Richard is not gay…

… and even if he were, there would be nothing wrong with it. 

Being at home is quite the same as always. Nothing special happens, life is the same old boring routine, and the things which get discussed quite the same either. Yesterday my mother started talking about Richard again, better: ranting about Richard. She said that he used to be a faggot, and that he would even prostitute himself in order to get the money for heroine, despite the fact that he had already enough money. My father didn’t say anything on the spur of the moment, well… he never dares contradict his wife. But as soon as we happened to be alone, he explained me the story of Richard at the time he "should have been a faggot". 

Allegedly, Richard was put in several schools in order to get a high school graduation, but he never wanted to study and refused to recognize every kind of authority. My father decided to put him in a boarding school in Neuchâtel, in the French speaking part of Switzerland, where they somehow managed to let him reach a sort of high school graduation, which was recognized only by French speaking Universities, though. So he started studying law in Neuchâtel, and here he became heroine addict. Since he could not come home for summer holidays – he would have been forced to face his addiction with my father – he asked my father to find a job for him in the German speaking part of Switzerland, where he would learn a little German and earn some money. So did my father: he found him a job through his good connections, and Richard went to Basel. My father once visited him there, and as they went around through the city together, he noticed that all the junkies and drunkards knew Richard – but my father can be blind, if he doesn’t want to see something, he simply doesn’t see it. On one evening, my father and my mother (Richard’s stepmother) were waiting for Richard to come home from Basel for the weekend. They waited and waited, but he didn’t arrive. Then, they got a phone call from the Police: Richard had been arrested because he was suspected to be a dealer. They caught him giving heroine to another fellow junkie. Of course, my father managed to have Richard released the day after, but then it was clear that Richard was a severe drug addict and so he landed in a mental hospital here in the province. There, Richard found the way to get his drugs in spite of being in an isolation ward… this speaks volumes about the quality of that hospital, but never mind. My father let Richard be locked away in a hospital where he used to work as a rheumatologist, and here that wretched brother of mine got over the withdrawal and became clean again. Allegedly, while being sober again, Richard should have told my father something like "Mom thinks I am gay but I’m not, I like women!". I know for myself that Richard never denied being bisexual, and even said to me that making love to a man is a much more rude, violent and angry than making love to a woman. My mother claims that Richard caught syphilis because he was a "faggot", but my father explained to me that he must have caught it because of a infected syringe he used to inject heroine. 

So, here we go, the same old discussions against homosexuals – my father preferred his son to be a severe drug addict than a homosexual. After my father told me all this, I said to him that even if Richard had homosexual experiences there is nothing terrible in it, and I added that many schoolmates of mine had homosexual relationships too in spite of the fact that they are now 100% straight women – I was very careful, though, not to include myself in the group of those who "had homosexual experiences", because this could be my ruin. 

Today I went to town in the morning. With an excuse. A lame excuse like "I feel like I want to go to town and drink a coffee". In reality, I wanted to send to Paolo the parcel I promised. I sent him a carton of cigarettes, a deodorant, instant coffee, Caotina (I don’t know how to name it in English: it’s a chocolate powder to mix in hot or cold milk, and gives a chocolate flavored drink) and twenty francs recharging for his mobile phone. I added a card wishing him health and happiness. I didn’t want my parents to know about it, because they would dislike my being so generous. The fact is… I can live even if I give Paolo what I gave him. Paolo can’t afford all those things. So what shouldn’t I help him? I don’t think I’ll see him ever again. He is going to live in a therapeutic community in a totally out-of-the-way village in the mountains near the border to Italy on August 5th, and he won’t be allowed to be visited there. I would understand such a treatment if he were a criminal, but really, in this case I think it is an exaggeration and an abuse. He will have only one day free, on Saturday. But I’m surely not going to take the journey to go there and he is unlikely to take the journey to come here. We will go on being friends, maybe exchanging some text messages, sometimes talking on the phone – by the way, yesterday he called me. He said that he misses me and that there is nobody in my room for the moment, so that he shares the balcony with the memory of me. He is a sweet guy, but nothing more than this. I will go on helping him, maybe because I see in this person an example of social injustice which makes me angry.

Later I will have to go with my parents to the cemetery. Oh no, I hate to face Death. I fear Death. I don’t even want to think about it. 

Much love to everyone, and take gentle care of yourselves.