On Homosexuality

On the drive home, my mother tells me of the day's class. In a lecture on homosexuality, she told a story of my brothers friend, a young boy, sweet and bright, who had informed her a few days earlier that he "enjoyed cooking as well" and his favorite dish to make was "chicken cordon bleu" a lovely French dish with cheese, ham, and chicken, a response from which we all got a kick, and a story which refutes the belief that interest in something effeminate, like cooking, defines sexuality. There was laughter. The lecture moved on, and then stopped abruptly when a hand stole up into the air.

"Excuse me," a brassy voice rang out. The girl stood up. "Aren't you scared that gay boy is gonna turn your son gay? Why would you ever let your son be friends with him?"

At this point in the retelling, I interrupt, shocked. "What'd you say?"

Secretly, I expect an explosion. This boy, an absolute angel, is one of my favorite people, and even trying to begin imagining a reality in which he was forbidden to befriend my little brother because of his interest in cooking is horrifying.

We turn onto our street, nearly home. "I'm glad she asked," she admits, "It's better to ask and learn, so others can hear, instead of just thinking it to yourself. I told her that whether he or my son were gay was already decided from the second they were born, that homosexuality isn't a catching disease, and that even if my son were gay, I'd love him just as much."

I swell a little bit, proud. Bit by bit, question by question, answer by answer. The world becomes a better place.