She Revealed Where Her Family’s Homophobia Started and Showed the Brilliant Power of Queer People of Color – In One Amazing Poem

A lesson in British Imperialism. That which is sexual is savage. 1861, Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code criminalizes all carnal acts against the Order of Nature including homosexual sex acts. 2009, the Supreme Court rules Section 377 unconstitutional and my people stay full of wonder. 2013, Section 377 is reinstated and monsoons erupt all over the country. 8348 miles away, I read the news in my dorm room bed. I hold the shattered remains of a world in my cup.

Two weeks later I am back in my parent’s house. The entire thing is a closet. I am a master of illusion. False smile, false laugh, false daughter, but it is overwhelming to remember that I am still a mistake, a tired secret. I can’t tell my parents about this girl I know and how beautiful her lips are, so instead I whisper into my pillow over and over. I can’t explain to my mother that her casual homophobia is ripping holes in all of my sweaters, and I am always shivering. I find myself upset in the shower, hissing at the faucet, “Thank you for making me foreign, for making me supernatural, for making me hate the way my tongue fits in my mouth.”

I watch my mother laughing on the phone with her mother. I picture myself coming out and my parents heartbreak flooding all of India. This is a powerful sorcery, one I am not ready for. My parents are not ready for all the mystic in my womanhood, don’t understand this combat boot fueled rage and desire to shave my head. How I break daily, come out again and again. My people have been turned dirty, animals, who’s desires are carnal, unnatural, degenerate. My people are carrying the burden of 200 years of colonial thinking. Watch how quickly the Supreme Court can make an alien of you. Watch how they light your skin on fire and call your attempts to breathe inhuman.

They so easily forget that your love is an offering from the gods, is clean water. My parents so easily assume I must be straight, don’t understand how just like my ancestors, I love freely. My people are magic, know how to fold into their skin and hold themselves up, know how to fit somewhere they are not welcome. Learn how little their humanity is worth and still love so fiercely. 2014, I dream constantly of the enchantments that make home in a woman’s mouth. My dreams are never in sound. Silence is not shame or an apology. A sanctuary is built in moments of quiet. I know how to pick my battles and accept this body. My people, we accept these bodies and celebrate them in all of their wounded glory.