The Gay Gene

I remember that day some decades ago when we fell in love. We were in a cooking class together, and I was fumbling with the coq au vin. You arrived late--no partner, no ring, and bronzed skin. You were given charge of the berry coulis. I noticed the stretching of your shirt over your chest and biceps and felt hunger stirring in me then. If you had not sat across from me, we might not have locked eyes. But you did. And we did! That month was the highlight of my life.

That was also the year they discovered what was euphemistically called the gay gene. It wasn’t actually a gene but a combination of genetic markers across multiple genes. These showed that the propensity to be attracted to the same gender was an inherited characteristic more than it was an environmental one. We rejoiced with pan bagnat that we finally had proof that God made us this way. We were blind to the coming storm.

I remember the night, months later, when we realized our jubilation had been premature. We were preparing boeuf bourguignon in advance for dinner with another couple the next evening. During a specialty segment of our streaming news, the correspondent blandly shared how the percentage of babies born with the “gay gene” was falling. We looked at each other with the same concern in our eyes. I lost my appetite and had to step outside for air.

The reaction was not only in a particular society--autocratic, democratic, or other. Changes occurred across the world altogether, simply different shifts in different places over time. Slowly, though, the numbers of people with those specific genetic markers dwindled.

In countries with a pessimistic view of people like us, the technology to detect the “anomalous” markers was already present in the world. With the requisite pattern available, a more systematic approach to reducing the “aberrant population” ensued. Married men in prominent and powerful positions in those countries were sometimes targeted, leading to many legal battles and wrecked lives. People I would consider brothers and sisters in soul disappeared, and at first the world reacted with embargoes and sanctions. Sometimes bodies would be recovered, grossly mutilated, but more often, no trace of these individuals remained. Over time, even history started to be rewritten, and the memory of these victims were expunged from their collective national records.

You and I shared many nights with what were really only snacks tuning in to podcasts and newscasts recounting the new reality around the world. Our people were slowly vanishing, never replaced, and our color and flavor was fading from the collective consciousness. I commented on how you needed to eat more while ignoring my ballooning weight.

We fared better in the more accepting countries, but ultimately, the result wended toward the same end. None of our friends were targeted or exterminated, but neither were we valued as we had hoped. We understood that our days were numbered.

Over several years, it became clear that prenatal screening was slowly clearing out any future population of people like us, similar to what happened when Down’s syndrome was alleviated. Mothers wanted to give their children the best chance at a “normal” life, which I guess included heterosexuality as well as a fit body, blonde hair, and blue eyes. Not everyone was unkind. Some viewed me with heavy eyes, some with haughty, but they all acknowledged the inevitability of the future state of the world. One without my kind.

I lost you to depression and your eventual decision to leave such a tasteless and gray world. That was a decade or so after we first met. It was a very different time, one of nihilistic surrender and feeling as if we were adrift in an ocean none of us knew how to cross. You couldn’t live like that, even with me by your side. I tried everything I could to bolster your spirit. I made your favorite comfort foods and kneaded your taut shoulders. I swapped the snacks for cheese and charcuterie and worked out at the gym. I even tried anger, which churned my stomach with self-hatred. You wasted away. I spurned the canapés my mother insisted we serve at your wake and wept over your lifeless, emaciated body in the coffin.

I joined the protests. I cooked for events. I argued for justice. I even pleaded for mercy and fasted. In my heart of hearts, though, I came to understand. For the greater population, it felt easier to remove a thorn than to learn to live with it.

I lost more friends to despondency and despair, consumed more finger sandwiches than I cared to admit. Others tried therapy and worked to overcome their tendencies, some with success but many with unending struggles. I soothed my sorrow with Croque Monsieur. I pondered my own existence and wondered whether God truly did hate me. Suicide was never an option for me, but I better understood those who chose that way out.

Strangely, I discovered more compassion than I expected at some of the churches I encountered. Granted, some railed at me, and in my presence, rejoiced at my ruin. More, though, quietly came alongside me, joining me in my struggle for recognition, tolerance, and grace. One minister, who became a friend, mourned with me over every lost soul. He decried the loss of people with viewpoints not like his and with experiences unlike his own. He openly shared his desire for me to turn to Jesus, to stay celibate, and to courageously live. I felt my hunger returning.

The dissonance became too much for me. I fled. I moved to a quiet, out-of-the-way village and began life anew as a small restauranteur. I poured my grief into my entrées, and the remarks from the very few who savored the brilliance sustained me. My boeuf bourguignon, in particular, brought tears to their eyes. My minister friend visited, praised my craft, told me how much he missed me, and hugged me. I had a following but was out of the mainstream and so safely guarded from my past life.

Finally, in my late sixties, having trained up my replacement and contemplating release, I chose to write down my memories of the times now gone. I shared our years of trial and tribulation when we simply wanted to live and to love. I thought of you and the short, blissful years we shared in our youth. I heard that those born now with the “gay gene” are tolerated but in pity, as if born to parents unsophisticated and unkind.

I served my final meals to regular patrons at my restaurant and handed the reins over to the next generation. I was happy to have left some kind of legacy but wish I had had the courage to promote more unity amid our diversity. I waved my good-byes with a flourish and bid my guests, “Bon appétit!”