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Oklahomo: Pee, Peeping, Police, Pistols, Puritans, Pedophiles, and a Witch
"I was a runaway gay, a dive bar drag queen, a rhinestone on the nation’s bible belt. I had a gun."
Mom and Mickey had the kind of marriage that wanted no witnesses and so they decided I was—at age seven—too old to be indoors; the house was locked until nightfall. I wasn't allowed to loiter around our yard either, I couldn't skulk behind its shrubs, so I waited instead in the abutting weed field. The field behind our house stretched from our wire fence to infinity. Its dense unmolested weeds grew several feet tall and had dried to resemble hay. I could sit there unnoticed, like an unnecessary extra from Children of the Corn, until the sun went down.
Some days from the weeds I saw Mom and Mickey through the family room's rear glass doors. She’d bend her long, shiny legs onto the avocado colored couch cushion, then lean into the recess of his hairy underarm for warmth. If something funny played on the television—something out of view to the exiled—the couple laughed jointly, heartily. They were like newlyweds.
Some days I saw something else. Fingers would point, hands would flail, then Mickey would grab a handful of Mom's hair, and Mom would grab a faceful of Mickey's fist. I'd climb the fence to bang on the glass door just as my mother's blonde shag haircut collided with the family room's brown shag carpet. Mickey'd open the door to casually push me to the ground like King Kong swatting a tiny effeminate helicopter from the sky. Mom glared at me from the floor as if I'd interrupted intercourse.
But most days the room was empty, there was nothing to see. I’d close my eyes to quiet my disquiet, focusing all my impotent energy on willing the blue out of the sky. When that failed and daylight lingered intolerably, I prayed—to God, then to Satan—for nightfall. I repeated the cycle until one of them conceded, though their untimeliness made it hard to be certain whom to thank.
You meet people when you can’t go home, people like Raskell who chased me away with a baseball bat, or Benedict—the Korean Wonder Woman. I met Mort too, a man who owned an arcade, he taught me to play foosball. Foosball lessons aren’t cheap though, there was a price to pay. Mort had been a professional photographer for one of the top modeling schools in Oregon before he moved here to take over the arcade. He missed photography so I agreed to let him practice by taking photos of me in the arcade’s backroom in exchange for the free foosball lessons. Mort was mostly accustomed to photographing girls so he suggested it would be best if I posed how I thought a girl would pose; I thought a girl might blow a kiss and point a finger toward her boobs, Mort agreed. It was nice to have a place to go, especially on hot or cold days. One day I knocked on the arcade door but it was padlocked and no one answered. A few days later it was still locked and the window sign was painted over. It stayed that way until I stopped checking.
Outdoors again, eventually I stopped going home; I was a runaway, unless you have to be pursued by parents for that term to apply. But—much like a wolfpack that raises a feral boy—a gaggle of drag queens happened along. The glittering gargantuas plucked me from the weeds (curbside really, in the middle of a night). They took me to a pancake house and gave me breakfast, then lessons in lip-sync and a place to sleep; there were prices to pay there too.
Oklahomo is funny and disturbing, the kaleidoscopic memoir of a poorly chaperoned child, then entirely unchaperoned teen in the gay underground of the nation’s midwest. From an underage mother and violent father figure; to run-ins with police, puritans, pedophiles, and a witch; to working as a barely teenage drag queen in the bible belt of the 1980s—it’s a story that keeps no secrets, no matter how distasteful.
Mom and Mickey had the kind of marriage that wanted no witnesses and so they decided I was—at age seven—too old to be indoors; the house was locked until nightfall. I wasn't allowed to loiter around our yard either, I couldn't skulk behind its shrubs, so I waited instead in the abutting weed field. The field behind our house stretched from our wire fence to infinity. Its dense unmolested weeds grew several feet tall and had dried to resemble hay. I could sit there unnoticed, like an unnecessary extra from Children of the Corn, until the sun went down.
Some days from the weeds I saw Mom and Mickey through the family room's rear glass doors. She’d bend her long, shiny legs onto the avocado colored couch cushion, then lean into the recess of his hairy underarm for warmth. If something funny played on the television—something out of view to the exiled—the couple laughed jointly, heartily. They were like newlyweds.
Some days I saw something else. Fingers would point, hands would flail, then Mickey would grab a handful of Mom's hair, and Mom would grab a faceful of Mickey's fist. I'd climb the fence to bang on the glass door just as my mother's blonde shag haircut collided with the family room's brown shag carpet. Mickey'd open the door to casually push me to the ground like King Kong swatting a tiny effeminate helicopter from the sky. Mom glared at me from the floor as if I'd interrupted intercourse.
But most days the room was empty, there was nothing to see. I’d close my eyes to quiet my disquiet, focusing all my impotent energy on willing the blue out of the sky. When that failed and daylight lingered intolerably, I prayed—to God, then to Satan—for nightfall. I repeated the cycle until one of them conceded, though their untimeliness made it hard to be certain whom to thank.
You meet people when you can’t go home, people like Raskell who chased me away with a baseball bat, or Benedict—the Korean Wonder Woman. I met Mort too, a man who owned an arcade, he taught me to play foosball. Foosball lessons aren’t cheap though, there was a price to pay. Mort had been a professional photographer for one of the top modeling schools in Oregon before he moved here to take over the arcade. He missed photography so I agreed to let him practice by taking photos of me in the arcade’s backroom in exchange for the free foosball lessons. Mort was mostly accustomed to photographing girls so he suggested it would be best if I posed how I thought a girl would pose; I thought a girl might blow a kiss and point a finger toward her boobs, Mort agreed. It was nice to have a place to go, especially on hot or cold days. One day I knocked on the arcade door but it was padlocked and no one answered. A few days later it was still locked and the window sign was painted over. It stayed that way until I stopped checking.
Outdoors again, eventually I stopped going home; I was a runaway, unless you have to be pursued by parents for that term to apply. But—much like a wolfpack that raises a feral boy—a gaggle of drag queens happened along. The glittering gargantuas plucked me from the weeds (curbside really, in the middle of a night). They took me to a pancake house and gave me breakfast, then lessons in lip-sync and a place to sleep; there were prices to pay there too.
Oklahomo is funny and disturbing, the kaleidoscopic memoir of a poorly chaperoned child, then entirely unchaperoned teen in the gay underground of the nation’s midwest. From an underage mother and violent father figure; to run-ins with police, puritans, pedophiles, and a witch; to working as a barely teenage drag queen in the bible belt of the 1980s—it’s a story that keeps no secrets, no matter how distasteful.
- GenresMemoirNonfictionLGBT
282 pages, Paperback
Published April 4, 2019
3 people are currently reading
216 people want to read
About the author
C.T. Madrigal
4 books29 followersFollow me on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/c.t.madrigal
I should be read for not reading more. Some bitter queen who's just been kicked off Rupaul's Drag Race should sashay over to my bed, where I've succumbed to another marathon of HGTV's House Hunters, and read me for filth. "CLOSE that bag of chips and OPEN a damn book!"
She's right, that judgmental bitch, I need to read a book. I try...I really do. I buy books, I have thousands of them, and occasionally I'll take a dozen to my room. In bed, I caress them as I would a new lover, running eager fingers down their rigid spines.
Under their covers, I study a page from this one and a paragraph from that one. Inevitably, I find a line that's really smart, an epiphany for humanity tucked in a tiny sentence; it makes me jealous. A few more sentences, a lot more jealousy, I should be writing. I close my books, and the affair pauses there.
My chips (some in a bag, another on my shoulder) and I move to the computer where I pound on my keyboard, determined to type something that will enlighten mankind. A boyfriend who is tidier than me returns my jilted books to the dusty shelves where they'll rest for another season of House Hunters.
So there it is: writing is the enemy of reading, kids. Never write.
As an adult I’ve read one book in its entirety. I won't tell you the name of the book for fear of having plagiarized the story entirely. I’ve read large chunks of a few other books, and little nibbles of a few hundred more. If you talk to me about the classics I'll nod agreement, "Yes, Frankenstein certainly was a feminist fable about the need for women in procreation," knowing nothing about what you've just said.
I am embarrassed by these facts, as if they were a crotchward dribble on my pants front, and I hope that Goodreads is going to replace them with facts I can be proud of. Dangling prepositions aside, I am too good a writer to be such a bad reader.
THAT'S THE END of my blurb, but I've one more thing to add. I've seen that many of you have given my books 5 star reviews, and some others are reading them now, or have marked them to read. I've studied your cute little faces, hoping to telepathize my appreciation for the support. Like many writers—many people, I am no stranger to a bad day. Seeing the group of you always makes a crap day better; thank you.
CTM
I should be read for not reading more. Some bitter queen who's just been kicked off Rupaul's Drag Race should sashay over to my bed, where I've succumbed to another marathon of HGTV's House Hunters, and read me for filth. "CLOSE that bag of chips and OPEN a damn book!"
She's right, that judgmental bitch, I need to read a book. I try...I really do. I buy books, I have thousands of them, and occasionally I'll take a dozen to my room. In bed, I caress them as I would a new lover, running eager fingers down their rigid spines.
Under their covers, I study a page from this one and a paragraph from that one. Inevitably, I find a line that's really smart, an epiphany for humanity tucked in a tiny sentence; it makes me jealous. A few more sentences, a lot more jealousy, I should be writing. I close my books, and the affair pauses there.
My chips (some in a bag, another on my shoulder) and I move to the computer where I pound on my keyboard, determined to type something that will enlighten mankind. A boyfriend who is tidier than me returns my jilted books to the dusty shelves where they'll rest for another season of House Hunters.
So there it is: writing is the enemy of reading, kids. Never write.
As an adult I’ve read one book in its entirety. I won't tell you the name of the book for fear of having plagiarized the story entirely. I’ve read large chunks of a few other books, and little nibbles of a few hundred more. If you talk to me about the classics I'll nod agreement, "Yes, Frankenstein certainly was a feminist fable about the need for women in procreation," knowing nothing about what you've just said.
I am embarrassed by these facts, as if they were a crotchward dribble on my pants front, and I hope that Goodreads is going to replace them with facts I can be proud of. Dangling prepositions aside, I am too good a writer to be such a bad reader.
THAT'S THE END of my blurb, but I've one more thing to add. I've seen that many of you have given my books 5 star reviews, and some others are reading them now, or have marked them to read. I've studied your cute little faces, hoping to telepathize my appreciation for the support. Like many writers—many people, I am no stranger to a bad day. Seeing the group of you always makes a crap day better; thank you.
CTM
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Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews
October 6, 2020
OKLAHOMO is brilliant; there, I’ve said it.
As the writer I feel uniquely qualified to review this book. I’ve read it more than anyone ever will—maybe a hundred times, polishing it until it was diamondlike…brilliant.
Okay maybe OKLAHOMO isn’t “brilliant” in the way of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, but perhaps brilliant like John Waters’ Pink Flamingos—brilliant like Divine eating that turd. (If you haven’t seen John Waters’ Pink Flamingos then I have nothing more to say to you, except that you should continue reading my review.)
Okay, it definitely isn’t as good as Pink Flamingos, but it could certainly stand alongside other stories. Stories like HUNGRY WOMAN or THE LOVING DEAD, for example (also brilliant). Or even that one about Moses and Noah and the baby what's-his-name, it could be as good as that.
So that’s my review:
OKLAHOMO is as good as the bible; there, I’ve said it.
As the writer I feel uniquely qualified to review this book. I’ve read it more than anyone ever will—maybe a hundred times, polishing it until it was diamondlike…brilliant.
Okay maybe OKLAHOMO isn’t “brilliant” in the way of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, but perhaps brilliant like John Waters’ Pink Flamingos—brilliant like Divine eating that turd. (If you haven’t seen John Waters’ Pink Flamingos then I have nothing more to say to you, except that you should continue reading my review.)
Okay, it definitely isn’t as good as Pink Flamingos, but it could certainly stand alongside other stories. Stories like HUNGRY WOMAN or THE LOVING DEAD, for example (also brilliant). Or even that one about Moses and Noah and the baby what's-his-name, it could be as good as that.
So that’s my review:
OKLAHOMO is as good as the bible; there, I’ve said it.
August 6, 2022
Hilarious. Ridiculous. Can't wait to read the next book and find out what SF misadventures await.
April 15, 2021
If you’ve grabbed this book, put on your lipgloss and buckle up for one wild ride. The uncommon writing style, wild stories about wild adventures, non-linear timeline (only part of the time), and unique ending(s) serve up a book that isn’t like any other book you’ve ever read. But then neither is Christian Madrigal like any other author you’ve ever read.
Quirky, over-the-top to the point of TMI honest, Madrigal’s life stories are like miniature catastrophes you can’t look away from. I read the book in one day. Sometimes I was shocked, often I was curious, and always I was empathetic for the lost little boy turned artist and author. What a life Christian has led, and how wonderful that he decided to share it with us.
Quirky, over-the-top to the point of TMI honest, Madrigal’s life stories are like miniature catastrophes you can’t look away from. I read the book in one day. Sometimes I was shocked, often I was curious, and always I was empathetic for the lost little boy turned artist and author. What a life Christian has led, and how wonderful that he decided to share it with us.
May 23, 2021
AMAZING BOOK I felt I was reading my own life with only minor things such as names and cities . I glad im not the only one and I will leave it at that ... 5 star read
November 20, 2025
4✩
On one of these nights, as I prepared for a leisurely evening shower, I thought how nice it would be if Mickey's handsome sons joined me. Twisted into a bath towel, I marched to the kitchen where, with a polite "Excuse me," I interrupted the table full of bikers from their poker hand. "Little Mickey and Mack, I'm going to take my shower now; would you like to join me?" My invitation was met with a smoke-filled room full of the kind of silence that only eight stoned bikers feeling sexually harassed by a second grader can produce.
On one of these nights, as I prepared for a leisurely evening shower, I thought how nice it would be if Mickey's handsome sons joined me. Twisted into a bath towel, I marched to the kitchen where, with a polite "Excuse me," I interrupted the table full of bikers from their poker hand. "Little Mickey and Mack, I'm going to take my shower now; would you like to join me?" My invitation was met with a smoke-filled room full of the kind of silence that only eight stoned bikers feeling sexually harassed by a second grader can produce.
November 18, 2021
Oklahomo, by writer, photographer, and costumer C.T. Madrigal is one of the most well-written, moving, and enjoyable books of the genre known as the “gay memoir.” It is with high praise that I place this book in the company of Gen-X memoirs like David Crabb’s 2015 tome Bad Kid and 2006’s I Am Not Myself These Days: A Memoir by Josh Kilmer-Purcell (aka the taller of the Beekman Boys). Madrigal and his older sister are born to a teenage mother in the early 1970s in suburban San Francisco, where his mother is in a common law marriage with her second husband, a dangerous and violent biker named Mickey. Madrigal’s discovery of his true self is instinctual and fast out of the gate. The author’s mother and Mickey lock the children out of the house during the day, feeling that children should not be “in the house all day.” For reasons unknown to the author, he and his sister are sent to live with their father, his new wife, and her spoiled four children. The stepmother lives up to the reputation by labeling the name-brand food for “her children” while the other two were not allowed to participate in pizza feasts and other familial activities. Any disagreement was brought to “family court,” where the stepmother’s children sat as jury. A guilty verdict was guaranteed. After two years, their mother took them back after leaving her abusive spouse; the family was quite happy in a small apartment until the spouse found them, painting offensive language on the car and slicing the tires. The next step was his trying to burn down the house, sending the small family, along with Madrigal’s grandmother and uncle, to Oklahoma. Here Madrigal’s teenage years begin, and Madrigal is unable to resist the natural exploration that culminates with his leaving school and town at thirteen after multiple confrontations with his mother and an unloving relationship with his sister. If all of this sounds dour, and as a therapist I lost count of the traumas experienced by Madrigal, he writes with a devilish sense of humor, in a kind of “Sedaris, hold me beer” fashion. One moment that made me laugh aloud was his proclamation that running away to New York, where a pimp would greet him at the bus station, was a valid life alternative. Madrigal becomes what has come to known as an outlier of a small-town club kid, which flourished in the 1980s and early 1990s, with teenage Madrigal discovering the power of drag. The book’s subtitle, “Pee, Peeping, Police, Pistols, Puritans, Pedophiles, and a Witch,” is a valid description of the contents found inside. On a personal note, as a gay kid the same age as Madrigal, I felt scared and excited about the choices that he made, although I realize that several of the decisions were made out of a lack of options, but many were made by tremendous acts of courage. I did not come out until I was 28, but if I could do it again Madrigal’s path would be one to model. What made me different and introverted with expressing my true self? As memoirs leave Generation X, we leave a world behind, forgotten. Madrigal does not water-own the references. I cannot imagine there could be more than a handful of these tomes left as our generation speeds through their fifties (mine would be boring AF). As I sneak around on the internet and see Madrigal’s multiple accomplishments I cannot help but admire – and find myself jealous – of his life and achievements. So yeah, Oklahomo is one of the best memoirs this memoir-lover has read in some time.
July 7, 2021
I bought this book based on a couple of excerpts, and the cover. And I’m glad I did!
Chris (Christian) Madrigal’s tale of growing up gay in an eccentric family, a pivotal era, and the, shall we say, less than nurturing surroundings of Oklahoma, is by turns hilarious and horrifying. A bright child, he gets little support at home from his too-young mother and her series of husbands and lovers. In fact, he and his sister often seem to be considered nuisances, to be exiled to the great outdoors or shifted off to relatives when found to be ‘inconvenient’.
Left to his own devices, Chris tries to find his ‘tribe’ and some degree of acceptance, and succeeds…amongst game room operators, patrons of local gay bars, co-workers at the fast-food place his mother manages, and finally, a group of drag queens.
If none of this sounds relatable to you, read the book anyway. Though Chris’ story unfolds in semi-rural towns among working class people and a miniscule gay community, and culminates in the rarefied world of touring drag troupes, anyone can see themselves in his writing. Ever complained about your crazy family? Had an early sexual initiation? Felt like an outsider and found it hard to make friends? Finally found your place and purpose in life? Well, Chris did too….only he writes about it better (and funnier!) than you could.
Chris (Christian) Madrigal’s tale of growing up gay in an eccentric family, a pivotal era, and the, shall we say, less than nurturing surroundings of Oklahoma, is by turns hilarious and horrifying. A bright child, he gets little support at home from his too-young mother and her series of husbands and lovers. In fact, he and his sister often seem to be considered nuisances, to be exiled to the great outdoors or shifted off to relatives when found to be ‘inconvenient’.
Left to his own devices, Chris tries to find his ‘tribe’ and some degree of acceptance, and succeeds…amongst game room operators, patrons of local gay bars, co-workers at the fast-food place his mother manages, and finally, a group of drag queens.
If none of this sounds relatable to you, read the book anyway. Though Chris’ story unfolds in semi-rural towns among working class people and a miniscule gay community, and culminates in the rarefied world of touring drag troupes, anyone can see themselves in his writing. Ever complained about your crazy family? Had an early sexual initiation? Felt like an outsider and found it hard to make friends? Finally found your place and purpose in life? Well, Chris did too….only he writes about it better (and funnier!) than you could.
December 25, 2025
I read both of CT Madrigal's memoirs because they were on the suggested reading list in the psychology department at Berkeley. "Oklahomo" is about a kid, at least for the first half or so, so I wasn't sure if I would relate, but the "kid" is in some pretty adult situations so it definitely didn't skew too young for me. The story felt like a wild ride, but never so "shocking" that you felt like he was making it up. But honestly, it wasn't a "crazy story" that compelled me, it was more about how fresh and honest the insights felt. Plus there is some really insider stuff about the drag world of the 1980s that was as entertaining as a Drag Race finale! So glad the school recommended these books to me, they will be cherished favorites.
August 4, 2021
A selection for book club, I really enjoyed the book. Very well written, I had to put it down a few times so I wouldn’t finish weeks before our deadline. Christian writes of his heart-breaking childhood with a humor and matter of factness. His adolescent rise through the Oklahoma drag scene was fascinating. I was rooting for this child like I was rooting for my own lost childhood. On one hand I was happy for the author by the end but selfishly wanted him to keep telling his story. Oddly proud of a man I’ve never met.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
September 9, 2024
There's a blurb on the back of the book that describes the author, when he was a child, as unchaperoned. The memoir begins with that situation, it's all the unexpected places a queer kid ends up when no one is making sure he stays close to home. In some ways it's a sad story of neglect, and in other ways it's a nail biting adventure. Well written with really fresh perspectives, and moments that I will probably never forget.
June 7, 2022
Hilarious, heartwarming, and totally fucked up.
May 19, 2021
So funny, and tragic, but funny. I feel rather guilty for having such an idyllic childhood knowing there are kids out there dealing with the worst of parents ("poorly chaperoned" is an understatement!), but Christian seems to be giving them their just deserts with his Joie de vivre. I did want to know how he ended up getting back to Giddyuptown after being abandoned at the truck yard, though.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
March 13, 2022
Ugh. I felt sorry for this guy.
Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews