no YouTube makeup tutorials. No hip pads and shapers. No online sources for hard-to-find makeup and hair products. There was a lot of trial and error, and a lot of trips to the CVS makeup aisle. I stuffed towels into my stockings to create the illusion of hips.

Alvion Arnell Davenport performs during ‘Pride at the Park’ at Kings Dominion in August 2026. Photo by Rachel Lewis

Still, I loved it. Over the last two decades, I’ve been proud to represent Virginia across more than 30 states. I’ve won titles like Miss Continental Plus in 2024  (I was the first Virginian to win the title). And while Danny Avula may lead our city, I’ve been called the  LGBTQ+ mayor of Richmond.

But some of my most favorite moments have come from seeing the joy our shows bring people: A woman taking a break from battling cancer, a dad celebrating a milestone birthday or a group of friends simply out to have a good time.

I’ve been proud to perform as Alvion Arnell Davenport for 23 years, and along the way, I’ve been afforded incredible opportunities and seen how drag enriches our community. From collecting backpacks for kids from low-income families heading back to school to “drag bingo” to support Habitat for Humanity and spaghetti dinners to raise funds for people who need dental work and health care, our drag community shows how much it cares about Richmond through its generosity.

While we live in a welcoming state, it’s horrifying to see politicians across our country vilify performers and try to ban drag performances. This rhetoric has led to dangerous situations for drag entertainers whose work is rooted in generosity and community service.

And despite the scary stories and false rumors that fuel the “drag panic” we hear so much about on the news, drag queens are more likely to be the victims of crime than the perpetrators of it. In fact, a report from the Williams Institute at UCLA School of Law finds that LGBT people in the U.S. are five times more likely to be the victim of violent crime than non-LGBT people.

Drag performers are not threats. We are here to entertain, spread joy and build community. You’ll see a lot of that joy at Pridefest on Sept. 12.

When I look out at the crowd from the stage at Pridefest, I am indeed proud. But it’s also hard for me to believe. I won the Miss Virginia Pride title back in 2005. That year, organizers didn’t have enough money to host an event, so I didn’t perform with my title until the 2006 event at Festival Park at the old Sixth Street Marketplace. There were fewer than 300 people in attendance. Today, as the state’s largest LGBTQ+ festival, Pridefest is attended by thousands of people every year.

Seven years ago, I joined the Virginia Pride volunteer committee and now lead our entertainment team [editor’s note: We have a Q&A with Davenport about this year’s Pridefest events in the Fall Arts Preview Issue]. In addition to the annual Pridefest event, you’ll find our committee at more than 50 events throughout the community every year. Between Virginia Pride engagements and serving as the show director at Godfrey’s, some weeks it feels like I’m in drag more than out of it. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I like to joke, “Wigs and paint made this man what I ain’t.” Drag made me feel seen when I felt invisible and now I get to help others feel the same way. It has been the honor of my life.