Pura Luka Vega: ‘Morality is Subjective’
Amadeus: For the Love of God*
*Amadeus is my real name which coincidentally means "Loved by God." Ang funny noh?
Seventeen declarations of persona non grata. Eleven court cases. Three arrest warrants. Two imprisonments. All because of a five-minute performance. The charge? Article 201 of the Revised Penal Code: “immoral doctrines, obscene publications, and exhibitions.” Throw in a few counts of cyberlibel, and according to my lawyers, I could be facing up to 12 years in prison.
But “immoral?” I disagree. What I presented wasn’t obscenity. They couldn’t prove that in court. The performance has always been a celebration. For me at least. A bold reminder that queerness and faith can coexist, and in many lives, they already do. How they choose to interpret my performance is entirely up to them.
Morality is subjective. So is blasphemy. No one holds the exclusive right to define Jesus, so why can’t I have my own version? My version of Jesus would party with the queer folks, and would welcome them with open arms. More importantly, and deeply concerning, why do people think rock music is evil and demonic?
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Acquittal
Recently, I was acquitted in the case filed by select members of Hijos del Nazareno, a group of devoted male volunteers who protect and accompany the image of the Black Nazarene during its annual Traslación procession in Quiapo, Manila. If you read the transcripts, I’ve been consistently transparent: my work draws deeply from religious imagery. That’s not something I hide and in fact, I find inspiration in it. The opulence of velvet robes, the glint of gold thread, the intricate head pieces. All of these are woven into my art. I can understand the offense as that’s beyond what I can control but I can defend my work. Obscenity has too often been used as a convenient excuse to suppress artistic freedom.
Despite the acquittal (and truly, I am thankful for it), my legal battles are far from over. I still have one last pending case, and attend every hearing when summoned, fully present and accountable. I insist on confronting my critics to understand where they are coming from. And whether you believe me or not, I have no ill-feelings towards them. Do I feel like it has been an inconvenience? Sure. But I don’t mind having to talk about these matters. I prefer dialogue. I believe there has been some sort of misunderstanding, or perhaps a failure to recognize that imprisoning someone for a supposed offensive act contradicts the very principles of compassion, forgiveness, and justice at the core of Christian values and teachings. Sorry besh, pero hindi talaga ‘yan ang turo ni Lord saken.
And yet here we are, a pastor points his fingers at me and condemns me to hell. Side note: it instantly reminded me of a virtual show I created during the pandemic called Drag Me to Hell. Good times. Anyway, whatever happened to, “if you don’t like what you see, just change the channel?” Throughout the experience, I’ve learned a lot of legal terms, enough to convince myself that I might potentially become a bad-ass lawyer someday. For now, I hold deep gratitude for my lawyers whose fierce minds who turned every hearing into a masterclass. I sat in silence, hands folded, heart swelling with pride but laced with quiet anxiety, as they navigated this complex legal battle. Like a mic drop for every rebuttal, every question that was unanswered, I simply close my eyes and slightly nod in satisfaction.
There are moments when I catch myself daydreaming. After everything that’s happened, I imagine myself lip syncing to the Cell Block Tango, the courtroom fading into cabaret lights. Reality is stranger than fiction. When I attend these court hearings, I would dress up à la Elle Woods, bubbly and brilliant fashionista-turned-lawyer or as Olive Penderghast, from that Emma Stone movie. I figured, if they have anything against Pura, then Pura needs to show up. I unfortunately stopped dressing up when the judge insisted I wear something more "appropriate”—as if a full-length, sleeved gown was somehow too revealing. So I settled for a baseball cap to hide my receding hairline, and a nice graphic T-shirt, and jeans. Honestly, it feels strange to be out of drag, and to even hear my legal government name over something my drag persona has done.
My face was everywhere for a time, and in some news articles, they weren’t even flattering. But I really did appreciate my mugshot as it was objectively better than my office ID card. (Yes, I have two jobs. Office worker sa umaga, drag performer sa gabi. Ate, iba na ngayon, kelangang kumayod. Periodt.). Even the arrests seem like it was straight out of a sitcom. Imagine the policemen recording the reading of the Miranda Rights, only to do it three times because they had to practice and make sure they recorded it. That’s when it hit me, like a switch was turned on from inside my brain: this wasn’t just an arrest, it was a spectacle. They wanted vulnerability. But if drag has taught me anything, it’s that the show must go on.
Three days in jail
Speaking of absurdity, a funny bit of detail: just as I was being handcuffed, my co-worker called, casually asked if I could send over my e-signature for our Daily Time Record. Knowing full well that I had just been arrested. I mean, my hands were literally tied. Ang funny lang for me, ewan ko ba. Nakulong ka na nga, gusto pa ng frenny mo na maayos ang sweldo mo. My jail time experience wasn’t all that bad. In fact, I fondly recall the stories shared by my inmates. There was Dennis, who casually joked that he felt he was destined for a life of crime just because of his name when spelled backwards. There was Tatay Yelo, a senior citizen with a knack for stealing expensive liquor, who candidly shared every detail of how he was able to do it. Before I got out, he asked me to call his son, which, of course, I did.
What really stuck with me was how they called me their “princess.” Huwag nyo galawin si Pura, prinsesa yan, the designated mayor of the cell declared. Ayun. Everyone was extra kind, friendly, and even a little protective of me. To be fair, they had a good reason; they also benefited from the steady supply of food being sent my way from loved ones and supporters. And it only felt right to share. So on my first night, with the last ?1,000 in my pocket, I bought everyone Spanish bread and soft drinks. When I was released after three days, my lawyers couldn’t help but joke about the irony: three days in jail, just like Jesus before He rose again. I couldn’t deny the parallelism. Though it did make me a little anxious, considering I’d read somewhere that Jesus was 33 when He died. And, well… I was 33 at the time.
I still find it absurd that a single performance could attract this much attention and outrage when our country has far more urgent issues to address. But I suppose politicians and church leaders needed a distraction; someone to vilify? A common enemy? Like every disaster is somehow God’s punishment for the existence of gay people. Paint me green, throw on a witch’s hat, and cue Elphaba in Wicked. So much for the separation of church and state.
I guess they wanted a smokescreen, and there I was, caught in the spotlight, ready to give them my all. Maybe, deep down, I understood that my life depended on it. That’s why I’m here: making sure to tell my side of the story before they twist the narrative and reverse-engineer the intent behind what I did and why I did it.
What really happened
To set the record straight (even if I’m not), let me finally give as much detail as possible about what happened the night I performed that infamous drag number. It was June 24, 2023. Earlier that day, I had performed as Jesus lip syncing “Like a Prayer” by Madonna at the Pride PH Festival in Quezon City, themed "Love, Laban: A Celebration of the Fight for Love in All Forms and Ways." I knew there would be Bible-thumpers in the crowd because, let’s be real, the Church has been vocal in its opposition to the SOGIE Equality Bill for over 30 years. A bill that, if passed, would have protected us from discrimination. And isn’t it ironic? (by Alanis Morisette?)
Physically and emotionally exhausted, I still had one more gig that night, a rave party by That Elephant Party located at Dirty Kitchen, a small bar inside Gravity Art Space, and as an art gallery, I assumed it would be a safe space to explore the boundaries of drag. Since I was short on time, it only made sense to keep my drag Jesus look. My original song was supposed to be “Personal Jesus” by Depeche Mode, which upon much thought, I decided to change because: 1) I’m not sure the audience would know the song, and 2) I wasn’t able to fully memorize the lyrics of the song. Then I stumbled upon a powerful rock rendition of “Ama Namin” on YouTube. The Filipino translation of the Lord’s Prayer set to a rock arrangement? It felt like a divine revelation. Why not? I already knew the words by heart, so performing it felt effortless and, more importantly, meaningful. Gets naman ‘di ba? It made sense. The Lord’s Prayer by the Lord Himself.
The gays ate up what I tried to serve, which probably meant I was serving well. People sang along, hands raised as if to touch the sky, just having fun. Everyone was vibin’ and honestly, I was surprised they still remembered the lyrics to the song. Phone cameras were up, as they always are in drag shows. Ayan na ang dokyumentayshun, kasi ganyan talaga kaming mga bakla, mahilig mag-capture ng moments. Ayun, happy naman ang mga beks. I even retweeted a clip on Twitter (and no, I will never call it “X”). Next thing I know, it blew up. The video went viral, sparking polarizing opinions. People had a lot to say about it, but here’s the thing: my drag is personal. It’s mine. And no one can take that away from me. That night, like every night in my entire drag career, I performed out of love—for drag, for expression, and yes, even for God.
