In the wake of teen’s death, why LGBTQ+ Oklahomans say they stay

Oklahoma is home, but Nico Fedelle often finds himself daydreaming about other possibilities.

What if he lived somewhere like Portland, Oregon, where he saw an LGBTQ+ couple publicly holding hands? What if he didn’t lose business because of his gender identity? What if he felt safe enough to attend vigils and rallies supporting the LGBTQ+ community?

“Anytime I travel outside of home, I realize how different life could be if I didn’t live here,” says Mr. Fedelle, who lives in Tulsa with his wife, Caroline.

But Mr. Fedelle, who is transgender, feels a tug of responsibility, too. As business owners, he and his wife operate a tattoo shop that prides itself on being welcoming to all. Consent forms ask clients for the pronouns they use – a small way of creating what they describe as a “safe haven.”

They say it’s especially needed in Oklahoma, where cultural and political forces have created a hostile environment. Dozens of bills aimed at restricting gay or transgender rights have emerged in the statehouse. Some left as laws. And the state’s top education official has backed such changes. He says that he is standing strong for Christian morals. His critics say he is fueling hateful rhetoric. Now, the death of Nex Benedict, a 16-year-old member of the LGBTQ+ community in a Tulsa suburb, has amplified those ripple-effect concerns.

The teen wound up at a hospital Feb. 7 after a fight inside an Owasso High School bathroom that day. Nex, who friends say was transgender and used he/him pronouns, collapsed at home the next day and died after being rushed to a hospital.

“What happened today?” a school resource officer asked Nex at the hospital Feb. 7, according to body-camera footage released by the police.

“I got jumped,” said Nex, who went on to describe a pattern of bullying. 

It escalated in the bathroom, Nex told the officer, when three girls were laughing at him and his friends. (Nex, according to Oklahoma law, had to use the girls room.) Nex said he “poured water” on the girls, prompting a physical fight that ended with him on the floor “blacked out.”

A final autopsy report determining cause of death has not been released. Owasso authorities are continuing to investigate and clarified to NBC News on Tuesday that the medical examiner’s office has not ruled out the possibility of the fight being a contributing factor in Nex’s death. The police spokesperson urged that “people shouldn’t make assumptions either way.”

The bullied teen’s sudden passing, however, has unleashed an outpouring of grief and anger across the United States. Friends and loved ones attending a vigil described Nex, whose family has Choctaw heritage, as someone who could brighten any room and always encouraged others through difficult times.

To those in the LGBTQ+ community and their allies, Nex’s death represents another life lost in an era of unrelenting attacks, both in words and actions.

“From where I’m standing, no matter what comes out of the final autopsy reports, no matter how that comes forward, the psychological bullying was the No. 1 contributing factor to this teenager dying and no longer being able to have a real life,” says NanDee Walker, an Owasso resident and member of Free Mom Hugs.

500 bills in U.S., 50 in Oklahoma

Transgender rights have rapidly emerged as the latest cultural battle gripping a divided nation. The legislative flurry alone illustrates the scope.

Last year, lawmakers across the U.S. introduced nearly 500 bills that would have restricted the rights of LGBTQ+ people. Of those, half targeted transgender children and teens, according to a report from the Williams Institute at the University of California, Los Angeles, which researches laws and policies pertaining to sexual orientation and gender identity.

Many of these conservative-backed efforts failed, but Oklahoma is among the states where at least one bill prevailed and became law. Sooner State lawmakers banned gender-affirming care for minors in 2023 and, the year prior, mandated that students use bathrooms aligned with their sex assigned at birth.

The trend has continued this year, with Oklahoma lawmakers introducing more than 50 anti-LGBTQ+ bills, according to the American Civil Liberties Union. 

“These laws came about due to a coordinated effort to make them a political issue,” says Elana Redfield, federal policy director at UCLA’s Williams Institute. “You have organizations that have been funding and providing guidance on how to enact this legislation.”

Earlier this week, State Superintendent Ryan Walters posted a video on X, formerly Twitter, saying he “won’t back down to woke mobs.” Hundreds of LGBTQ+ and civil rights groups are calling for his resignation.

The anti-LGBTQ+ legislation and rhetoric, advocacy groups say, create a dangerous climate. Oklahomans for Equality and the Trans Advocacy Coalition of Oklahoma put out a joint statement following Nex’s death.

“The persistent, vitriolic legislation and rhetoric being championed by our state leaders are breeding animosity, inciting violence, and harming the queer community, especially our youth,” it read in part.

“You are loved”

Nex’s friends say they have seen it firsthand in the hallways of their school. On Monday, students walked out and gathered at an intersection near Owasso High School. Toting signs with messages such as “Stop H8” and “You are loved,” they cheered when passing motorists honked.

“There’s so much anger and hatred amongst the students toward other students,” says Kane, age 18, who clutched hands with a friend and fellow classmate. None of the students interviewed were comfortable having their last name used, citing the tense atmosphere.

Kane, a senior who uses he and they pronouns, takes dual enrollment classes at a local college, which they say is a more accepting atmosphere. They suspect their high school peers simply mimic intolerance modeled inside their homes.

“I imagine most of it starts with who their parents are,” they say.

The Owasso school district characterized the walkout as peaceful and recognized students’ constitutional right to protest. “We understand that school safety continues to be top-of-mind for many, and I want to reassure our students, families, and staff that OPS takes safety and security matters very seriously,” Superintendent Margaret Coates said in a statement.

Nearly 40,000 people live in Owasso, which sits northeast of Tulsa. A population and building boom in recent years has brought more families and new storefronts downtown. A small-town feel remains, says Anna Richardson, who organized the vigil. She says it’s difficult to go anywhere without running into someone you know.

But divisions have grown, too, she says, explaining that it hasn’t felt safe to even put an LGBTQ+ or world peace bumper sticker on your car.

As the mother of a high school student and a toddler, Ms. Richardson says she was troubled by the circumstances surrounding Nex’s death. She yearns for a more inclusive community.

“I think it’s harassment,” she says. “We’re dampening it by calling it bullying, honestly.”

So the bakery owner kicked into planning mode for the vigil. She opened the remembrance Sunday evening with a direct plea to fellow parents.

“We have a lot of work to do,” she said while looking out at the field of flickering candles. “The conversations that we start at home and the way we speak to our children and the actions that they see us doing on a daily basis can create an environment. And that environment can be love, or that environment can be hate.”

“All life is sacred”

Ms. Walker, a mother of seven, embodied that approach as she wandered the park offering hugs to anyone in need. One person sobbed in her arms.

In Oklahoma, where tradition and conservative Christianity reign supreme, Ms. Walker knows it will be a long walk – and many hugs – toward shifting mindsets. She’s often the lone voice in her Latter-day Saints church advocating for acceptance of LGBTQ+ people. 

“It’s about the micro, and I know that’s slower,” says Ms. Walker, who works as a psychotherapist and has a daughter who identifies as asexual. “But I feel like it’s effective, at least in what I can do and how I can centralize change.”

For Kris Holmes, who identifies as queer and nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns, slow change at least offers hope. In many respects, they followed the playbook of their conservative Christian upbringing: get married young and have children. The decision to divorce and come out was incredibly difficult, they say, filled with single-parenting struggles as well as initially strained family relationships.

But Mx. Holmes, who remains Christian, says it felt like “coming back home to me and myself.”

And after time living in Oregon and Georgia, Mx. Holmes also returned home to Oklahoma. They serve as a youth minister at House Church Tulsa, an open and affirming faith community, and live near family. 

“Oklahoma is just a place that drew me back,” they say. “I feel like there’s a lot of potential and opportunity for change.”

Evidence of broader hostilities still surfaces, they say, especially in rural areas outside the more progressive bubbles of Tulsa and Oklahoma City. Their children have friends who aren’t allowed to visit the house, for instance, because of their parent’s queer identity. 

Mx. Holmes believes churches, which play an outsize role in Oklahoma culture, could be a driving force behind promulgating lasting change. But they say it will take a different kind of approach.

“My heart is all life is sacred – conservative, liberal, whatever your label is,” they say. “If we can entertain conversations and we can enter spaces where we believe that’s true – and other people that enter those spaces believe that’s true – that’s where we’re going to see change.”

Mr. Fedelle, the tattoo shop owner, says it’s difficult to have high hopes when tragedy after tragedy occurs. He finds it bizarre how many people are comfortable being “outwardly nasty” despite transgender people simply wanting to go about their lives like everyone else.

Recently, a client receiving a tattoo voiced opposition to transgender people using bathrooms that align with their gender identity. Mr. Fedelle, who says the woman didn’t know he was transgender, calmly asked her, “Well, where would you like us to go?”

Mr. Fedelle says he tries to educate others if he deems it possible. In this case, the woman ultimately ended up making a second tattoo appointment.

“That’s the kind of change I like to see,” he says.

Back in Owasso, a hairstylist who works a few doors down from Ms. Richardson’s bakery stopped by Tuesday morning to ask a favor. As the pair chatted, Ms. Richardson shared that she had organized the vigil for Nex Benedict. 

Tammy Ames’ face lit up in a smile. “Thank you for doing that,” she told her. “I know it was difficult.”

Then she offered to help in any way she could moving forward.

Monitor staff writer Sophie Hills also contributed to this report.