Call Me By My Name

A life hinging on contradictions and duality, the only acceptance he seeks is from his parents.

- Manav Kapoor

IT WAS AN INNOCENT PHONE CALL that almost became my undoing. “Why will you be late?” asked my mother. “Because I have to walk the gay Pride parade, Ma.” Just like that, it slipped out. She waited a split second before asking, a hint of suspicion entering her voice: “Why?” This was the moment: I could have come out to her. But a part of me nixed that hope. “Because I have to support my friends, Ma. I have to be there for them,” I lied. This was in 2009, when I was 25 and still living with my parents.

I’ve known about my sexuality pretty much all my life. People ask me: at what age did you actually know? I ask back: at what age does a straight person know? I gravitated towards whomever I found naturally attractive, like a child who prefers a certain food to another but doesn’t quite know how to articulate it. I finally came out to my friends towards the end of college.

To make my coming out easier, I told everyone I discovered I was gay in a moment of epiphany in my final year of college. I had had a real girlfriend until my second year. The story I put out was that we broke up because of relationship problems. The truth is, I had broken up with her because I could no longer carry on the charade. I did love her, deeply, just not the way she would have wanted me to.