I can’t be the only one who grew up having to cross out the “father” or the “papa” in the cards for today to write in the word “Papi.” For years I’ve been talking about how triflin’ the ideology of “machismo” is only assigned to Latino men, as if we have a monopoly on this idea of masculinity which is often focused only on the negative. I have yet to experience those negative characteristics that researchers (and now our community) claim make up the masculinity Latino men embody.

My Papi was nothing like what research would want me to believe. For this Papi’s Day I wrote a piece on what my machismo is and what it looks like. I know many of us have experienced forms of machismo that are filled with love, compassion, trust, and joy yet rarely have our narratives featured or shared. Here’s a bit of my testimonio. Felicidades to all the Papi’s today!

My machsimo is a pretty big deal. It looks like a six foot tall and three inch man who is in one word: huge. It is the kind of huge that we have been socialized to be scared of when we encounter, especially if we are alone, or it is dark. What my machismo knows is that my father speaks multiple languages, English being his third. He learned to speak English by listening to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. He is an artist in every sense of the word and values paint, instruments, architecture, and the like. I grew up hearing music from all over the world and having every instrument available to me so that I could interact with and play it whenever I chose. There was art and music all around me growing up. Almost all of the art and music around me was created or produced by my father, his covers of songs, his attempts to learn the English language while still raising my sister and I with a sense of cultural pride for our community, language, and heritage.

The man that taught me about health and how to care for my body did it in ways that met me where I was at, my father the harm reductionist! As a child I had swallowed a peanut and had to be rushed to the hospital as I choked on the peanut. This resulted in a fear of swallowing pills and when I began to menstruate and needed to take ibuprofen for my menstrual cramps it was my father who would consistently every eight hours take a piece of foil, two pills, crush them with a spoon, pour them in the spoon, and feed them to me so I could experience some relief. It is the same man who taught me the breathing techniques he learned when my mother was pregnant with me so when I had the most painful of cramping he breathed with me. To this day I use those breathing techniques with the patients I work with as their abortion doula.

My Papi has shared with me how to comfort someone when they are sad and crying. He cries with me on the telephone when he feels there is nothing more he can do to help me but I still remain in pain and/or in need. He allows me to hold and comfort him when my grandfather died suddenly. Followed by his concern for my extended stay in Puerto Rico after the funeral when the FBI shot and murdered Filiberto Ojeda Rios and he called to tell me not to leave the hotel.

It is because of my Papi that I don’t know how to cook and I’m okay with this. He was what some would call a stay-at-home-Papi in the 70s and 80s caring for my sister and I as my mother had the full-time job. He made sure my sister and I got to school on time, that we were showered and fed. When he took a job we were latchkey kids but he always came home before my mother. He cooked almost all our meals. It is like an art form and piece of art to each his cooking. When I go home to visit I ask him to cook me my favorite Caribbean porridge dish and he obliges. It’s also because of him that I adore men who do know how to cook and who will share their cooking with me. I think it is one of the most masculine things a person identifying as a man can do: know how to feed himself and others.

What I learned the most from my Papi’s machismo is the difference and importance between calling him “Papi” and a lover “Papi.” He never told me that was a title just for him, instead he taught me how to know who has earned such a title in my life and how they vary. I learned this from him calling me “Mamí” as a term of endearment and giving my lovers consent to call me “Mamí.”

My machismo taught me about consent. My machismo loves me, gives me life, and continuously amazes me. That’s the machismo you won’t hear about but that many of us experience. My machismo is centered in love and I love my machismo.

You may read the full entry here.