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Being Gay In America Essay

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Being gay in America is difficult. Being gay in America is even more difficult when you’re not quite gay. Being a closeted not-quite gay woman in America, surrounded by Indian immigrants is pretty difficult, too. It’s a bit like staring in a James Bond film, if all of the characters suddenly developed Bollywood accents, and marginally less homicide. Also, I may be exaggerating, because I don’t attract nearly as many Bond Girls, no matter how much I’d like to. Even understanding what “not-quite gay” means for me was and is a struggle. I suppose a common saying is true: if you can’t find the gay cousin in your family, then you are the gay cousin. And it’s true; in my jumbled mess of aunts, uncles, and third-step cousins once removed, there hasn’t been a single person to come out. Or, if there has, we certainly never talk about them. What does this mean, then, in terms of the relative morals for my two cultures? If there is such a thing as an American, than I am one; I was born in this country and have lived here my entire life. This should give me a right to voice my opinion about American politics. At the same time, I refused to speak English until I was four; everyone I grew up around was Indian. Does this give me a right to interject in conversation when Section 377 of India’s penal code, recently upheld by the Supreme Court, makes being homosexual a crime? Maybe, I do have overseas citizenship. Does any measly DNA connection give me the right to protest when LGBTQ+

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