As a gay ex-Mormon, I finally found freedom in fashion

“The Mormon church dress code is ordinary. Plainness turns the focus to God, rather than a focus on vanity and appearance.”

It was a somewhat complicated process to hang up my suit and tie. There’s a kind of ritual in tying a tie. There’s the tail-end, which should be skilfully tucked between the first and second buttons. The proportions are important too – the tie should fall just above the belt buckle, not too long and not too short.

The execution of these elements is set against the practice and expertise of the entire congregation. Here is where the perfectness of clothing becomes a strength-indicator of faith, and I always tied my tie too short.

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Mormonism in semi-rural Australia is a peculiar and unrelenting setting to grow up in. Conceptualising individuality was set against God and his stringent sense of style. A style which filled pews with white-collared disciples in firm-pressed pleats.

The Mormon church dress code is ordinary. Plainness turns the focus to God, rather than a focus on vanity and appearance. This is the crux of it. However, it gets more specific in conversations concerning piercings, tattoos and immodesty which are all unsurprisingly not-allowed. Code of dress is equally important as religious conviction and those who fall short of it experience the dagger-eyes of the congregation and a slippery slope down a steep-long hill into religious obscurity.

The distinction between believer and non-believer is coded in this type of dress, where God and uniform become infused into the same restricting identity. In coming to terms with my sexuality and simultaneously my repression of it, what I put on my body became increasingly important. On Sundays where I wanted to feel a little less visible, I’d wear what Dad wore but on other Sundays, I’d channel a bit more Mum.

My two-toned devoutness bled into my style and what I wore became as important as it was for the rest of the congregation. At around fifteen I could feel a shift in my own spirituality. My friend circle was entirely connected to high school and consequently, I was increasingly detached from other Mormon kids. This forged a path into a broader identity, one that wasn’t so fearmongering, bible-determined and hate-fuelled. I was easing into comfortableness with myself and it felt simpler than church.

Sunday mornings gave me an opportunity. I could leave my white shirt and tie on its hanger and pull out something different to wear. This thought made my heart thump – anything would feel more comfortable than the itchiness of a suit. However, I was at an impasse, knowing that my reluctance to wear what I was meant to wear would broadcast the death of my spirituality in a deeply public way. Though, I was beginning to not care.

The funny thing about Mormons is that they don’t really get angry. Churchgoers will choose to gossip in whispers, rather than outwardly hate people. And this feeling, me being at the centre of quiet controversy, felt almost tangible. Naturally, the church’s stance on homosexuality is that it’s forbidden. God’s power is that he can create and destroy, and as a teen, I could feel that imminent destruction shift into view; lightning juddering all around.

On November 5 2015, a church document declared gay people to be apostates, traitors banished from all levels of heaven, whose children cannot participate in church rites unless they disavow their parents. This announcement fast-tracked my exit and almost willingly so. The church halls became increasingly unsafe and as I was continuing to look less and less Mormon I worried about what might happen next.

To try and describe this period of my teens is tricky. The last few years of church kind of blur into one lump of ‘I just want to go home’. However, I can remember that there was a growing separation from religion. The aftereffects of the 2015 announcement set me on a path to atheism and I had enough concerns about the church to build a mountain. Fast forward to the start of 2018. My spiritual engine had sputtered and chugged until there was nothing left to give. During this time, I was pinning more interest in clothing.

The gateway to enlightenment was ironically not with God but with fabrics. I was dating boys, drinking and doing normal 18-year-old things. As bitter as things had been I was beginning to finally taste the sweetness. I had to carefully fold my white shirt, pinch the pleats of my suit pants and finally roll up my tie and place them in a designated corner of my closet. I had to give them up and thank them for their time, knowing that I can respect them in a better way now.

For more on navigating life as a gay Mormon, try this.