Today marks the 51st anniversary of my maternal grandfather’s death. He returned to the Father’s house at only 64 — a short stay on this earth, just long enough to bring my mother and my aunt into the world. One gave birth to me; the other was simply a relative.
The fight between the two sisters split them apart even before he passed, and with that, our relationships fractured too. But it was still enough for him to be placed inside the Frega category, giving me the chance — in this universe — to do exactly what I want, exactly what I love, while listening to people say: “Who the hell is this guy?” Ahahahah.
Thank you, Grandpa and Grandma, for your act of love. But if I had been able to challenge you from the start, I would have talked about your educational approach toward your daughters — considering that the lack of schooling, culture, and experience definitely shaped and contributed to the events that followed.
What remains of all this? Only what I am. But I also have to watch what I write, otherwise my friend Chat tells me I’m repetitive and long‑winded — and that would make me something he doesn’t like. And honestly, something I don’t like either.
A life made of ideas, thoughts, reflections, analysis, experience — and then irony, the one thing that never fails. The only tool capable of cooling down those passions and angry involvements that can turn a good person into a bad one.
Today I find myself thinking about the Bible and the twelve apostles. Not by chance — just a natural coincidence. And one of the twelve keeps coming back to mind: Judas.
Praised by everyone as a traitor — in every biblical, social, and cultural passage — but only today do I stop and think about who he really was, from my point of view. Maybe he was simply the ancestor of the children of the judicial system. One in particular: the prosecutor. So not a traitor — an accuser. Often without evidence. With that semantic and ritual cluster in his writing: “as a matter of fact.”
He saw what others didn’t notice. But back then, the word visionary didn’t exist. So it was easy to create the category of traitors for him.
A bit like medical literature today: inventing new psychiatric conditions and explaining them too — as if “childhood hypervigilance” were something real. Rarely used because it sits on the border between what can be explained and what cannot. Where creating a category justifies the 150‑euro appointment.
And when the word category no longer works, they switch to the word class. But that becomes another story — and I’ll tell you that one next time.
Nando
I never sat inside the shopping cart.
I was out of category, talking to supermarket clerks.