American English, foreign accent. Narration.
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Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
Italian (American) Italian (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Welcome to the Summer of Pope, a podcast series of queer short stories with an accent. I still remember the trepidation spilling out of every pore of my skin on that day. It's a warm Saturday late morning in June of 2003 and I'm sitting at an outside table of a random bar in lay in Paris hoping that an early drink of chardonnay calm me down. I've never been a morning drinker not even 20 years ago when this takes place. Now whoever has been on a first date, one that hasn't been preceded by long text conversations and facetime calls and the exchange of graphic unsolicited **** pics can understand the anxiety, but whoever remembers sitting in a public place and for the first time, waiting for a date who happens to sport, just like you, a beard or a furry chest or a or a pair of boobs can relate even more. The revelation that hit me by the end of that day wasn't that I indeed liked beards and furry chest and whatever comes below. Gosh, I knew that before. No, it was rather a revelation that would alter the course of my life. Setting me on a path of self discovery and unyielding love. Ok. Yeah. Yeah. It's all beautiful enough now though, because in retrospect, what I really want to consider now is how quickly, already, back then five years of French classes in high school had suddenly gone down the drain. I mean, I was left with nothing but basic notions of the language, which wouldn't get me much farther than ordering a drink or asking how to get to the City Center or making sure that I wouldn't be picking any snail like food from a menu. In fact, I remember this sweet little waitress pity. I should say coming to check on me. She asks and she's pointing her pen at my now empty glass on the table, which is crucial to my understanding of what she's asking. I'm totally mesmerized by her long locks that somehow defy gravity by staying entangled on top of her head. So I tried to summon the spirit of Oscar Francois de Jorge. God bless her soul. And I murmur we and then I remember the basic notion of French and I add Silvo play, I feel my cheeks bursting into flames like turning bright red pes sweet and pity. And, and she just smiles and returns to the bar taking my empty glass with her. Now that I'm recording this almost 20 years later, I don't remember all the details of that day, but one thing I do remember for sure, picking my phone up every other minute to see if any text came through or just to check the time I was nervous. And on top of that I hadn't managed to leave back home. All my fears and my guilty feelings and my country's bigoted and hypocritical beliefs which unfortunately had let pollute my life up until then I check my old nokia display again. Three whole minutes have passed since last time the petite waitress comes back with my second glass of white wine. And right when I'm about to sip the first gulp, I notice the guy in cargo shorts across the road waiting for a green light. And who's waving at me? I freeze the rim of the glass on the edge of my lips. Alessandro has arrived and there's no more going back the boat that eventually led me to Paris started rolling down about two weeks before that day. At the time I was still living in Rome and leading my life carefully hiding my true identity like superheroes do as I used to put it. Yeah. Well, the truth is I was no hero. Oh, for ****'s sake. P Cut it off. My friend Fiona once told me, you know, you're not Spiderman, don't you? You're just *** for crying out loud. She was right. I was simply an originally ***. And if it's true that women get to understand things faster than man, well, then I must be a real man. In fact, it took me way too long to understand the obvious that labels are good for shirts and that happiness should depend on what we make of our life and not on what other people decide we should look and act like. However by the way, um women do get to understand things faster than men. Sorry guys. About two weeks before that day in June, in Paris, I was sitting in the usual biweekly meeting of the Catholic Association where I had been volunteering as a youth mentor in their after school program. During those meetings, we would discuss anything related to the group or come up with new charity events or if not specific items were on the agenda, we would simply spend some good time together. Johnny was the guy who had a vineyard and he would always bring a bottle of his wine. OK? Maybe two. And then Elena was an undiscussed start at baking and she would always delight us with a fruit tart or a homemade chocolate sponge. They were some kind of spur family to me. I, I remember putting most of my free time into volunteering with those kids because it simply made me feel good, happy and accomplished. And of course, at the time, I was already fully aware of who I was yet, I was still in such denial trying to hide it from myself first and then from the rest of the world around me, which had I known this before was way more ready than I to accept it. That night. We were meeting in one of our parish churches rooms. I think there had been some big ritual celebration recently because I could still feel the sweet smell of incense, inebriating my nostrils. I loved incense on the agenda. We had challenging Children, you know, kids with a delicate family situation, for example, or Children with either mental or physical challenges or simply Children who would appear different from the usual standard of behavior. In fact, I felt like there was a huge elephant in the room and I'm damn sure I was the only one feeling it. Yeah. But I had to deal with it once and for all. And before I knew it, I asked the question, what about *** kids? Silence? The entire world stopped. So I elaborated what about a kid who comes up to us and says that they're ***? Mm. The elephant in the room had just dropped a fat part of the expense of everybody's embarrassment. And for a few but long seconds, no one seemed to know how to feel the even more embarrassing silence. Johnny, the wine guy who also happened to be one of the most senior volunteers and the one who had been around the longest did a child who says he or she thinks they're homosexual must certainly be helped. I think I gave a sigh of relief. Despite the cacophony, homosexual left behind. Yeah. But then he had it. The task of a good mentor is to bring that child back on the natural and right path. And there you have my sigh of relief getting choked halfway through. Wait, hang on. Did it just say back on the right path? I looked around seeking help, hoping that someone would chime in and ask what the **** the right path was simply what the **** he put in his wine. But no one did. So I did. Uh Yeah, but why I ask the obvious, he made his answer sound just as obvious because we must do what we can to guide them to adjust life where they can find happiness and we know that there can be no happiness for those people in that kind of life. I looked around again. Sure that this time someone would say something again. No one spoke a word. So I did the game. I was in a role. But why I ask again, starting to feel dumb with all the wise the answer that followed men among other stuff, quote unquote, the natural order of things natural. That word again, dude was fixated with that word. All of a sudden the sink of incense was burning in my throat almost making it difficult for me to breathe. At that point though, I hadn't realized yet that I had to go. That happened just after the answer to my last question for that night. I mean, at that point. I was unstoppable, like on a mission to get all the questions off my chest. Ok. And what about a *** mentor? The answer if they keep it to themselves fine. Otherwise he or she should be kept away from the Children. Something snapped inside of me. The sound it produced made me think of a rusty lock that finally gives up under the pressure of its key. It was painful. Of course, he was later that night while driving back home, I remember pulling over on a deserted side road of Rome's outskirts where I grew up, I stopped the car and then I drove further up to a darker spot where the light of the lamppost wouldn't arrive and no one could see me. Not even, I could see my reflection in the rear mirror. I wanted to cry, but I didn't, I thought of the Children, I would meet twice a week to take them away from the TV. That would be looking after them. Otherwise, while their parents were at work, I thought of the outdoor activities that the other mentors and I would organize or the charity events that we ran to help the community. I was good for all of that. As long as I kept following the natural right path, one step off the path. And I was out with the rest of those people. As I came to realize at times, we need someone to give us a good push or we might just spend a lifetime before finding the courage to dive in that night. Johnny and the rest of his family had been the push that had been needing for so long in the dark of the car. I looked for my eyes in the rear mirror and I said enough and I drove back home. I wanted to get a way I needed to talk to someone, someone who could listen and understand someone who could be empathetic to what I was feeling. Now, the previous month, I had attended the music events that brought together choirs from all across Europe. The choir from Paris, the ox was an LGBT Q plus choir that performed the beautiful a cappella version of Somebody to love by Queen. The group was introduced on stage by Alessandro, one of the vocalists and who happened to be an Italian guy who lived in Paris. Now, despite my unbreakable mask that hid my secret superhero identity, I still had eyes to see and a stomach to be filled with proverbial butterflies. Did that guy catch my attention? Oh, yes, he did. I was still new to the community's complicated lingo, which I still don't think I master well. But one new word had quickly stuck with me at the time. Bears. I like bears like beards and fur and bellies and rounded shape. I was an advocate for body positivity and I didn't even know. And yes, Alessandro was a singing bear. I wish the butterflies in my stomach had given me enough strength to go over and say hi after the concert. But I didn't. Instead, that night after the concert, I looked the choir up online, I found their website and I sent them an email to congratulate. I didn't even try to write the message in English. And no, I, I just wrote it in plain Italian apologizing for not speaking French. Well, you know what my plan worked out. Well, Alexander replied, the only member of the choir who spoke Italian, he appreciated my note and gave me his email address and told me to contact him whenever I was going to be in Paris. I never reached out again after that day, but I was going to be in Paris soon or at least. So I had just decided. And that late night after the meeting with Johnny and his family, I dropped him a note. His answer was in my mailbox the morning after he seemed to be very pleased with my visit and even suggested that I should go for the Pride March, which incidentally was going to be the weekend of the following week. I opened a new page on my internet browser. I got an Expedia dot com and I bought a ticket, the ball was rolling. It did feel as though someone was indeed trying to put me back on the right path and he felt good in your face, Johnny, your wine sucks anyway. And just over a week after that night, Alessandro is there standing in front of me and panting and short of breath and sweaty and wearing a short sleeved shirt that fits perfectly. His upper arms and the rest of his curves tactically undone on his chest to reveal just enough for, to break through any musk left that is still trying to conceal my secret identity. No, there is no more hero. Just me. Take me now as I am Alessandro. Come on. What are you doing here? Drinking? We're late. He cuts it off while I'm getting up to say hi. How are you so nice to see you and the rest of it. I arrived in Paris the night before and we just texted each other to decide a place and a time where to meet the following day. This is literally the first time we're meeting our first date. Um I relate for what I dare ask. He explains that his friends are waiting for us and the parade is about to start. And in the meanwhile, he mimics to the petit waitress, the gesture of scribbling on an invisible piece of paper which I guess all around the world stands for. May I have the bill, please? I'm confused like I have no idea what's going on but boy, am I enjoying it? Um Sure, I, I just think I need more time with that. I say, pointing at my glass of wine on the table but still staring at his chest. He grabs the glass and knocks back half of the content and then hands the other half to me. How about now? He asks, I let out a reluctant, sure. I mean, I've been picturing this moment in my mind for the last week. At never at any time. We are doing shots of wine from the same glass. Where, where are the candles? Where are our fingertips brushing each other across the table while talking about life and, and love. I guess that decades of pattern or TV shows just gave me a totally unrealistic idea of that moment. Yeah. Thank you. So I take the glass and washed down the content with three big gobs. I feel some kind of sparkling fumes going up to my brain and I think, well, I guess this is just what I need right now. In the meanwhile, the waitress comes back with my check and before she leaves, he reaches for a couple of euro notes inside the pockets of his cargo shorts and hands them to her. Oh, you, you didn't have to. I start. Oh, never mind. You'll buy the next one. Let's go. Now he takes my hands and how we go. So here I am darting through paris' narrow road. A man holding my hands while he leads the way God knows where that day. I met his friends and I marched with the rest of the Parisians. I saw men kissing each other and women holding their Children and their wives. I laughed together with folks of any color shape, gender taste background. And I understood why the rainbow flag is the symbol of the LGBT Q plus movement around the world. As the sun set over paris' skyline illuminating the city with its golden hues. I can't help but feel a profound realization wash over me on this day strolling along the same hands in hands with my charming, same sex companion. I discovered that my right path in life is one where I can unabashedly be my authentic self free from the confines of societal expectations and above all self imposed limitations. It dawned on me that the true happiness lies in embracing my true nature with all its quirks and idiosyncrasies and loving without bound race or reservations. It is in this moment of pure authenticity that I found the key to unlocking a fulfilling and meaningful existence. And from this day forward, I vowed to navigate life's journey, guided by the compass of self acceptance and self love. Knowing that I could only truly thrive if leading the way on my newfound right path.