away that day 32 years ago ... I was in eighth grade and I arrived only the echoes of the class struggle, of protest, workers and students united in the fight ... In 13 years it is still children or more. The school year had finished and I was preparing for exams to middle school. A boy who was just beginning to see the world that was beyond their own home, your family ... politics ... the girls were new things that I began to look with interest, but still far from me, I moved to the world outside, taking its first timid steps. One of This step was reading the free copy of the Unit in which my father took me to allow me to dial the weekly theme on current. Strange, I never understood why my father, a man of the right, take me systematically newspaper of the Communist Party of Berlinguer.
That day in May, many years ago I was out of school with a bag filled with books and notebooks, which are jealously hide the carpettina which contained the poems dedicated to my compagnetta class (first "love" of the Platonic and unpaid my life). I got home and fiondai in my room for storage in a locked drawer's secret writings (the earliest "literary evidence" of my life). Turned on cassette player. ... The locomotive of Frank Sinatra .... A full volume. My mother yelled from the kitchen: - radiu is down - but as usual I ignored the call.
Soon afterwards my father's serious look, drawn, worried
- Did you hear what happened? - Asked my mother, and her negative response, he continued: - they killed Aldo Moro.
front of the television in my house was still in black and white, I saw the news. Moro's all I knew, thanks to the pages of the Unit. But I did not know who it was that other person that is talked about in private radio: a companion, a Sicilian, Peppino Impastato, but also ... I learned to know his biography. A son of our land, the son of a mafia that rebelled against the Mafia and was killed (killed, does not make good the concept, has killed more clear) by the Mafia.
Now I remember that day away with a lump in my throat and the images overlap in my mind a combination of rhymes of love kissing, newspaper articles and the faces of all those who are no longer
That day in May, many years ago I was out of school with a bag filled with books and notebooks, which are jealously hide the carpettina which contained the poems dedicated to my compagnetta class (first "love" of the Platonic and unpaid my life). I got home and fiondai in my room for storage in a locked drawer's secret writings (the earliest "literary evidence" of my life). Turned on cassette player. ... The locomotive of Frank Sinatra .... A full volume. My mother yelled from the kitchen: - radiu is down - but as usual I ignored the call.
Soon afterwards my father's serious look, drawn, worried
- Did you hear what happened? - Asked my mother, and her negative response, he continued: - they killed Aldo Moro.
front of the television in my house was still in black and white, I saw the news. Moro's all I knew, thanks to the pages of the Unit. But I did not know who it was that other person that is talked about in private radio: a companion, a Sicilian, Peppino Impastato, but also ... I learned to know his biography. A son of our land, the son of a mafia that rebelled against the Mafia and was killed (killed, does not make good the concept, has killed more clear) by the Mafia.
Now I remember that day away with a lump in my throat and the images overlap in my mind a combination of rhymes of love kissing, newspaper articles and the faces of all those who are no longer
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