When I was a child I asked my mother what homosexuality was about

Host:
The Parisian evening had just begun to bloom — the city glowing in soft gold as the sun dipped behind the Haussmann rooftops. The café on Rue Saint-Honoré hummed with quiet chatter, clinking spoons, and the warm perfume of espresso and cigarette smoke. In the corner, by the window that opened to the street, Jack and Jeeny sat across from one another, two half-finished cappuccinos between them and a single candle flickering faintly against the polished marble table.

Beyond the glass, fashionable passersby drifted through the soft dusk — scarves, laughter, heels striking cobblestone — the choreography of a city that had made beauty its language.

Jeeny leaned forward, her voice gentle but edged with reflection.

Jeeny: softly “Karl Lagerfeld once said — ‘When I was a child I asked my mother what homosexuality was about and she said — and this was 100 years ago in Germany and she was very open-minded — “It’s like hair color. It’s nothing. Some people are blond and some people have dark hair. It’s not a subject.” This was a very healthy attitude.’”

Jack: smiling faintly, swirling his coffee “Leave it to Karl to summarize human equality with fashion metaphors. But he’s right. It shouldn’t be a subject — not an issue, not a spectacle. Just… part of the human palette.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. His mother’s response is pure wisdom disguised as simplicity. No moral lecture, no theory — just normalization. That’s how acceptance begins.”

Host:
The light outside dimmed, and the city lamps blinked on one by one, spilling golden halos across the wet pavement. Inside the café, the faint murmur of French mixed with laughter — a melody of comfort and curiosity.

Jack leaned back in his chair, the cigarette smoke from a nearby table curling through the air like thought.

Jack: softly “You know what’s tragic? How revolutionary that kind of simplicity still feels. We keep circling the same question — what makes people different — as if difference itself were a disease instead of design.”

Jeeny: quietly “Because people fear what they can’t control. When you name something, you think you understand it. But Karl’s mother understood that not everything needs definition. Some things just are.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Like hair color.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. That’s the genius of her answer. She stripped the prejudice of its drama. When you remove the fear, there’s nothing left to hate.”

Host:
The candle flame flickered between them, small but steady, as if listening. The air carried the sound of a violinist outside the café, playing a slow waltz under the streetlight.

Jack: thoughtful “It’s amazing how early conditioning shapes empathy. Imagine growing up in a house where difference was dismissed with that kind of ease. That child grows into someone who doesn’t question humanity — he assumes it.”

Jeeny: nodding “And look at Lagerfeld. For all his sharp tongue and eccentricities, there was always a kind of elegance in how he viewed identity. He saw people the way he saw fashion — expressions of the self, not objects to be judged.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Maybe that’s what art is supposed to teach us — that beauty has infinite forms, and all of them are valid.”

Jeeny: gently “That’s what life should teach us.”

Host:
The waiter passed by, refilling their water glasses. The candlelight reflected in the glass made the table glow faintly — two small islands of thought in a sea of noise.

Jack: softly “You know, when I hear stories like that — a mother in early 20th-century Germany telling her son that homosexuality is as trivial as hair color — I realize how ahead of time compassion can be. How timeless wisdom isn’t born of education, but instinct.”

Jeeny: smiling warmly “Because kindness is a kind of intelligence too. The kind that doesn’t need to argue, just understand.”

Jack: quietly “And how strange that the world has to keep relearning it.”

Jeeny: softly “Because we mistake moral panic for moral progress. But what his mother said — ‘It’s not a subject’ — that’s the real revolution. She refused to give prejudice a stage.”

Host:
The rain began to fall — soft at first, then steadier, pattering against the window. The city outside blurred into watercolor: reflections of light and color rippling like a Monet painting come to life.

Jack watched the rain, his voice lower now — contemplative.

Jack: softly “You know, I think there’s something holy in that attitude — not religious, but sacred. Seeing people as variations, not exceptions. We could learn a lot from that kind of unbothered grace.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “Grace — that’s the word. Her view wasn’t political or academic. It was grace made ordinary. The kind that doesn’t need to preach because it already understands.”

Jack: after a pause “It’s funny how something so obvious — that people are people — still feels radical to say aloud.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s because we keep teaching difference as contrast instead of harmony. But in truth, the world’s beauty depends on variation. Hair color, skin tone, love — they’re all threads of the same design.”

Host:
The violin outside shifted into a gentler melody, one that matched the rhythm of rain. Inside, the café grew quieter, the night deepening around them.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice softer now.

Jack: quietly “Maybe Karl’s mother had the healthiest view of all — to see humanity as something not to fix or fear, but simply to observe and appreciate. The way you might look at a painting and say, ‘That’s not my style,’ but still know it belongs on the wall.”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. Inclusion isn’t about agreement. It’s about permission to exist without explanation.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Like hair color.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Exactly. We spend lifetimes complicating what she solved in one sentence.”

Host:
The camera would drift slowly back, catching their reflections in the rain-streaked window — two silhouettes surrounded by the quiet glow of bookshelves, candles, and the hum of conversation. Outside, the violinist’s song lingered in the Paris night — soft, human, free.

And as the screen dimmed, Karl Lagerfeld’s words would echo through the rain, calm and clear as truth itself:

“When I was a child I asked my mother what homosexuality was about and she said — and this was 100 years ago in Germany and she was very open-minded — ‘It’s like hair color. It’s nothing. Some people are blond and some people have dark hair. It’s not a subject.’ This was a very healthy attitude.”

Because love,
in its truest form,
asks for no justification.

Identity is not ideology —
it is existence.

The healthiest minds
do not categorize what is human;
they celebrate it, quietly,
like sunlight catching on glass —
ordinary, natural,
and absolutely beautiful.

And in that mother’s simple wisdom
lives the cure to centuries of fear:
to see difference not as debate,
but as design —
the way the universe paints its diversity
into the portrait of one
endless
human
family.