Perspective: The Necessity of Divorcing an Ideal Arranged Spouse
As we celebrate Pride Month, I look back on the intense pain I felt and remember how coming out brought me freedom, yet also marked the start of a long, twisting road of healing and acceptance.
It's important to understand that coming out isn't actually an act – it's more like a process. Every journey in the LGBTQ community is different, and my own began at the heart of an Orthodox South Indian Christian family residing in Nigeria, West Africa.
I was a dark-skinned, left-handed child with curly hair – traits that weren't very celebrated in my Indian community, especially for a boy. And to top it all off, I was the only son to loving but strict Christian parents who had already planned out my future from the moment I was conceived.
India has a deep-rooted tradition of arranged marriages, although their prevalence is decreasing. In 2020, 68% of new marriages were arranged compared to 44% in 2023, according to a survey. The system works by having family members and friends in the community make recommendations. If there's no interest, you simply move on to the next one. They match your preferences, hobbies, and even your chosen occupation, as showcased on popular Netflix show, Indian Matchmaking.
My whole family and cousins my age have had arranged marriages for generations. I broke this tradition by being the first one in my family to do so. This defiance did not come without repercussions.
In my culture, getting married signifies stability and prestige. The pressure of not bearing a child – especially a son – to carry my family’s name was always heavy on my mind. Being gay can be seen as extremely shameful and devastating to an Indian family, regardless of an individual's success.
Without hesitation, most Indian parents would be ecstatic if their kids became doctors – it's estimated that India is the largest source of doctors in the US. I was never compelled to go into medicine, but I may have felt that due to my sexuality, I could make amends with my parents by becoming a doctor.
I knew what was expected of me, but I also knew that I was different. I didn't feel like the other boys in my class. I never felt physically attracted to women, but I was always close to women, especially my mother and my sisters.
From around the age of 11, I was fairly certain that something was not quite right about my sexuality. I thought that if I prayed and strictly focused on my goals, everything would work out.
My main ambition was to leave Africa after high school and start college in the US. This would give me the best possible chance of getting into a top medical school. Then, I'd find a way to postpone the wedding for as long as I could. This was my plan, and it got me through the next few difficult years.
However, the grim reality of my worst nightmare was fast approaching. The excuses I'd been using all throughout my adulthood – "she's too short", "not tall enough", and "let me get through residency" – led me to a dead-end. But even though I was struggling with my secret life, I excelled academically.
After four years of hard work in college, where I earned a fully-funded merit scholarship, I was finally accepted into the prestigious Morehouse School of Medicine in Atlanta. Four more grueling years later, I was just about to start my internship in family medicine at the Emory University School of Medicine, when my family made it clear to me – it was time to get married.
I met my ex-fiancée when I was just beginning my first year of residency. She was finishing her final year of medical school. I was hoping she wouldn't take a liking to me at our very first encounter, which is a huge deal in my culture. Unfortunately for me, she did.
Our families also loved each other deeply. Despite the intricate web of "aunties" and "uncles," we may as well have dated in college – they paired us so wonderfully. We had so much in common.
We both were born and raised outside of India, we were overworked doctors in training, and even had similar tastes in music and a strong passion for tennis. I felt so sad that while this was exactly the person and family I desired, it wasn't meant for me. It just wasn't right.
I was incredibly sad and angry all at once. Suddenly, the old saying "you don't marry the woman you love – you love the woman you marry" seemed very true. I could have loved her and her family. This could have been the perfect marriage.
From the moment we first met to our engagement, everything moved so swiftly. I couldn't stop the momentum. Before I knew it, after having met her a few times, I was promising to spend the rest of my life with her during an Indian engagement ceremony attended by over 500 people.
I knew I was making a huge mistake. Not only would I ruin my life and hers, but I would also ruin her family's. I wanted to make this work – for me, for my family, and for her. I wanted the dream Bollywood wedding that every Indian man yearns for. "How could my family and the 'system' get this wrong?" I thought. I wanted to make my parents proud for all the sacrifices they had made to help me succeed. My mother had even given up her PhD studies to be home with us as children. All these sacrifices occupied my thoughts day and night.
In June 2000, my then-partner departed for Atlanta to begin a residency, with our wedding planned not far off. Overwhelmed by guilt, I reached a breaking point, spurred on by some close European friends who revealed my secret. Realizing it was up to me to rectify the situation, I grappled with the reality that even the ideal family might struggle to find the correct answers.
After extensive, heartrending discussions that stretched deep into the night, my ex-partner finally realized the truth. At first, she resisted and proposed every imaginable solution to potential problems our relationship might encounter. Eventually, we agreed to put an end to things.
Coming clean to my family and navigating my residency simultaneously was daunting. I endured counseling sessions, took time off during my training, and assumed the role of therapist for my entire family. The following years were challenging due to a lack of support system for this issue in my culture; it's a topic few are willing to discuss. Consequently, one feels trapped and lonely.
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It took me several decades to gather the courage to tell my story in this op-ed. I hope my experience will inspire others in similar situations to seek professional help and embrace their truth. It's time for the South Asian LGBTQ community to encourage families to openly discuss LGBTQ children with the same pride as they speak about their heterosexual children.
I now wholeheartedly believe that we were fashioned uniquely by God, due to the hardships we face. Yet, in our families, change is necessary. That process begins with open dialogue and honesty.
I am at peace with my present life, immensely grateful for the strength to come out. Even though I caused pain, I am grateful to wake up each morning knowing I made the right decision.
My family has made remarkable strides, and I am proud of them. Though battling a robust, ancient traditional culture can be taxing, here's how I managed: through tough conversations and fearless honesty. It wasn't flawless, and I made mistakes along the way, but it's my story. I hope it inspires a young Asian person to find the courage to stand up, be truthful, and live their authentic life.
Read also:
In this journey of self-discovery and acceptance, I knew that I needed to be true to my own opinions and feelings, despite the expectations and pressures from my culture and family.
Embracing my identity and coming out was a liberating experience, but it also meant facing the potential fear and bias of others, including the opinions of the broader LGBTQ community regarding my choices.
