The Best Thing That Ever Happened (to you)

When we moved to the U.S., my mom stopped working so that she could raise us at home. My dad made an OK living for us and we were never in need of much of anything so we stayed home with mom. Soon mom didn't like just being at home with nothing to do, so she started a babysitter business out of her home. Of course, this was back when all you needed was a trusty neighbor to watch your kids and mom happened to be that trusty neighbor who didn't need a license for anything.

One of the girls she used to babysit had an uncle. Good guy. I remember him very well. His name was Mario. I started having problems with math when I was in 6th grade and when he'd come to pick up his niece whenever his sister couldn't, he'd stick around and help me with my homework. I was only 10 or so at the time so this made a positive impact on me.

He only lived about 2 blocks away so I'd occasionally stop by his house for him to help me with my homework and we'd end up talking about all kinds of things. He introduced me to books like Orwell's 1984 and Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo long before I would ever be told to read them in high school and I was always very grateful about this. He was very smart and very outspoken about life and other matters. After a couple of years, Mario suddently stopped coming around to pick up his niece. We always wondered why but we never really inquired. I'd go over to their house and his dad would always give me some tripe like he was sleeping or that he was out, but I figured they were just wanting me off the property. Sooner or later, it started circulating in the gossip circles that Mario was H.I.V. positive and that he was a homosexual. Suddenly it became clear to me why I was never allowed to see him anymore. The gay and H.I.V. are contagious by skin or something!

At that age I was also still a very devout catholic. So I told my mom what was happening and she told me that the best thing to do would be to pray for him. So we did but I felt that I still wasn't doing enough; didn't Jesus want to help the sick? Why couldn't I try to do the same? So I went to speak to the priest of our parish about Mario. I told him how it was probably a good idea that I go visit him and talk to him so he's not alone in such a time of need. Father Lastiri (it's funny how easily I remember THIS one's name) told me in no kind words that Mario was a sinner and that his disease was god's punishment for being a sinner. That his sins had finally caught up with him at the height of his debauchery and as such we should no longer associate with those people who would be willing to defile the laws of the lord the way he had. After all, men were never supposed to lie down with other men and AIDS was the end result. Not kidding, in a half hour or so, that's pretty much what his rant boiled down to: God doesn't like homosexuals, AIDS is the reward he reaped and, lest I wanted to follow in his footsteps, I should probably never go see him again.

So you know what I did? I listened to good ol' Father Lastiri. After all, he was a man of god. Surely he knew something I didn't! I never went to visit him again and I never asked about him again to his sister when she'd come to pick up her girl. About 8 months later, Mario died of some kidney complications surely exacerbated by the god-given disease he carried. I never even went to his funeral. After all of this went down, I was completely racked with guilt. I could've broken the rules and made an exception for him but I didn't; god wouldn't want that.

I've told this story to exactly three people up until now and I'm not sure why I'm typing it all out now. All I know is that it's the best thing that ever happened to me because, without this experience, I would have taken much much longer that I would have liked to realize what a laughable hypocrisy organized religion is and what sick fucking minds it takes to carry out things in the name of their imaginary friend; even if it means poisoning others' minds with this reproachable tripe.

I still go to Mario's grave once a year to leave flowers. He'll never see them but maybe his family does and I hope they know that someone else cared. Even if it's some sort twisted sense of posthumous attrition on my behalf.

How ya doing, buddy?