Pride. My pride.
There’s a woman who has been coming to my place for fifteen years, a woman who respects me, loves me and helps me cleaning and organising my home. She trusts me, frequently seeks my advice and whenever we have a chance, we chat about life. She came this morning with her fourteen year old kid because she didn’t want to leave him home alone. I had seen her son years ago when he was a child but this morning, I saw a tall, young, beautiful and healthy boy entering to my place. I left my apartment and I suddenly felt assaulted, once again, thirty years later, by a ruthless feeling of distress. Closing the door I realised that this kid would be surrounded for hours by my books, my clothes and my paintings; flagrant proofs of my homosexuality and I confess that I was worried. It was just a two second powerful feeling that assaulted me, a feeling filled with images of patronising priests, repressive teachers, panicked but above all heartbroken and disappointed parents, aggressive schoolmates, obnoxious psychologists, tormented lovers, a hostile society that blatantly rejected me for years, and an aborted love story with somebody who never was capable of overcoming his shame for being gay and therefore, hated the Gay Pride as it highlighted his denial. So I walked, thirty years later, more than ever decided to celebrate Gay Pride, to face those who insist in hurting me for being what I am, to help those who seek my solidarity and to hold back those who still refuse to understand that I have exactly the same right as anyone else to exist and to walk freely without being assaulted by old instincts of fear and shame. And I walked more than ever decided not to fear what an adolescent can think of me because it is wrong, it is unfair and it is cruel. Happy Gay Pride.