Against God's Design
I am twelve when I first learn about being gay.
My family is driving up the I-80 toward Tahoe to go on a day hike. My mom and dad in the front seat, me sitting behind my dad in the driver’s seat. I can’t see his face. My mom’s expression doesn’t change much during the conversation, just the same placid seriousness that makes any conversation seem like it’s not as big of a deal as you thought it was going to be. My little brother sits across from me; he is ten, and clearly bored and annoyed they made him put his DS down for this.
The conversation has mostly faded. I can remember my dad’s tone more than anything: serious, affronted, a little upset that he has to tell us about it. Some words stick out: gross, unnatural, against God’s design.
My mother, an atheist, contributes little, but what she does say leans towards the scientific; a penis is made to go into a vagina. Two men cannot make a child.
I feel sick. Not carsickness, which I am very familiar with, but I try to look out the window at the horizon all the same. Pine trees and massive swathes of granite rush by the window.
“We’re not trying to scare or upset you guys,” my mom said.
“No,” my dad agreed. “We’re gonna go out and have fun today, but it was important for you guys to know this. It’s important that we live our principles and bring people closer to God by leading by example.”
My mom doesn’t say anything.
I keep looking out the window, wishing I had never heard any of it.