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By Eva
Closets are for clothes, so I came out. Selectively of course! I don’t see why anyone should have to wear their preferences on their sleeve. So, no, I don’t hide the truth about myself, I just consider most people unworthy of that knowledge.
Being different from the “certified” norm comes with its pitfalls and this is no different. Being gay in a homophobic nation, and a pseudo-tolerant world, means being a hypocrite by necessity. It means being on-stage for a significant part of your life. The real drama takes place backstage where your friends (and if you’re lucky, your family members) are. Behind the scenes is where your life unfolds.
I’ve always hated pretences. Yet, from one day to the next I have to pretend to be something I am not. Straight. It’s not so much an active pretense, as it is a passive choice to stay mute, to carry-on dumb charades, if you will. The charade is mine; the ones who’re buying it are dumb. Lights, camera, action! It’s not too far-fetched to say that a considerable part of my life is white noise.
Being gay has meant being misjudged, misunderstood and mislabeled.
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Most often by people who have nothing better to do with their lives and time, sometimes by people you consider “friends”; and always on the basis of half-baked notions rife with myths. I’ve been called a man-hater, just because I’m part feminist and (gasp!) lesbian (There, I said it! I used the L word.). I’ve been called “dyke” for having been tomboyish. I’ve been an experiment, for bisexuals and also those from conservative backgrounds. It has meant having to hear your so-called lover tell you that you’re a safe bet, since same-sex liaisons don’t pose the threat of ‘pregnancy’.
I’ve seen friends recoil when they “found out.” I’ve had to talk in gender-neutral terms every time relationships are discussed. I’ve been sexually linked with every woman I have ever had half a conversation with. I’d say ‘romantically linked’ except that there’s nothing romantic about the assumption that all you’re trying to do is jump people’s bones every chance you get.
Being a lesbian makes you a minority within a minority. You go through life trying to find the freedom to assert who you are, and how real the world you inhabit, the life you live. Imagine inhabiting a room that does not exist. That is what it feels like. It’s just a fancier way of saying that sometimes I live a lie. Because to the world, that is what I do. Every single day.
It’s difficult not having a tangible history, but that doesn’t come close to how painful not having a reality is. How terrible it feels to have the world negate your very existence; or worse, laugh at the possibility of it.
Mine is an existence made secret by necessity, not by choice. The only choice I have exercised consistently over the past ten years is to stay who I am, against all odds. Not all of us are that strong, nor so fortunate. Every once in a while one of us crumbles under the pressures of family and society, while the rest of us sit and watch helplessly.
Being gay has meant being judged over and over and over again. In a nutshell, I’ve been a topic of discussion throughout my life. And I’ve gotten used to it. What I haven’t gotten used to is the fact that I can’t talk to my folks about it. It’s not like they don’t know. We just pretend no such thing exists. I’m your average single working woman. Never mind that I am not single. Not by a long shot.
I am learning my lessons. I’m learning that true friends are those that accept you for who you are. That family can still be supportive whether or not they understand the choices you’re making, and that in the end, the one thing that makes all the difference, is how comfortable you are inside your own skin.
Faking it
By Aditya K.
It’s great to be different. Words like ordinary, boring and “normal” were never used to describe me. Cute, quiet and caring (even conscientious) perhaps, but never normal.
“Your hands are so soft! Just like a girl’s,” squealed my sister’s friends. “Let’s put bangles on your arms and some lipstick on those pink lips!”Eewww! Wait a minute! Did I just skip over the edge of “normal” and hopscotch into “freak of nature”? Do I really seem that girly? I definitely didn’t want to be. I’ve always hated the smell and taste of lipstick, aftershave or even tobacco-smoke tastes better.
Then again normal Indian boys aren’t like me, they are drawn to sports. “Only girls play hopscotch, stop that! Here, catch!” I dropped the ball, of course. They grow up playing cricket, not learning the words to songs from Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak, especially not Juhi Chawla’s parts!
Mum’s neighborly friend had once said, “Take Taekwondo lessons, you’ll become tough then just like your father!” I’d much rather paint or finish that cross-stitch pattern I traced out of mum’s sewing magazine. What’s so manly about getting scraped knees? Well I don’t like the pain and suffering. Let’s just pick flowers and walk along the water front.
So I didn’t want to be a “boy” and I definitely didn’t want to be a “girl.” It’s clear now that, whatever it was that I was becoming in my formative years, I’d been giving off the right (or is it “wrong”) vibes. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the way some of dad’s friends hugged me or stroked my back was evidence enough.
Dad had this one friend who would come over sometimes, and beckon me to come sit with him while my parents chatted about grown-up stuff. Oblivious to their words I’d bask, though nervously, in this man’s aura watching his strong (sometimes stubbled) face move as he talked and smiled, feeling his strong hairy arm around my shoulder. “Did he just squeeze my thigh a little too hard? I hope dad didn’t notice my under-age excitement.”
“What’s so fascinating about boobs?” I asked my school buddy. After a long pause Saurabh said, “They’re soft and sexy and, what’s wrong with you?!” “They’ll just get in the way,” I protested, “How am I supposed to hold her close with those infernal things keeping me away?” He didn’t know what to say. Afraid that I’d be branded a ‘homo’, I made up a story: “I’m a ‘legs’ man,” I smiled proudly, pleased at my originality and classy taste. He looked convinced. With one eye on the hard-on in his tight navy blue school-uniform trousers, I said, “I like girls, I really do.” I just prefer touching, holding and feeling boys.
“Who is this new boy that keeps calling you,” mum asked. “College friend ma,” I said. That wasn’t a lie, he was in my j-school. We just weren’t studying together in his room. Well, not Media Law at least! However, it’s more difficult to explain the muscular, not-so-intelligent ‘friends’ who she finds in my room sometimes. These are explained away as ‘friends of friends’ who I’m helping with a computer project or something. They tell me that you can’t fool your mother. I wonder if it’s true.
“Now that your father’s gone, your mother’s going to feel very alone,” remarked a concerned relative. “You should get married,” she said. “I haven’t thought about it,” I said, politely, “It’s a big decision.” What I would have liked to say was, “Who the f**k are you to decide what my mother feels?” That’s the thing about marriage however, it’s more about acquiring acceptance and conforming to tradition than about a choice that is made between two people. To quote a famous tagline from a movie “It’s all about loving your family!” In that case, I must be a horribly unloving son.
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