My Strange Dysphoria

by

“Excuse me?”

I had just turned eighteen and had been living in New York City for four months after moving from New Delhi, and I was really enjoying the freedom of living on my own. That night, that meant using a fake ID to get unlimited margaritas at a Mexican restaurant somewhere on Broadway in the 110s. It was December, right after my first college finals, during that strange period before winter break when classes were over and everyone was getting together for meals and drinks before going home. A friend from my pre-med classes invited me to a get-together with her friends. I almost didn’t go because I didn’t know anyone, but she was right – I needed to relax.

I was enjoying my time when suddenly, this guy at the next table practically leaned into me. For a second, I thought I’d accidentally sat on something of his – a coat, maybe a bag? I braced myself and said, ‘Yes?’ figuring he was about to tell me I’d committed some seating faux pas.

“Are you a man or a woman?” he asked.

I finally noticed the man’s companion across from him, trying not to laugh, and suddenly understood they’d been talking about me – or, more specifically, my appearance – for a while. We were all pretty drunk, but I was aware enough to feel a weird, uncomfortable feeling that I would get used to over the next few years. I don’t recall what I said, but my stunned reaction seemed to satisfy him. “I told you so!” he said, then went back to his conversation as if I wasn’t even there. I glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed what happened, and thankfully, they hadn’t.

I spent the rest of the evening replaying the conversation in my head, criticizing my own silence. I wished I’d been able to clearly and firmly state that being transgender or gender nonconforming is perfectly okay, that his opinion was unwelcome, and that he was out of line. It was my first winter experiencing snow, and I was already struggling with seasonal depression, which meant I hadn’t been prioritizing my appearance. I reluctantly agreed to go to the gathering and tried to put on makeup, but quickly gave up, opting for jeans, a sweater, and snow boots under my coat. I hadn’t shaved or bothered with body hair in months, simply because I didn’t have the energy. I’d recently cut my own hair to save money, and a shorter style felt more manageable. I also noticed I was the only non-white woman at the table of nine, and it struck me that the man making the comment was white. I found myself watching my peers, trying to figure out what I might have done differently.

Moving to this country for college in 2015 marked the start of a confusing and unsettling feeling. It constantly made me aware of my race and unfairly measured my worth as a woman by how much I tried to hide or reject my cultural identity.

I didn’t start thinking about my gender until I moved to America. Growing up in India, I always considered myself a girl. Of course, India has its own strong ideas about gender – and I experienced both advantages and disadvantages because of them. I come from a privileged background – I’m upper-caste, upper-class, and Hindu, but as a Tamil woman, I didn’t fit the beauty standards often seen in advertising. I was usually the only Tamil person around, and my classmates from North India often pointed that out. But overall, the ideas of what it meant to be a man or a woman felt more open and flexible. I was surrounded by women who didn’t feel pressured to remove body hair, men who showed affection with other men, and kids who played dress-up – it was common for boys to be dressed as girls by their mothers for fun.

Growing up in India, I always felt comfortable exploring my femininity, but I still struggled with understanding my sexuality. I first realized I was queer in middle school when I developed a strong crush on a friend. At first, I dismissed my feelings of jealousy over her boyfriend as just friendly support. However, it became harder to ignore the truth, especially when I found myself attracted to boys as well. It was a difficult thing to talk about – homosexuality remains a taboo in my culture. I felt like my feelings didn’t fit into the world I knew. Then, I discovered a story in the Ramayana about a prince born to two queens. Seeing a reflection of my hidden self so prominently featured in a religious text was surprising, especially considering my complicated relationship with the religion growing up.

My research revealed a rich history of queerness and gender fluidity in the South Asian subcontinent. Queer love appears in many Hindu stories, and historical records show same-sex relationships existed in the Mughal courts. What’s particularly striking is how flexible ideas about gender were. Hindu mythology often features gods changing genders or becoming androgynous, and stories tell of people transitioning genders to achieve their life’s purpose. Furthermore, several Indian languages, like Tamil, include gender-neutral pronouns and verb forms.

While traditional ideas about gender are evolving, the hijra community in India represents a long-standing, visible third gender identity. Though they currently face challenges to their rights – including recent setbacks for LGBTQ+ individuals in India – hijras have deep roots in the country’s religion and culture. Unlike how gender fluidity is sometimes seen as a theoretical concept in Western cultures, hijras are a recognized and integral part of society.

During British colonization of South Asia, many traditional practices were suppressed. Victorian social norms led British authorities to believe that South Asian men were effeminate and women were too assertive, and they viewed the population as overly sexual and in need of control. As a result, the hijras – who had sometimes held important roles in the Mughal empire – were labeled criminals, closely watched by authorities, and required to register with the government.

I’m not suggesting that precolonial South Asia was perfect or didn’t have its own issues with gender and sexuality – that would be inaccurate and harmful, and it would excuse current problems. However, it’s clear that understandings of gender and sexuality were less rigid than the strict categories imposed by British colonizers. It’s a contradiction to claim LGBTQ+ rights are a Western idea when historical evidence suggests Indian society was often more accepting or simply didn’t focus so much on rigid labels.

I initially believed the idea that the U.S. would be a place where I could freely explore my identity without the weight of cultural expectations or shame, and in some ways, that proved true. However, I also started experiencing discomfort with my body. During college, I lived in a lively dorm near the fraternity houses and often saw people – mostly straight, white men and women – who strongly embodied traditional gender roles. I began trying to imitate their appearances, and it made me realize I viewed my body as something I could change to fit a certain image. I experimented with things I already knew, like makeup and hair removal, tried new things like barre classes, and even considered some more unusual practices. It felt like you could alter any part of your body to appear more feminine, if you were willing to pay for it. The sheer number of people getting plastic surgery was particularly striking – I often overheard women casually discussing procedures they or their friends had received as gifts. Looking back, it’s clear I was trying to control my body to achieve a specific, idealized version of womanhood – one based on white beauty standards.

I grew increasingly distant from my own body, constantly criticizing it for not meeting impossible standards. I straightened my naturally curly hair with chemicals, considered plastic surgery, and prioritized hair removal appointments over some of my coursework, all in an attempt to avoid being seen as an unkempt, hairy woman of color. Yet, despite all this, I consistently felt dehumanized in ways that white women didn’t seem to experience, regardless of how they looked. When I embraced traditionally feminine presentation, I was seen as ‘exotic,’ but if I didn’t maintain a strict grooming routine – like skipping waxing to afford textbooks – I was labeled as unattractive and masculine.

I also began to notice a disturbing trend gaining traction online: the false accusation that women, particularly women of color, are actually men. While anyone can be a target, right-wing conspiracy theorists frequently focused on the bodies and appearances of women of color, including figures like Michelle Obama, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and Serena Williams, claiming they were men – women who often resembled me. This recently extended to Rama Duwaji. It seemed the logic was that if white womanhood was considered something to be protected, then women of color could be falsely portrayed as masculine, justifying racist attacks against us.

It wasn’t until my sophomore year that I finally connected with other queer people, which was a huge relief. My women’s studies classes also opened my eyes to intersectionality – the idea that different forms of discrimination overlap. I especially appreciated Audre Lorde’s writing in Sister Outsider, where she challenged feminists who didn’t include women of color, especially Black women, in their work. Once I understood that perspective, it was hard to ignore. Being part of this queer community also meant being around people who embraced gender fluidity and challenged traditional norms. It was incredibly healing to feel comfortable with my own attraction and to see beauty in all expressions of gender – masculinity in women, femininity in men, and everything else. We openly discussed the challenges of gender dysphoria, how we present ourselves to the world, and where those presentations felt inauthentic. I started to become more comfortable with my body hair, embrace my natural hair texture, and traded ballet for weightlifting. I even began experimenting with men’s clothing. I was finally starting to understand what I’d been feeling since immigrating, but labels like nonbinary or genderqueer didn’t quite fit. I still identified as a woman, but I didn’t always feel comfortable conforming to Western expectations of how a woman should behave or present herself.

I was also starting to explore acting, taking classes and going to auditions. Every actor learns quickly that understanding your ‘type’ – how you fit into the industry and how to present yourself – is crucial for attracting agents and getting cast. At one workshop, we were asked to choose three adjectives that described the kinds of characters we could realistically play. But as a woman of color, it felt like ‘brown’ and ‘woman’ were always the first things people saw, even before any other description. For a long time, most of the roles my agents submitted me for specifically required a non-white woman. While this has improved as my career has grown, the roles available for South Asian women aren’t often very interesting – they rarely allow for complex or nuanced characters. Many auditions felt like I had to hide parts of who I am and my background to fit into a limited idea of what someone else wanted.

It often feels like discrimination in the entertainment industry isn’t about who you are, but what category people put you in. When someone challenges those categories, it feels liberating. In 2023, Lily Gladstone, the star of Killers of the Flower Moon, shared that she uses she/they pronouns to honor her Blackfoot heritage and redefine gender for herself. While I’d seen those pronouns used before, it was the first time I truly felt understood – it felt like a response to a system that had taken something away from people. It perfectly captured my experience as a queer South Asian woman. It’s a way to subtly signal my queerness, even when I might appear more traditionally feminine or straight to others. And honestly, it feels great to reject all the labels I’ve been given over the years.

I occasionally think about whether moving back to India might ease my feelings of discomfort with my gender. It’s hard to say for sure. I know it would be a very different experience than life in the U.S., and I’ve always felt a stronger connection to womanhood within my own culture. However, the journey I’ve been on has also been incredibly inspiring. I’m thankful for the queer artists and writers of color who have helped me understand my experiences and protected me from being misunderstood, something they may have struggled with themselves. I want to create stories that portray us as complex, fully realized people who live in the nuances of life. I want to challenge common stereotypes and tell stories that aren’t easy, and ultimately, I want us to resist being defined by anyone else’s expectations.

Read More

2026-04-15 14:57