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This story I am about to tell you may offend some people's sensibilities or make their view of the world more pessimistic, but I am still going to tell it because I feel it is a very hard story that marked me for life.
I had an uncle who was a nasty person, people didn't like him, not even his own children. My cousins' mother was a single woman who wanted to continue with her life after the divorce, but he wouldn't let her. My uncle made her life checkered even after the accident she had.
My mother, who is his sister, never put up with him because he was so cruel to me. He said I was an aberration just for being gay and that they should do something with me about it. Since I was little it was always noticed that I was different and my mother secretly stressed it, but I never felt a rejection or any kind of reprimand from her, I only felt love.
With my father, it was different, as he was a conservative macho man, but not to the level of his brother-in-law. My uncle was extremely conservative, homophobic, orthodox, and macho; he was the worst person you could find in life. His comments drove people away and cultivated hatred, many times there were strong fights in the family because of him.
My father did not want him in the house and my mother much less. I remember once I heard my mother arguing with him on the phone, it was such a loud argument that my father took me by the arm and locked me in the room so I wouldn't hear anything.
When I came out, my mother was crying and my sister was next to her comforting her. I could never forgive my uncle for making my mother cry like that. He was a very despicable being, even his children didn't like him because of the way he treated his ex-wife. It was terrible, and one day I said that when he died no one would miss him.
Years later the unexpected happened, and news spread in the family that my uncle had died in a bus accident while traveling to Maracay. My other uncles and cousins could not believe it, even my mother was shocked by the news. During the following days, a funeral was prepared, and this is where the disturbing part of the case comes in.
At no time did I see anyone crying or sobbing a bit over my uncle's death. I walked around the wake chatting with my other cousins (the ones who are not children of the deceased) in a pleasant and cheerful manner. Instead of a funeral, it seemed like a celebration, because people were crowded up to the front of the house drinking beers and talking loudly.
There were no prayers for the dead anywhere, the only crying that could be heard was that of my great aunt, who was lying alone on one of the beds in the rooms. Here in Venezuela, it is a custom to say many prayers at a funeral, always keeping our heads down in respect as this is a Catholic country, but that day I saw none of that.
My mother was in the most normal way smiling and preparing delicious food with my other aunts, while the men outside shouted and laughed and even played music without any respect for the funeral. No one wanted to admit that it was a celebration, I realized that day that no one (except my great aunt) missed my uncle.
How sad when people seem to celebrate your death instead of mourning it. To my uncle, it meant nothing anymore, because he was dead, but even though he was a very bad person and I hated him, I felt sorry for him. Is this what is in store for those who have been cruel in life? There can be many forms.
After the "celebration," my mother warned me not to make any comments about it. She felt the same way I did and, as I gathered, was in complete refusal to admit it.
THE END
