Letter to a poor homophobe (x-post to /r/LGBTeens)

Note: this isn't my text, it's just the translation of this article (http://ift.tt/1K5zxLE)While you assert your opinion strongly, what I hate the most about you is what you don't know.You don't know what a father who shakes his other children's hair (but not yours), only because you don't play with his football:You don't what the first true lie is, and the red cheeks when all your family members expect you to kiss that other girl but you don't want to, and the fight with anomalies starts in your head.Like when you'd like those toys that have a color that someone else decided to be for girls;You don't know what it's like dreaming in the classroom and not having the possibility to risk, writing notes to the others or trying (to get a date) during the school trip. You don't know what it's like seeing the others develop their chest and their muscles, kissing in front of the school, becoming young adults and creating groups of friends. With intertwined hands while sitting and laughing on the wall. While you live waiting for an error which never goes away. And you lose the years of experiments, the years in which you have the license to be foolish which will expire with your diploma (in Italy it's the end of high school, diploma di Maturità). And together with the first loves which you had to stop and strangle, you end your adolescence. You say goodbye without having even tasted it;You don't know what it's like going out when all the others are in bed, the keys picked up in silence and escaping in the car where all the street lamps are off. In the nights when it rains, the best ones because nobody can look beyond the wetness, and in the danger of an isolated street. Where someone you don't know yet might walk. You don't know how it's like waiting in terror for the first lights in the distance, and hoping it's not a policeman or a criminal who'll steal your wallet, but someone hiding in the bushes like you. Someone to whom you can steal a kiss to bring home. Meager, begged for, unenthusiastic, just so that you can believe that you're interesting to someone;You don't know what it's like when your mother asks you to keep a low profile, or when your father would like you to be more manly. You don't know what it's like to never feel like you're enough, and then even one too many in the house you were born in. Feeling your parents hoping for you to go away, bringing wiht you their and your shame. You don't know what it's like being tormented by where you'd go to live if they kicked you out, putting mere survival in front of your family. You don't what it's like to have to leave your homeland just to be yourself. Beginning to check the list of the things you said you would eventually do, which you'll slowly do at the wrong times. Like the first dates at 25, when the others are already getting married and calling you immature;You don't know what it's like to have a label on you, stuck on by those who believe they're different and better from you because of their religion. You don't know what it's like waking up every day and feeling like a study subjects, discussed like a disease, a trend, a damage to the country's funds and a disaster for children. You don't know what it's like having to endure the tips on a child's education by someone who's asexual in the name of God (a.k.a. by a priest), and being between people who give more credit to the corruption under that tunic than not to the love you have to give;You don't know what it's like not having the means to like someone like everyone does. You don't know what it's like to be in a cafe, smiling to someone on the other side and not having the possibility to give them your number, because you don't know if they'd call you back or slap you. You don't know what it's like having to give up the spontaneity of chance or genuine impulses but having to restrict your desires to a theme local or a chat in which no one reveals their name for fear;You don't know the anxiety of holding hands, or going back home alone and on foot, because you could find yourself surrounded by people with bats in their hands. Finding yourself with a sore face against the ground and no one to ask for help to, no one helping you, no one who dares turning because of discomfort. You don't know what the wounds and bruises for which no one will pay are, because homophobia isn't a crime, according to law. And you go on in life with the doubt and tears ready, accepting that certain crimes only have victims and no criminals;You don't know what it's like to not have the freedom to be with someone, and never becoming adults for real.Not being able to chase the instics of human tradition, but listening to politics and groups who say you'll never have the right to be happy with someone else. Drop after drop, that your emotions are only the product of a distortion.Then, when you watch what you have left, tired, being called a pervert.Because this world only gave you the right to have sex, but did it only to remind you that it's the only thing you're interested in. And after having convinced entire generations that for you and those like you there's nothing else, and no form of emotion, you start convincing yourself that what you have is enough. Already stained by all the lies, the hate and the melancholy. And you have sex because that's what's been established for you. You have sex because that's the only thing your heart is used to. You have sex in a dark room full of bodies, so that no one can see you and judge you again. You have sex to finally feel that thing. Sharing. Tormented, longed for sharing of yourself;You don't know what it's like being more than thirty and not having any legal right, already possession of everyone at birth but not you. Even though you tried showing the world more than what you had to. From when you started begging your father for that small praise, the forgiveness of your mother for the grandchildren she'll never have. The respect of colleagues at work, a salary with which you don't have to worry about taxes or the profile of a decent citizen.And you don't know what it's like being called "the gays" on TV. Not even in singular, not a name nor a surname. Only "the gays", without the rights for which you already pay for the others.You don't know what it's like to get old in the echo of an empty house. Because after an existence spent listening to lies or reasons for which you are inadequate to have a family you've lost the strength and audacity to believe in yourself. To bond, to choose another person with whom you can start the adventure of your last piece of life. Because anyways it's not marriage, there aren't any children, and if your loved one ends up in the hospital you can't even go see him. And in the end you don't exist for anyone, slowly you don't exist even for yourself and abandon yourself to loneliness;You don't know many things. You almost don't know anything. But every day you grasp on the privilege to express your opinion and break my heart. We didn't ever even see each other, yet you devastate my life. Unconcerned, like your species, and mine too, is. Unconcerned. And if we stopped being that, towards those who live around us, nothing would be left except for peace.Pierpaolo Mandetta, Letter to a poor homophobe