Craig Mangum - Flaming

 

It was two weeks into the relationship. I was in the backseat of my boyfriend's red Mustang, when he reached down and touched my knee and suddenly pulled his hand back in shock. Immediately I knew why. It was my underwear. This wasn't any regular underwear. I was 22 and a student at Brigham Young University, a Mormon-owned university. And as a devout Mormon at the time, I wore what you all may have heard called the magic Mormon underwear. I wore it every day underneath my clothing, except for when I was showering or swimming, day and night. 

 

Let me describe for you what this was like. It extended ever so gracefully in a white, unbleached cotton down to my knee. It was accompanied by an undershirt that had a very billowy mid–arm-length sleeve and a swooping neck. And in it were embroidered symbols that related to theological concepts of Mormonism. It was sacred. But when my boyfriend touched it, he got very quiet, because touching a garment mid–makeout is like stumbling on granny panties from God. [audience laughter] It's a mood killer, to say the least. 

 

He got quiet and he said, "I can't tell you what to do, but I'm falling for you. And the fact that you wear those makes me scared you'll go back to them." The them being Mormonism, this religion that I loved, that was my home, but that taught me that our relationship was a sin. It was my mom who taught me the protocol of the garment. I noticed as she sorted our family's laundry onto the floor, she would take the garment and place it in a special hamper. They were so sacred to her, she would never let them touch the ground, and she washed them separately from the rest of the laundry. 

 

She told me that we don't really talk to people outside of our faith about the garment, but that we wear clothing modest enough to cover it at all times. She said, “When a garment gets old and is worn out and needs to be thrown away.” We cut out the special symbols and we burn them. So, the only time I was encouraged to ever use matches as a child was when I was literally burning my parents' underwear in the backyard. [audience laughter] When I received my own garment as an adult, I was told it would be a shield and a protection, a symbolic shield from sin and temptation, but also a literal one that would protect my body from harm. And I believed it deeply.

 

So, when my boyfriend said that, I remember it was a very awkward end to the date. I went home, and I just stood in front of my mirror, and looked at myself in this garment and I thought, who are you and what do you even want? After a lifetime of having answers to that question, I realized I had no idea. I knew I needed space and time away from this thing that had been so important. 

 

So, for the first time, I committed the Mormon sin of taking off the garment with no intention of putting it back on. I got a Rubbermaid container from my closet, and I put that garment in, and I went to my underwear drawer and I put all the garments into it. And through the next weeks and months, as I would clean my apartment, I would put anything that just radiated Mormon into that until I filled the entire thing. I put it in the back of my closet, which I thought was a great metaphor, right, to let gay Craig out and put the Mormon [audience laughter] into the closet for a while and see how they liked it, right? [audience cheers and applause] 

 

I left it there for almost two years as I began to experience life outside of the garment. I wore a white undershirt, so my friends and Mormon family wouldn't know the change that was occurring in me until graduation rolled around. I knew I would be moving and taking refuge in New York City, and I finally had to decide what to do with the Rubbermaid. So, I pulled it out, and I looked at all of these items and I knew I would never be going back. I knew I could never believe the way I had. I knew I would never be straight again. [chuckles] And so, I thought, what do I do? 

 

It didn't feel right to just leave them at a goodwill or throw them away. This was my life. This meant so much to me at one point. And so, then, I remembered what my mother had taught me, how to get rid of the garment. I drove down to southern Utah, to Zion National Park and I built a huge bonfire. I assembled the contents of the Rubbermaid on a picnic table and I prepared my own little ritual, a ritual of goodbye.

 

I started with the pamphlets that had taught me that my homosexuality was a sin, written by prophets I no longer believed in. I tossed them in the fire. And then, I took the black name tag I wore as a Mormon missionary that called me Elder Mangum and tossed it in the fire with the white pants I wore as I baptized people into the religion I was leaving. I took the letters from a woman I thought I would marry, and had saved so our children could know the story of how we fell in love and I tossed them in the fire. 

 

With other things I threw in the fire, all that was left was this mound of garments. And one by one, I tossed them in the fire and I said goodbye to this life that had been mine, and it existed only now with me and it was done. I say that night I came out as flamingly gay, [audience laughter] finally exposed, uncovered and ready for anyone and everyone to see me exactly as I am. Thank you.