I Dressed Like a Frat Boy So No One Would Know That I'm Gay

In this op-ed, Dan Shinaberry explores what it's like to use fashion as a mode of hiding your sexuality and denying the truth about who you are.

I knew I was gay on the first day of summer camp. I was 6, and I pretended I didn’t know how to swim to get lessons from a lifeguard named Justin. After 10 minutes of imitation drowning, the strapping, tanned college student pulled me out of the water. He looked me in the eyes, hugged me in the warmest way, smiled, and said, “You know how to swim buddy, but thanks for spending your morning with me.” I then dove into the deep end and cried beneath the surface. I was mortified…and I was gay. Unfortunately, I would find, this pattern continued for me, and for the next 18 years, I would live my life in the same way — drowning and lying about my sexual identity.

After being punched in the face for being a “f-ggot” in seventh grade and thrown down the stairs for “wearing gay shorts” in eighth grade, I made the choice to change. I made the adjustments. I slouched, I changed my walk, I changed my vernacular, and I changed how I dressed. I became like everyone else. I became "straight."

College was a fresh start for me: an opportunity for change. Did I take it? Sure didn’t! I was surrounded by loafers, Easter egg–colored polo shirts, and intolerance for anything or anyone that didn’t fit the Southern mold. So I dove in.

I rushed a fraternity, I hooked up with girls, I called things “gay” — and like clockwork every morning, I would get out of bed, crawl to the shower, and cry. I would put on my costume and get ready for my show. My wardrobe consisted of some iteration of my worn-out brown leather Sperry’s, sorority tanks, paisley swim shorts, camouflage hats, and philanthropy T-shirts — all burying the sadness inside. Everything was calculated. I would even walk on campus with my sunglasses positioned a specific way — my personal style was not personal.

I had dug a hole, and I was being buried by my own shame. My embarrassment and fear of being myself — and the worry of what my Catholic family and conservative friends would say — just continued to build. Inside, though, I had hit a wall. I was dressing for others, I was living for others, and I was scared. I had pushed nearly all my friends away: lies about girls came to the surface, obsessions with “best friends” (who in hindsight were probably crushes) became exhausting, and I was alone — again with an opportunity to change. This time, I needed to take it.

I remember driving back to school after spring break my Junior year. I made the seven-hour drive alone with tears streaming from my face and my hands angrily clenched around the steering wheel. I had woken up that morning and hit a point of complete exhaustion. I was tired of crying in the shower, and I was tired of lying in the shallow end pretending to be something I wasn’t. When I got back to my room, I went on a complete rampage. At first I wasn’t sure why my closet became my target, but it just felt right as the most tangible example of my self-oppression. I stuffed huge black garbage bags with my periwinkle tees, muddy loafers, and stained frat tanks. I dragged nearly every piece of clothing away from my sad bedroom toward the dumpster, shaking with anger.

It was in this moment that I recognized I could no longer live for other people. I had to strip away what I was hiding, and I had to be true to Dan. I laid on my carpet staring at the ceiling fan. The downside to this moment of clarity would be that not everyone would be comfortable with who I am. There is a risk in the reward of being you — and I continue to take this risk every day.

My personal style was the easiest and most outward way for me to express what was on the inside, and I knew I could use this to dip my toes into my sexuality. Fashion would be my new start. I found inspiration in the personal styles of others, and through that, I started finding my own voice. I started finding me. It wasn't that dressing in boat shoes, paisley pants, or colorful button-downs is bad, by any means. Similarly, I don't feel comfortable wearing a low-cut V-neck, a T-shirt with holes, or a Beyoncé leotard. All of these styles are great. They just aren’t Dan.

I refuse to compromise who I am, and that's reflected in my personal style. My daring style choices mirror my confidence to be a rare bird in life: to stand out and to be remembered. Fashion gave me a voice in many ways. It wasn’t about looking outside for validation, but looking inside. For me, clothing went from a prison to my greatest form of freedom.

Years later, I find myself working at one of the largest digital fashion brands on the planet, where my homosexuality is accepted and appreciated. I was previously consumed with anxiety regarding being gay, and I am now able to walk the catwalk-like streets of NYC holding the hand of another man without a second thought. I can now confidently wear a pink “Feminist” shirt and get smiles from strangers, and the power that comes with that is unparalleled.

Thinking back to Dan from five years ago, I feel grateful to everyone who refused to accept me or my style. I'm thankful for everyone who tried to tell me being gay was a bad thing. They are no match for me, my bomber jackets, and my newfound sense of peace. The price you pay to live the life you are to supposed to live is always worth it. So this one goes out to Justin the lifeguard. You made me dive into the deep end, you saved me from myself, and damn...don’t I look good.

Related: 14 Fashion Editor-Approved Ways to Be the Best Dressed at Pride This Year

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