The Fog and the Rainbow
I spent the first nineteen years of my life shrouded in fog. Not the meteorological kind – which is already a constant feature of the Po Valley – but the existential kind: a grey blanket that erases colours, blurs identities and makes you feel invisible. If you’re queer, moreover, the fog becomes an open-air prison, where you can never see the sky and the horizon is always a wall of prejudice. A friend of mine from Milan once asked me: “But can’t you breathe out in the provinces?” I replied: “You can breathe, but you live as if holding your breath.”
Then there’s Christmas. The table is laden with food, relatives are eating as if there were no tomorrow, and Aunt Daniela, between one mouthful of panettone and the next, stares at me with that smile that hints at awkward questions and asks: “So, when are you bringing your girlfriend round?” I, with my mouth full of nougat and my soul full of anxiety, reply vaguely: “Er, Auntie, we’ll see…” She, unperturbed: “Come on, you’re a handsome lad! You just need to find the right one!” Translation: “You need to find a girlfriend, because otherwise you’re not normal.” And I, in silence, think: “If only you knew, Auntie, that the ‘right one’ doesn’t exist, and that the problem isn’t me, but your idea of ‘right’.”
And then there are the jokes. The ones that hit you like knife stabs, but which you have to swallow with a smile because, in the provinces, “it’s all in good fun”. “Come on, you’re not one of those, are you?” said with a smirk, as if it were a joke, but with eyes that are already judging you. “Do you fancy blokes?” says your neighbour, whilst watering his plants and staring at you as if you were an alien. “What are you, a faggot?” says your schoolmate, as if it were an insult, and everyone laughs—including you—because you don’t want to look weak. Every time, a cut. Not physical, but inside. And every time, you got used to bleeding in silence. But there’s one thing I’ve learnt: wounds, if you don’t hide them, sooner or later stop bleeding.
Then there are your friends. The ones who accept you – few in number, but precious. The ones who say “What’s the problem?” and make you feel normal. The ones who reject you, who disappear when they realise you’re not like them, and make you feel lonely. And then there are those who surprise you: those who, out of the blue, say “I’m just like you” and make you feel less alone. I still remember the day when Simone, my friend from secondary school, said to me: “You know, I’ve always known I was different too… but I didn’t have the courage to say so.” And at that moment, the fog lifted a little. Because I realised that I wasn’t the only ghost on that plain.
The province never changes. The fog remains. But I do. I’ve learnt that, even amidst the greyness, I am here. And that, even though the province has never seen me, I have seen myself. And in the end, I carry the rainbow within me. And it’s not just pink, blue and green. It’s also black, for all the times I’ve cried. It’s red, for the anger I’ve felt. It’s yellow, for the laughter with friends who accept me. It’s purple, for the melancholy of those who are no longer here. It’s brown, like the earth of the Po Valley, which taught me to be strong.
The countryside is like fog: it makes you disappear, but it doesn’t erase you. And if one day you decide to switch on a spotlight, you’ll discover that the colour was always there. And by the way, Aunt Daniela, if you ever read this post, just so you know, I don’t have a girlfriend. But now I’ve got a thick beard, a blog and a life without fog.