Papi

my daddy is a rock. the kind of rock that held up the old apartment with leaking ceilings and cracked walls. who taught me to take some breaths before reacting, who gave up his fists and the bottle so he could be here to father this daughter-turned-son a little longer. he always reminded me that no matter what it took, he would get some rice and beans on the table and we would be alright.

a white teacher once told me that he'd learned that rice and beans were peasant food in latin america and i cried such huge tears while i ate my dinner that night i made myself ill. i had a second helping to make up for letting the food my dad worked so hard for escape my body and felt nourished with the knowledge that each meal i'd ingested to that point in my life was a meal my mom and dad, not peasants, but surivivors,  had cried and sweated over.

my daddy is the handsomest man i'd met until my brother grew to be just as handsome as him. he's got a pretty Brown face, with big eyes that hide behind his glasses like mine do, a full head of thick, dark, straight, cholo/chino hair, perfect teeth, high-cheekbones and chiseled jaw, and a rare but sincere smile. i often say i hope i age as well as he has, so that i can be a fine Brown old man one day too.

one time, when we were real little, james told dad he didn't want him to drop him off at school cause he was too dark.  me and dad are the same color, especially in the summers when i can catch my Brownness up to his by sitting in the sun for hours on end. james and Ma have really light skin, but you can still ID them as Brown people at first glance.  but that was real for us growing up, Ma always regretted having a son that was light skinned and had pretty wavy hair and having a then-daughter who was Brown-skinned with thick ass stubborn hair we don't know whether to attribute to the indigena ancestors or the chinese ones. 

i've always had body-image issues that relate to my size or gender presentation, but i thank the ancestors every day for my brown skin and dark eyes and the legacies and histories that grow in my hair; and this was something i learned from my daddy, from the time i was born to the moment i looked in the mirror this morning after washing my face and saw those worry lines above my eyes and realized that the older i get, and the more my body transitions, the more i look like this man who taught me to love and taught me to keep fighting.

i never saw daddy cry until lauren passed away.  he didn't even cry when his Ma died. i doubt he cried when his daddy died when he was seven. when lauren passed, i called my daddy at work. i was three states away. i was crying from the gut and my nose was already at that point in the crying cycle where you can no longer inhale. i called him because i needed my rock. my best childhood friend, chosen sister, potentially first love, dead at age twenty and i was devastated. daddy tried to be that rock, but i heard his voice break, and i broke a little more. i knew for the first time that neither i nor daddy could do anything about it.

the second time i saw my Papi cry was when james was in rikers.  i had been going to visit my bro every visit, and so the hours of waiting in line and then getting inside and looking at his tired face and big beard had become something i looked forward to.  when james and i got to spend that time, i would turn on that part of me daddy always showed me; the part that takes it in stride, that understands that this too shall pass, that doesn't cry or get hung up on things.  i would tell james stories and reminisce with him, and hold his hand when the guards weren't looking, and i never told him about how much i was crying at home or how many times his daughter asked for him that day, or how every time i listened to the radio i would remember him and wish he was there to talk about music and be hard with. i took daddy one time. i looked at the three of us.  we look real similar in the face, and we all swallow our tears and grin almost in synch. it was the most silent visit i ever had with james and i told him i loved him and my eyes got red, but i didn't cry.

when we got off the bus, my daddy held my hand and we let go of tears at the same time and we never talked about it, but he's like me, or i'm like him, and i knew exactly what he was feeling.

a couple of weekends ago, while i was really sick, my mom and dad showed up at my house.  i was walking with them to the subway, and i looked at my dad's face. he looked worried in the eyes, but i knew that seeing me for the first time in a couple of months had been sufficient for him to feel okay and realize that i was going to be alright.  he hugged me goodbye. it was the first time we've touched since lauren's funeral. that was almost five years ago.

when i was little, i would sleep stuffed in his right underam, hold his hand when we walked down the street, sit on his lap on the bus, eat next to him at the dinner table, and fall asleep next to the chair where he would fall asleep after twelve hour work days.

Comments

[Shomi]

Victor,

I just wanted to drop by to tell you that I think your writing is beautiful and compelling. I hope all is well and awesome with you.

-Shomi

[Hope]

hi victor!

i just signed in for the first time in about a year or two. i have been reading your blogs and just want to tell you I think your amazing, strong, and I want to say thank you for sharing. I feel inspired. :-)

Hope