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I am a pagan. An unbeliever. A heathen. An infidel. While my beliefs about the existence of God and souls have changed considerably over the course of my life, to the majority of the world, I’ve never been someone worthy of blessings, never been someone who would make it to heaven.
I was born and culturally am still a Hindu. Despite how terrible many elements of religion were for me — I am a woman and I am queer — I still respect the role that belief in a higher power plays in many people’s lives. My closest friends are Christian and Jewish and Sikh and Muslim. They are Hindus who believe in God, Hindus who believe in gods, Hindus who believe in only reincarnation, and Hindus who are completely atheist.
I respect that. But I was not respected.
Growing up in America meant routinely hearing that my views didn’t matter — that even the commercialized version of Christmas was inherently holier than days of pooja. I heard jokes about the statues we worshiped and kept at home, about cows being holy, and about bindis. My family and I were required to sign we believed in Christ to join several extracurricular groups in the Bay Area, a very liberal and diverse place. It’s only worse across the middle of the country. Christians in America made decisions for all of us about gay marriage, abortion…
