The last time I heard from them, it was a blistering 103 Fahrenheit. Now, the leaves are turning gold. Every four months or so, when I get a seasonal e-mail from the San Francisco-based L.G.B.T. publication, Trikone, I know a group of amateurs are in the middle of their quarterly editorial ritual.
Hard-pressed to put together what they call a “magazine,” they solicit submissions (they erroneously call “contributions”) from folks who’ve written for them in the past.
They’re mostly looking for memoirs. Ordinarily, such a request would thrill me. Only, in this instance, I’ve no stories to tell. All South Asian L.G.B.T. “memoirs” I’ve across in the U.S. have only one theme. They’re agonizing tales of tormented individuals, emerging from the proverbial closet, told most blandly.
I’ve nothing to add to that repertoire. I find nothing remotely zany about writing about my sexual orientation. It is what it is, no more a novelty to me than brushing my hair. So, each time I hear from its soi-distant “editor,” it pulls me up short. I never had to “come out.” I was always out.