Lucas Oakley

The Passion of the Oakley

By Lucas Oakley

It’s not every day that you see someone walking down the street in a fire engine red hoodie that says “CATHOLIC” across the front. Unless of course you’re a resident of Charlotte, North Carolina, the home of Charlotte Catholic High School and its uniquely literal school uniform. As a gay CCHS alumni with an affinity for camp concepts and a taste for the ridiculous, I always found it funny that these sweatshirts were so normalized, a part of Charlotte’s culture. It would be even funnier to take this symbol of my Catholic upbringing and push the absurdity to the next level. I’d say the idea to rhinestone a Charlotte Catholic hoodie came to me like the Virgin Mary’s conception of Christ, but in order to bear the concept, I had to be fucked long and hard by the Catholic School System. As I sat in a meditative state embellishing the hoodie with over 25,000 individually placed rhinestones, traumatic memories began to flood my mind. It became clear that this project was more than artistic satire, it was a catalyst that sparked a deep introspection into my experience as a queer person growing up in the Catholic School System, its psychological after effects, and my long perilous journey to self-acceptance and self-actualization.

Growing up a flamboyant gay boy in the South wasn’t easy. Each and every day I was reminded that I wasn’t just different—I was a problem. Wanting to fit in, I quickly learned to tone myself down and hide aspects of my personality to evade judgement. No more belting “Hips Don’t Lie” and bellydancing like Shakira in public, and never let anyone know about the replica Alexander McQueen armadillo heels I constructed out of layers of foam flip flops and paper mâché. That shit’s for sissies!

Southern culture was already beating me into submission—add Catholic School to the mix, and somebody better go call Mike, because there’s about to be a situation! Our school taught some pretty extreme views about homosexuality: being gay was a choice… those who chose to partake in this most egregious sin against God would burn in Hell for eternity, and natural disasters and human suffering were God’s retaliation for the sins of homosexuals on Earth. This all culminated in an all-school assembly where a nun presented data showing that there was evidence that no one is born gay, children from broken homes are likely to choose to be gay, and homosexual couples are totally unfit to be parents. The administration wasn’t naïve to the fact that they were educating LGBT+ students. They were actively and knowingly brainwashing us! It was their mission to make us believe that we were abominations—if we were questioning our sexuality, we had better stay in the closet and pray the gay away! I was taught to suppress, deny, and cloak my true identity in shame. By the time I was an upperclassman, I no longer subscribed the teachings of the Church, but the damage was done. One parasitic lesson had taken deep root in my psyche: to hate myself.

When I graduated from Charlotte Catholic in 2015 I felt how Jesus must have felt after his forty day stint in the desert—sweet relief! I was off to UNC-Chapel Hill, the liberal college of my dreams where I could begin anew and unapologetically express my truth for the first time… or so I thought. I was free physically, but my mental shackles remained locked, and the search for their key had just begun. As it turned out, Chapel Hill wasn’t quite the open, accepting, rainbows and sunshine utopia I had imagined in my mind’s eye. I was thrust out of my familiar sheltered existence, and surrounded by kids from all over the state and the country, many of whom hailed from ultra-conservative rural areas. I moved in to Granville Towers on my own volition, a dorm that was known to house “rich private school kids” who wanted to rush Greek Life. I knew living there wouldn’t serve me, but unlike Christ in the tomb, thirteen years of subconscious conditioning doesn’t vanish after a few days. My mental battle with internalized homophobia raged on, halting me from stepping out of my comfort zone, and causing me to surround myself with the same crowd I had been trying and failing to fit in with my entire life—privileged straight white kids.

Despite this, I was still desperately trying to discover who I was. Within the first semester of freshman year, I came out to my parents and began to embrace my sexuality. I was finally finding the confidence to experiment with my self expression through my clothes, my voice and my mannerisms. I was absolutely terrified, but I’ve always been a bit of a fake it ‘till you make it kind of guy. I knew I wanted to be a part of the tiny gay community at UNC, but I didn’t know how. I wasn’t aware that I still loathed myself, therefore I loathed all those who were reflections of me. So the cycle repeated, and I began to delve deeper into the Greek Life scene, where it became immediately clear that my my queer identity was not welcome.

Freshman fraternity pledges had to go through hell week—well I had to go through hell year. Although I wasn’t in Greek life, all of my friends were, and I’d go to fraternity parties with them three or four times a week. I can remember countless occasions where I’d be barred entry. The brothers at the entrance would almost always make fun of my voice, laugh in my face, and call me a faggot as they slammed the door shut. I’d have to call my older sister and her boyfriend to come let me in (they were seniors and cool kids). Once inside, every guy in the building would give me dirty looks. Eventually, I began to win many of the frat boys over, and I became the token gay of Greek Life. For a long time, I was proud to be the only openly gay guy allowed inside. I was totally blind to the fact that I was alone, searching for acceptance in a community that consistently showed me I wasn’t wanted.

One night in the Spring, I went for a beer with some friends at the popular bar He’s Not Here. I was standing outside minding my business when an upperclassman frat boy approached me. He asked me, with aggression, what I thought of HB2, the anti-trans bathroom bill that had just passed in North Carolina. I gave an honest, but indifferent answer—I didn’t know anything about it, I was a “cool gay,” not one of those annoying social justice warrior Poli Sci kids. Then everything went black. Apparently after answering his question, he punched me in the face, knocking me to the ground unconscious. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a friend’s dorm room sobbing uncontrollably, with a horrible headache and blood gushing from a gash in my right eyebrow. I had never experienced such hysteria. I couldn’t collect myself, and I projectile vomited all over the floor. None of my friends saw the assault, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember what happened or who did it. I felt so worthless and embarrassed, like the whole world hated me.

The next morning I woke up and did exactly what I had been conditioned to do my entire life: toughen up, build walls, and turn the whole thing into a joke so no one could see that I was in absolute shambles. I dusted myself off and walked right back into the belly of the beast, showing up to the next frat party with a nasty black eye. It was my way of giving a big fuck you to everyone in Greek Life. I thought I was being courageous, but on the inside I was crumbling faster than a Nature Valley bar the second you open the wrapper. To make matters worse, people seemed relieved that I couldn’t remember who did it. All was well as long as no fraternities were put on probation. That day I was punched in the face a thousand times over. I went back to my dorm room and cried myself to sleep.

Weeks passed, but the pain from that night never fully went away. I didn’t press charges because I didn’t know who assaulted me, and the people around me refused to help me identify the perpetrator. When my parents asked about my bruises, I told them I was hit with a beer bottle at a party, not wanting them to worry… I was fine. It wasn’t until years later that I realized how much that night had shaped me. The physical wounds healed, but psychologically, I had developed a clinical fear of men, and came to the conclusion that I was alone in a world that saw me as less than human.

But my redemption arc did eventually come! As time progressed, I began to unearth fragments of myself that were buried deep beneath the trauma. So what if I wanted to spend the afternoon learning all of the lyrics to “Miss Amour” by Azealia Banks?—and maybe I could pull off that Moschino Couture racing sweatshirt I bought a year prior! I rediscovered my voice through art, fashion and a community of people who finally accepted me for who I was. The queer art community at UNC became my salvation. For the first time in my life, I began to hang out with people who understood me—not because we all liked shotgunning Bush Ice, but because they had been through similar struggles. I actually belonged. The more time I spent with the “Art Heauxs,” the more I saw my own worth. They reflected back to me the truth I was always too scared to face: I’m enough exactly as I am, and being obsessed with Lady Gaga isn’t embarrassing in the slightest.

When I graduated and moved to New York City, my world opened up like Nicki Minaj in the islands of Waikiki. I began to lean in to my unique artistry and flamboyancy, and New York celebrated me for it. I could strut through the Lower East Side sporting a giant portrait of myself as a clown on a fully rhinestoned sweatshirt without the fear of having my teeth kicked in (wild!). My mental shackles were finally unlocked… turns out I had the key the whole time. I realized that I was crucified by circumstance—by religion, by society and by myself for trying to fit into a mold that was never meant for me.

But what’s a crucifixion without a resurrection? Now that’s where stars are born. I mean, they don’t call him Jesus Christ superstar for nothin’!

As I placed the final rhinestones on my Charlotte Catholic hoodie, I felt overcome with wisdom. That scared, insecure version of myself had to die on the cross. But you know I didn’t die, just like my fully stoned hoodie I had crystallized, and now I’m a glamazon bitch ready for the runway! I’ve risen as someone free to live, love and express myself authentically. I no longer seek approval from others because I’ve discovered the inner strength to approve of myself wholeheartedly. Everything I was running from has transformed into my superpower. I am gay. I am an artist. And guess what? I am free! If I’m too much for you, change the fucking channel—me and my devil horns ain’t going nowhere!

To every LGBT+ person struggling with their identity: you are not alone. You are loved. You are perfect just as you are, and you are capable of achieving anything you set your mind to. Believe in yourself, I believe in you, and you know, there could be a hundred people in a room…