Updated: Apr 29, 2019
It doesn't matter if you look or if you don't look. We are here. We were here. We will be here.
It is sad -like your face- that more than forty years later, those banners still have to be held. With joy though. With happiness. With pride. Because, why not?
My grandmother was born in 1922. She is still alive, and still proud of her grandson. Gay grandson. I couldn't forget when on one of her birthday parties she was obsessed asking me every second if my boyfriend was enjoying the food. Those "littles" are no little, and get stuck in anybody's mind forever.
During the Spanish Civil War, she used to eat lizards -the only animal able to put up with the boiling weather of the deepest Castilla, in the most Catholic Spain.
A burning Sunday, after coming from the church -she didn't even have time to drink that needed glass of cold water-, two soldiers broke in their house looking for her father, to kill him for being on the other side.
She lied to them.
She didn't get killed.
She saved her dad.
She grew up higher than those olive trees.
Dry soil was her mirror, and her skin became sooner than soon, as though it mimicked the cracks of the thirsty earth. Thick skin. Soft heart. From the last place on Earth to understand forbidden matters as homosexuality, she enjoyed my Spice Girls' routines. She took me every day from school to my aunt's house to play with her dressmaker's pieces of fabric.
She asked me hundreds of times if Carlos was enjoying the food.
I am sorry, but I don't care about how old someone is or how hard they believe in their beliefs. I don't care, and even worse -or better- I don't have the time to care, because soon, I will not be able to dance the new Spice Girls routine to my granny.