Friday, January 29, 2016

Family Day 2016 in Italy Rome: why homosexuals should not win?

Stories and News No. 836

Tomorrow, Saturday Jan. 30, in Rome there will be the Family Day manifestation.
I remember when Silvio Berlusconi was there… it was funny.
Maybe, even after an ocean of scandals, he will join the cause.
Anyway, I want still give my contribution to the war against the foul, rainbow dressed enemy…


Why homosexuals should not win?
(Read to the end...)

*Because homosexuals already have the right to live together, and are eligible for membership of most local authorities. Parliament, however, has to deal mainly with the administration of a vast nation, the maintenance of the Army and Navy, and with questions of peace and war, which lie outside the legitimate sphere of homosexuals' influence.

Because all government rests ultimately on force, to which homosexuals, owing to physical, moral and social reasons, are not capable of contributing.

Because there is little doubt that the vast majority of homosexuals have no desire for the wedding and adoptions.

Because the acquirement of the right to the Homosexual Marriage would logically involve homosexuals’ admission to Parliament itself, and to all Government offices. It is scarcely possible to imagine an homosexual being Minister of Defense, and yet the principles of the homosexuals involve that and many similar absurdities.

Because the Parliament is not an isolated State, but the administrative and governing Centre of a system of regions and towns. The effect of introducing a large homosexual element into the society would undoubtedly be to weaken the center of power in the eyes of these dependent millions.

Because past legislation in Parliament shows that the interests of homosexuals are perfectly safe in the hands of normal citizens.

Because Homosexual Marriage is based on the idea of the gender equality, and tends to establish those competitive relations which will destroy chivalrous consideration.

Because homosexuals have at present a vast indirect influence through their menfolk on the politics of this country.

Because the physical nature of homosexuals unfits them for direct competition with normal citizens.

*Based - replacing the word 'woman' with 'homosexual' and 'man' with 'normal citizen', on “Arguments against women's suffrage” (texts from 1914 to 1992)

It is only a matter of time, as it has always been, and sooner or later they will win, you know that. So, I wonder, why do not we carry on the work and we end once and for all being the last to turn present time in the future?

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Thursday, January 28, 2016

Marine Le Pen and Matteo Salvini in the realm of fantasy

Stories and News No. 835

I read that tonight there will be a meeting in Milan, Italy, of the political group ENF (Europe of Nations and Freedom) led by Matteo Salvini. There will be, among others right-wing leaders, Marine Le Pen.
Matteo Salvini and Marine Le Pen. Matteo Salvini wanted to be Marine Le Pen. And Marine Le Pen wanted to be her father. However, Salvini and Le Pen, in the world’s tale, have always been the same person.
O character...

Once upon a time there was he, or she, as you like.
No matter the genre and all its diversities, because the story must slide smoothly and, above all, be popular. There is no room, therefore, for social and moral complications.
So, let the story be.
Take Little Red Riding Hood and he comes in and starts to knock on every door and everyone is out, also the mother of the girl child before going to her sick old grandma waiting in the woods. "Enough of the wolves," he shouts. And so other slogans, all in their woods, let’s expel the wolves, the wolves do not respect our grandmothers. Even sheep and chickens, for that matter, but it does not works equally, because as Mom, everyone has a Grandma.
Or, perhaps in another version of the same story, he moves his accusing finger right on the old woman, with a quite logic reasoning, if you think about it: let’s expel grandmothers, especially the sick ones, because they force the girls to cross the forest alone, moreover dressed in red that recalls the wolves, because they are attracted to, or perhaps those are the bulls, anyway that is a fake, but basically... do we really care for the truth?
It is all a fairy tale, we said, and then in Snow White he makes arrangements with the Evil Queen and, without the need she showed her ugliness to sell rotten apples, he embarks on a campaign in the press, in fact, in the magic mirror, to defame the seven. “Dwarves are here to take our women and grandmothers too,” the flyer with more bitterness says, “especially those with as white as snow skin and as red as blood lips.”
Or, maybe Snow White might be the target. “Who does she think to be?” He would scream from the highest tower of the castle of the gloating sovereign. “Miss White wants to change our traditions and our culture! First of all, the queen wanted a male, so there are serious doubts about the girl’s identity. Second, reflecting the confusion of the latter, she runs away from home, talks with the animals and goes to live with seven miners in the woods?”
Another story, another witch to burn, you might say, and here we are in Cinderella.
“That is easy for you,” he would say standing up like an angry bulwark in defending the rights of poor stepsisters. “Stepsisters? Let's face it, she is the half-sister, they're regular ones, I repeat, regular sisters. They live with their regular mother too, not a stepmother. The intruder is the scullery maid.”
The scullery maids at their home,” he would cry, “before they will ruin forever the right course of History, the straight one, with a capital H, with the help once again of a witch.”
“It’s easy going to parties and do the vamp thanks to magical chopsticks,” the ending moral.
Or perhaps he would throw out each gram of animosity towards the fairy godmother and all magicians in the stories, guilty of cheating on the outcome, apart from Evil Queen and maybe Voldemort.
“Magic is not part of our religion,” he would yell loudly.
The reality is a true joke, not a fairy tale, because the realm of fantasy is full of absurd characters.
However, why between cruel orcs and firing dragons, giants with one eye and headless ghosts just he had to be the real one?

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Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Diversity stories: true story of the hiding land

Stories and News No. 834

The nude statues of the Capitoline Museums in Rome, Italy have been covered so as not to offend the Iranian president.
Tell me if there is better metaphor for the modern paradox around beauty and all its diversities...

Once upon a time there was the hiding land.
The nude statues, of course, but it is not just a casual event.
So, no one will be entitled to buckle their chest, filling it with false pride to seize yet another opportunity to reject the usual patriotic refrain.
The blanket of fools alarms and anachronistic follies is wide.
Too wide.
Otherwise, we would not talk about the hiding land, but the land that once hid, but then it understood.
Fortunately for all, the land understood and it went on, inside present, even before future.
The hiding land works with daily obstinacy.
It hides normal desires of wonderful creatures and wonderful dreams of normal beings with the same nonchalance.
It hides entire chapters of its past history, but not content, it is careful to keep survived pages. Never to remember, but with the aim of using them to cover with unexpected clumsiness the less likely horizons. Ignoring that the most indomitable souls will fix their gaze right there.
It hides light, a lot of light, all that it could not control, manage, taking the opportunity as a parasite with its personal prey. Otherwise, it would be just a spectator. And the hiding land do not ever give up the main stage even for its children, let alone the light.
It hides eccentric colors and irreverent shapes as if they are horrible monsters. As if they were not what really worth risking eyes and passions.
It hides lives, countless lives, leaving them trapped in the corner behind a giant, old and shabby, dusty and broken blackboard, which could at any moment collapse on them. And that would be sure the most unpardonable of future.
Once upon a time there was the hiding land.
Well, calm down the bastions of the native soil.
It is fair, since it is not limited to the scandalous statues. In fact, it deals with equally senseless shame fragments of memory and colors, shapes and lives, dreams and desires.
Extraordinary or simple they are.
But it is also the most paradoxical of hiders in history.
Because it is the land that hides all that is beautiful…

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Friday, January 22, 2016

Diversity stories for kids: our planet

Stories and News No. 833

A new planet was discovered on the end of the solar system...

Once upon a time there was her.
Or he.
Call them, too.
Call them what you like, so this is granted and, rarely, actually blamed. Because it happens again, again, and again.
Call us, this time.
With the eyes that look farther, necessarily.
Think about it, really. Who could look at the very antipodes of today better than those who bet on that mirage their present time, their souls and the last wishes?
The good news is that we give up, once and for all.
The war is over, because the enemy is gone. Civilian casualties will finish the count of their own. And an empty space will widen on the spewing press.
Just a few seconds, all right, because while the trendy goat dies, you will quickly find another one to crucify.
Nevertheless, it does not concern us anymore. So, good luck to the next.
Indeed, take everything.
The earth is yours.
What you screamed like yours, and also the one that you are still robbing.
Like ours.
The right to love anyone... take it.
And add as well, sculpting with golden letters on the main streets, the precious fragment you love so much: the right to love anyone... was like you.
The air will again be completely yours, as well as the waters of the rivers and seas.
Anyway, we were tired of defending them, knowing that the opponent had already decided long ago the future of all.
The noble stage is safe forever, now, because you can finally enact the most absurd farces and still receive the orgiastic ovation you worship. Because you will be best actors and audience at the same time.
The main pages of the authoritarian saying will no longer be called into question, from now on. Because you will play and sing in full autonomy. The notes of the official melody will get in the ears without the slightest friction.
The way will be smooth and you will no longer need to hide the dirt under the carpet.
Because we, the dirt, we will be long gone.
Where?
Simple, I would say right.
We, him, her, and them who, inevitably, have got the only eyes able to reach the outer limits of the sky, we can exclaim without any fear of contradiction.
The ninth planet is ours.
All ours.
Because we were the first to see it.
Or better.
To dream of it…

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Thursday, January 21, 2016

Racism stories: Baseema’s answer

Stories and News No. 832

I read that in Middlesbrough, England, they had the questionable idea to distinguish the homes of refugees from the "normal" neighbors by painting red entrance doors. With the risk, among other things, that the houses will become an easier target of racist attacks...


I am Baseema.
I am seven years old and my name has a precious meaning.
It means smiling.
Now, there is smile and smile.
My father says that mine’s value is double.
Because I smiles before and even after having discovered the real sense of things.
For example, take this red door’s thing.
When I saw it the first time I smile, really.
What am I saying? I heartily laughed, as when you eat something good.
That is, when you eat something.
Big.
A red door? And we are the only ones to have it?
Why? I asked my mother while she mended.
My mother does nothing but mend the few rags we call clothes, where holes are ever much more than the rest. That is the story of our lives, but I am not complaining, because holes hide a priceless gift. You can fill them with anything you like or you can also wait for someone else to realize the dream for you and, in that case, be patient.
For the record, Mom did not answer me and so my brother.
That is, he actually did it, but I long ago decided not to count as answers angry faces, bored eyes and frightened mouths.
My father, however, looked at me carefully and replied with a question. When he does that I hate him. Or, the contrary.
"In your opinion, Baseema, why are we the only ones with the red door?"
I also have some mute answers, to be honest.
The crinkled and whooping forehead, like the sea that brought us here, means ever the same thing: I have to think.
One day, one night and the favorable design has made its way into my mind, in the form of an explosion of unique variations, all of the same color.
Red, made of many red explanations.
As many as the innumerable shades of human skin or the lives out of the same door.
Then the door is red because one day all the bulls in the world, crazy for happiness, will open, at last free from the cruel show that is funny for the audience and pain for the protagonists. The door is red because it burned alive by always on flames, there to remember who has yet to reach the shore, with breath or memory. The door is red like the blood that really never lies, because I do not know if it is always good, but it really is the same for everyone. The door is red like the sky at sunset, so that every night, just at sunset, the door and the sky will be the same. To remind that this house is all we got past the horizon that you already were calling… house.
The door is red for the reasons we all know, but that's okay, and I smile.
Because my name is Baseema, which means smiling.
Because my father says I smile twice, before and after.
The former has gone, and maybe that blessed “after” is not now.
But it will come, I am sure.
And even billions of doors will not be enough to stop me...

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Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Diversity stories: who apologize to?

Stories and News No. 831

Clash of the coaches in Italy during the last minutes of the football match between Napoli and Inter yesterday night. Mancini accuses Sarri of calling him f****o (a very offensive term to say homosexual), while the latter said he after apologized to him...

Let's assume that.
Let's assume, on the contrary, from another angle, in short, from where you want to watch the whole thing, that the slur and all its synonyms is replaced with the word male.
And let’s imagine that we also live in a world where males are the alleged dangerous species.
Imagine being males in that same planet. Although being described as a male, in all possible worlds, at the end of the games does not mean anything.
Nevertheless, follow me.
Imagine finding yourself, since the day you have recognized the male expression as the best approximation of what represents your gender identity, seeing the latter associated to every kind of aberration, mockery, disease and shame.
All minimized, most of the time, with a phrase that has become a sort of discounted refrain: “Am I homophobic? You know, I have a lot of male friends...”
So an unbridled desire comes out to meet them all in a room and ask: “How the f*** are you his friends?”
Now, for a level playing field, I should write something on the second asterisks word in the story, but it would add too much confusion.
Well, the males of this tale, or those who somehow feel evoked by the metaphor, have already suffered too much confusion. A pregnant, dense and disorganized cloud, full of adjectives and slogans, misrepresentations and insults. A nauseating lump, mixed in a lot of semantic manipulations and syntactic exploitations composed by seemingly naive letters.
Blowing the whole thing, even if with a proud chest, is useless.
Hoping that finally the wind will get strong, not only thanks to your breath, is useless
And looking back to the blind side of the room is useless too.
The cloud ungainly screams and undeterred drools. And, despite your efforts, it becomes even bigger, eating well also the rantings of those who, in some way, might close once and for all this humiliating chapter of human narration.
Because, those who really take the weight on their shoulders, belly and heart, are ever and only them.
The males, with all that wicked stuff we use to conjure up next to them.
That's why, among the pathetic duelists, including yet another injury and the usual excuses, I apologize to all of you.
For all the times that with one word, convinced that I had insulted a single person, I actually offended millions...

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Friday, January 15, 2016

War crime Syria is starvation: Ali's victories

Stories and News No. 830

I read that a sixteen years old boy, identified as Ali, has died of starvation in the city of Madaya, Syria, under siege since July 2015, adding to the tens of deaths due to malnutrition denounced by the United Nations.
This is his story…

My name is Ali, I was born at the beginning of the third millennium and I am, was, sixteen years old.
Forever.
Equally, for every day to come, I will be Ali who won.
I started to defeat enemies that would dwarf adults everywhere, even with voice amplified by "keyboard cockiness" and "couch arrogance", since I was just eleven.
The war erupted, at that time, as usual.
Synthesized and shredded on newspaper good for fish and chip without even waiting for the next day, crumbled and reassembled in images and videos whose only special effect is the convenient likelihood.
Yet, the war exploded and then started to bite life with more or less blind fury even in my invisible existence.
As usual.
Then I defeated fear, but it was just the beginning.
Because the next year I faced and won the loneliness of a world within a world, inside another and still another one. Even if, at the end of the day illuminated by misery and stupidity, it is just one.
At the dawn of the thirteen years I found myself surrounded by an army of killers among the most dangerous at any age. Read as well as the merciless devourers of hopes.
They yelled and danced slobbering all together, confused among themselves as a deafening and elusive stain, vile as they are, but I never blinked an eye. Advancing, I observed them all one by one, without lowering my head even to look where I was putting my feet.
So, in the only possible way, I reached the following year to see us wandering by the most dangerous of human epidemics. Indifference, that is your name. And I have ever been immune, admit it. I have called you by name and so I cast you from every centimeter of my skin. Because for people like us, who learned to survive before reading and arithmetic, remaining unscathed before the things of the world is the worst of sins.
Last year came slow, but it's arrived and brought the lord of deceit, in the form of a deadly gift perfectly wrapped. The alleged blessing of a fragmentation between breaths heated from the same blood. Brother against sister, mother against father, I kill you and you that, at the very best, will live the rest of your time to kill…
Me.
I won this time too.
Because my hands are dirty, it is true, and I assume you'll understand. Dust and blood are now fundamental particles of hardened fingertips. But those blood and dust are mine, no one will ask them back, because I never thought to steal them.
Today my last enemy arrived, the thousand different faces monster, but all transformed by seemingly unstoppable forces.
Hunger.
Hunger for justice and for peace, hunger for future and for smiles.
Hunger for songs on summer afternoons and racing at sunset until the heart will hurt, never really hurting it.
Hunger for normality, more than anything.
And, listen, I won again.
My name is Ali, I was born at the beginning of the millennium and I was, am, sixteen years old.
Until the end of days.
They will tell you that they I died for starvation, but they are not telling everything.
Because as sure as starvation had the final say about me, my epitaph states that the hunger for food, which, even at this time is mowing life, is not my defeat.
It is yours…

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Thursday, January 14, 2016

Same sex adoption stories: the empty house

Stories and News No. 829

Once upon a time there was a house.
Actually, no.
A suitcase, if you prefer.
Look, your choice.
Imagine something that is able to contain.
To welcome, indeed.
Draw it as you wish, the stretch and the color inspiration do not matter.
What really counts is that it is empty.
Done? Fine, if we may say so.
Now look.
Do you see the child before you, beyond your authoritative desk?
Ah ... is she a girl?
It is the same, this time it is really the same without discussion.
Because whatever you will define the young alive protagonist, the common thin is nothing.
Because the house, the suitcase, everything you had figured able to contain, welcome, it is blank. An immeasurable absence, an uncomfortable obstacle to face even for the wildest fantasies, rightly fearful of yet another disappointment.
Like a boa constrictor that just believes it had swallowed an elephant.
The child in the house, the girl with the suitcase, the hairless creature with the evanescent load on the shoulders is in front of you, now, with that same emptiness at stake.
Now give vent to yourself.
Fill your desk with your whole luggage.
Your culture and the one of the people you owe something to.
Your morale and the one of those you never want to disappoint.
Throw out the laws, every laws, those you believe in and the ones you already know that one day will appear as a kind of border among those who were already on the right side of history and those who have resisted to the last guilty embarrassment.
Eject even shamelessly every intimate reason and personal experience that somehow condition your doing. Do not delay, because this time no one is going to label them with more or less easy judgments.
Because the only witness before you has nothing.
Weighted for good the wooden table with each voice that feels entitled to punctually rattle off myriad of gender complications before the most natural act.
Because this is what we are dealing with.
A natural and extremely simple task.
Because even when you have got rid of the last fragment of words and noises, that the fate of the new life is screaming inside, you will finally be on par with him.
With her.
A child.
Maybe a little girl.
And in the middle a deafening bareness.
Read it as well as a house, a suitcase or anything that can fill only.
With love…

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Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Denmark seize refugees valuables: what I offer

Stories and News No. 828

Dear Danish Government,

I heard that you're starting to use the right to seize our goods in order to cover the costs.
I did not really want to talk about rights.
Especially mine.
Maybe because I have forgotten what they are.
Or, perhaps, because that is the best thing I remember.
That's why I won’t complain.
I will not raise my voice to put at risk every single moment that still awaits me.
I will not oppose the umpteenth abuse.
Because living another day and go on like this until there will be road is the true paradise.
Hell is only one form of the latter you will give us, despite we already know how it is done.
For this reason I'm here, now.
Confiscate, confiscate as well, but you will not find any money because my parents used it to buy time for me. All you can roll out ahead like a red carpet, even if blood colored.
You won’t discovery any jewel of any value, in my mother’s case, because she exchanged it for an always open window in my heart, where I will never lose sight of the lovable memories.
You won’t detect anything, alas, you could define valuable.
If not, you really believe that I would be here today?
Anyway, with a little stretch of imagination, rather a lot, and a reduction of apathy, in fact so much, I ask you to listen to what I offer.
Confiscate, confiscate even my right index finger, the one I used one day to bet the horizon far away from death.
Namely, you.
Take it, maybe you'll have better luck than me.
Don’t be shy, confiscate without fear my eyelids. Protected by them I built impossible alternatives as never perfect places, only slightly more bearable than the road to reach them. I know I can afford without, now, because daydreaming became the only human way to see.
Confiscate my left knee, but do it soon, though, now that I'm in a good mood. Because when I am sad I often find myself thinking about the day I hurt it, playing with my father. When my father was there.
Confiscate, confiscate without hesitation, which is just another way to tell a theft.
And, if you need it right, confiscate every centimeter of my skin, so that from the moment you have finished your work I will walk among you as the most naked of the living creatures.
I wonder if observing with an equally bare eye a vibrant heart, a pair of lungs in the grip of breath and a river of blood running from north to south of a stubborn life you finally will see what I offer.
And what you really seized…

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