In many ways I am thankful to have the family that I do. My father seems indifferent about who I date, and just doesn’t like to talk about feelings. However, although my mother wasn’t the most supportive person when I came out of the closet, I truly believe that she did her best considering her place in this world. She didn’t even consider disowning me, and I acknowledge that as a privilege because I have seen friends (desi and non-desi) struggle with the fear of being disowned for going against their parent’s wishes.
We have been familiar with this verse since the time we were ready for preschool, isn't it? The emphasis of taking care of our parents and the importance they have in our lives , if not apparent to each one of us, have been etched in our minds since childhood. We have always been asked to view them with a larger than life image. We have been told through tearing and painfully slow soap operas and talk shows, how much they have sacrificed in their lives only to see us through. As if we kids have a Ghajini-like memory. Yet the Indian society finds it a necessity to establish this as a responsibility. Wouldn't filial love be enough for us to take care of them in their senile ages?
I first came out as a lesbian when I started college as an undergrad. I went through all the rites of passage that the white queers had set up for me, and I abandoned the straight desi girls. I’m not necessarily sad that I abandoned them. I missed them later and tried to play catch-up, but their never-ending conversations about how their evil parents wouldn’t let them buy that coach purse, and how scary black men are were ridiculous and tiring. And somehow I always managed to subconsciously find my way back to the closet whenever I was in their company.
I’m the kind of girl who falls somewhere in- I’m neither very feminine, nor masculine. But I don’t like me so much. If I saw me walking on the street, I’d probably go- “That’s a very cool chick, but definitely not my type.” I’d definitely not proposition me. And that’s because I don’t fit my “type”. And I don’t ever think I’d fall for a girl on a motorcycle.
I usually had the habit of blowing things way out of proportion; I read between the lines, I interpreted a gesture more than I should have. But not this. Here …
Later that night I dropped by her cubicle, to hand in my research. She was beyond doubt, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And it didn’t stop there.
When I was eleven years old, I had a massive crush on a friend of mine. Well, not friend so much as a an older, very together classmate. Ours was more of a mutual admiration society than a friendship. To her I was this entertaining, super naughty kid in an otherwise rather boring, all-girls convent school.
So, I find this Queer South Asian women’s group in my town and I subscribe to their listserv. I read through their website and it quotes welcoming all self-identifying women …