The Story of a Colourful Backpack

It was the first day of my last year in primary school and for the first time I was allowed to buy a backpack.
Before then I had used some old bags that my mother or my aunt used thirty years before, which I was a little ashamed of in front of all my classmates with their brand new shiny ones.

In the shop, I fell in love with this Invicta backpack at first glance. Multicoloured and bright, and I liked colours and still do. What's wrong with loving colourful things?

The price of the backpack was a little more than I was allowed, but my eyes were shining so much that my mother bought it for me anyway, and I recognise now, twenty years later, that this was indeed a great gesture, in a time when my family sometimes didn't even have money for petrol. 

Full of joy, I showed up at school on the first day of the new year, an important moment! What better way to celebrate than with my new backpack? As soon as I arrived in class, however, I realised that this happiness was very fragile. My backpack was definitely the most colourfulo one and the bunch of children of my class did not welcome the news with the same amount of enthusiasm I had. The backpack was nothing but a new manifestation of my diversity, of that different sensitivity I had, that made me perhaps gentler, more respectful, that made me love dance, that gave me a proper behaviour in every situation and explore the world with creativity. 

For years I had already been nicknamed, depending on the situation: "sissy", "female" (as if being a woman were to be an insult! But you go and explain that to an 8-year-old who's definitely biologically not a girl, and who wonders why people decide to describe him that way), "gay", "frocio", "finocchio", "checca", "ricchione", all of these being pejorative nicknames to define homosexuals. 

Italians get very creative when it comes to insulting gays. 

If you think about it, the Eskimos have so many words to describe the snow, we just as many for the gays. I wonder why.

And just another linguistic note. Did you know that in English the word "bad" derives etymologically from a word used in the past to define homosexuals? Homophobia has been so strong that over the years the word has gone on from just insulting gays to define all evil in general. Ask me why we need a gay pride again. 

This is to say how much our language also represents the voice of a culture that really doesn't spare any efforts to discriminate against minorities. 

But anyway, back to the bag. 

My joy for the new colourful purchase, which I was so happy to wear when I was going to school in the morning, immediately turned into an internal grey, a desire to sink, to disappear, to hide my bang and myself with it, to be transparent. It began with a black marker with which I tried to cover all the colours on the backpack and ended up with slowly ceasing to use the bag to go to school or anything else. I went back to using the old ones that I hated so much, but not so much as myself and that feeling of being different and not welcomed by those who were not like me. The bag stayed at home, in a closet.

The following year, the first of the middle school, I bought a new backpack. Blue. All blue. A colour that I didn't like and still don't like. All that coldness. I have always been green, orange and purple. The blandness of blue was not for me. 

Still, I bought that backpack. What could be more masculine than blue, no drawings or doodles, no chance of being identified among the crowd. I've always hated that backpack, it wasn't me, it didn't represent me. What it represented instead was my attempt to swallow who I really was. 

Many years of lies followed. Lies I was telling myself and others. I stopped watching some movies or listening to certain genres of music for fear of being judged, I decided that being a dancer wasn't the right thing for me and I created a barrier between me and any other form of art, including music. Until the end of high school, I did everything to conform to the norm, even though I don't think I ever really succeeded. 

All this hidden chaos could not remain locked up forever, though. When I reached the bottom, I started a long journey backwards. 

I am grateful for the fact that my family has always been open and allowed me to express these hidden identities without too many hiccups and that my life choices let me approach new people around me. More and more people who were able to accept the differences, who were open to dialogue and capable of exchanging ideas and welcoming new ones, rather than judging. 

I began the rediscovery of what I really was, of all my colours. 

A process which has of course implied a lot of pain. All the layers of hidden emotions and unspoken words, erected as a fortress to protect me. It took time and a lot of work to get rid of them, and I haven't finished yet.

Then, a couple of years ago I found my multicoloured backpack in the recesses of my home in Italy and I thought fuck it. I took it out, dusted it and put it back on my shoulders. 

Obviously, people continue to make comments, and some keep pointing the finger when they see all those colours on me.
Certainly it is not the typical backpack that a thirty year old would use to get around every day. Maybe it's not enough "adult" enough. 

But I think that adulthood can't be proven with what you wear. You can tie a millions of ties around your neck and remain deeply immature a few inches above, in your brain. 

I think that instead, adulthood can be proven by the fact that I can finally wear what I fucking want and not let myself be affected by the judgment of people who don't accept diversity, and that I can be who I really am and show it without fear of not being what people expect of me. 

This is what I've learned through all these years, and this is what the world should have told little Valerio on that first day at school with the new bag: "Don't worry about what they say. They are just scared of being different. But they are all different, we are all different. Some, however, decide to be like the others for fear of being exposed and vulnerable. But you can be whatever you want, and if they don't accept it right away, you can choose to be strong and confident, with your ideas and feelings, walk forward, chin up. You'll see, slowly they will begin to understand that there is nothing to be afraid of. Show them. It's the only way you can live your life as you really want it, and it's the only way new ways of being and thinking can be spread, respected and accepted." 

I have learnt that. It took about twenty years, and I still have a lot to learn, but now here I am, traveling around the world with my colours on my back.

Now, inside my colourful bag, I decide to put whatever I want. :-)

Birthdays

On my birthdays I always wake up feeling somewhat nostalgic and dim. It might be the social pressure of having to make it a special day, having to celebrate, or that I don't particularly cherish the fact of organising parties for myself. It might be the realisation of time passing. Or it might be that my birthday is, for me, a time to sum up wishes and achievements and see where I'm at, and this always turns into a very depressing and dramatic inner dialogue, which is not the lightest way to approach a day of celebrations.

Despite all this, I also usually take the occasion to look at who I am (not only what I have or have done) and I usually realise that I am quite happy and satisfied with the person I am. I might not be where I'd like to in terms of geography, career, sentimental relationships, wealth, or whatever, but I am quite proud of the person I've become so far (there's obviously still a lot of space for growth, and I'm happily learning progressively each day!).

Most of all, I am most grateful to all the people and situations that have led me here, being them "positive" or "negative".
Every year on 9th June I thank my mother for bearing me in her body and delivering me to this world of light, for fighting against gravity and feeding me and teaching me things and scolding me and being absent and being present and loving me no matter what and making me doubt she does and confirming she does and being strong for me and being strong for herself and being weak for herself, for helping me and needing help, for being near and being far.
I thank my mother's mother and all the people with some bits of my blood in their blood and I thank everyone I've exchanged words with, everyone I've exchanged warmth with (being it literal or abstract).
I am grateful for the people who've said happy birthday, the ones that frowned at me, the ones that congratulated me, the ones that envied me, that ones I envied, the ones that loved me and hated me, the ones I've loved and hated, the ones that smiled at me crossing my path and then left without knowing my name.
Each little bit made me what I am, and I have joyfully received them and collected them, trying to make the best of them, trying to become a better person each day.

I love my life, I love this sun (sometimes visible, sometimes not, it's always there!), I love this earth, I love this time, I love myself and all of you and them.

A very merry unbirthday to you! :)

2 Years

Exactly two years ago I took a plane and moved to London, full of hope and love for my future. I imagined everything would change and I would get everything I wanted just because my residence would change. I would find myself, and a lover, and a deal with a label and millions of fan, and I would produce the best music, and be inspired in every moment, and solve all my issues, and be an adult, and reach some kind of Nirvana I would abide with for ever.
It doesn't work like that.

I'm still looking for completeness, I still haven't found love, I still don't have a deal or a one billion dollar record coming out, my music is evolving, inspiration comes and goes, I solve issues and more arise, and I haven't seen any door leading to Nirvana.

But many things have changed, and I've learnt so much. I'm discovering myself and I'm so proud of having made that choice, and my life is beautiful even though imperfect.

There's a lot to do, the path is long and arduous, but the hope and love for my future are still there. 

Just, I also love my present now. 

Amsterdam and the Reason Why

There was a (relatively near) time in the past in which I thought I wanted to be a singer/songwriter because I wanted money and fame, being in TV, having millions of fans and living out of my music. It's what I like doing, and the opportunity of getting money for that would be so bright.

Then one day I was talking with a random stranger and I realised I didn't need any money, just fame. Because I wanted people to know me and appreciate me, making me fill that lack of confidence that every human has and that I cope with in this way.

But well. I came back from the Netherlands yesterday. I went without knowing much about it or having any particular expectation. I took the plane from London with a trolley, a notebook and 10 of my CDs in my bag, because you never know.

Got in Rotterdam and enjoyed its mesmerizing skylines, it's such a surprising city. My eyes weren't used to these wide spaces any more, and the clouds reflecting on the skyscrapers glass. Wow. 

Then in Amsterdam I got lost (literally) in the streets, among the canals and the slanting façades of the houses leaning towards the water. The people, smiling. Colours, sunlight and flowers. It took me a while to get centred in my body, but eventually I did. And (among other unrelated things) started learning something more about myself, about me making music.

It may sound cheesy, and probably it is, but other than that, it is very true, and it's what keeps me going.

I've always asked myself why I'm here (in this room, in this city, in this continent, on this heart, in this moment), and rarely I have found a convincing answer. Well, I think I have a good one now.

I'm here for those smiles. I'm here to give them to these people I meet on my path. I'm here to be useful, to learn and teach, to make them happy. And one of the better ways I do it is with music. 

That's why I make it. 

For the guy sitting in the Starbucks at the station, for the one with the watery eyes in the audience and the other nodding his head with the beat, for the not-brave-enough-to-get-a-guitar-and-sing girl sitting next to me, for the clerk whose eyes brightened when I asked a different question, for the guy sitting by the canal and his little book.

Music can make people feel better, and I don't think I'm being conceited if I say that my music does so sometimes (or at least that's what they say). 

To me, this is more important than money and fame. Of course, these two elements are useful and part of the process. My music won't be heard if I don't have (even a small amount of) fame, and I won't have fame if I don't have the means to produce something to be heard (which require money). I will need a bit more money and a bit more fame, which will give me more time to write and improve and distribute and reach more ears and souls. But the ultimate goal is the smiles of the people I meet, physically and acoustically.

Writing my emotions on the music staff (I am grateful for this possibility that music gives me of sublimating my sorrows and amplifying my joys) and putting my life, my body, my time, my words, to use of these smiles or tears that people give me in return.

I think this is why I live.