The minute the summer sun rises, my father puts on his Yankees baseball cap, gym shorts with the broken elastic band, and ancient sneakers. Without taking a bite of breakfast, we disembark for our routine: walk until our legs cramp and then a mile more.
I’m not sure how our tradition began. One day our feet carried us across town and never stopped. No maps, no destination in mind. It’s difficult for my father and me to have a conversation without one of us storming away and bursting into tears, but walking is the only form in which we can communicate. Instead of, “I love you,” I’d ask him if he needed water. In place of, “I’m sorry,” he’d offer to buy me a tostada on the way home. Our walks were a spectacle to my mother and sister: It was as if they were witnessing a vulture holding a sermon for a corpse and giving it a proper Christian burial.
The moment he found out I was a girl, my father pictured me to be a lovely flower that bloomed on command, a Mexican beauty with long curls, who would dance in an enormous ball gown at her quince. He believed all women had to embody the grace of a swan and the dainty step of a doe. These foundations of beauty were expected to be ingrained in my feet, and I would have to follow the trail paved for me.
As much as I tried to be his picture-perfect daughter, I couldn’t keep up with my father’s pace. He ran with the idea of mi niña, his precious girl, while I stayed behind and questioned why I had to fit the mold of female perfection. He wasn’t the type to follow traditions either.
In my family, the youngest child is expected to stay home and care for the parents. However, that was not what my father had in mind. Instead of harvesting corn and heating tortillas for my grandmother, he chose to leave behind family dinners and sweet smells of pan dulce for the littered and unfamiliar streets of Fair Haven.
In the United States, my father tried to maintain the social standards he grew up with, but I confronted him with a persistent disobedience. Always wear a dress to weddings. Put on makeup to impress the boys. Never cut your hair too short or las primas will think you’re a lesbiana. I never followed any of his guidance. He told me these pieces of advice to protect me from the cruel judgement of strangers, although he was the only person to comment on my “growing masculinity.” As I began to explore my gender identity, I became more distant from my father. In his eyes, gender was binary, and if I rejected my identity as a girl, it meant I had adopted the role of a boy. Maybe he will never understand that I do not have the ability to wake up and feel like a woman, but our walks remind us of our unsaid love.
On walks alongside my father and the Quinnipiac River, I am more than just a conflicted teenager. I am both fearful and brave, neither a son nor a daughter. I am my father’s wildest dream, his unknown path. In many ways, we are the same: He left home, and I left my label as a woman. Neither of us relied on the approval of our families.
From the way we stroke our hair, to our unsynchronized walking pace, my father and I could be mistaken for complete strangers. Yet, it is our defiance that brings us together, our nomadic spirits that never settle for the sand between our toes, or the dirt beneath our shoes. Now that we have replaced our summer shorts for winter coats, I begin to miss the comfort of these moments of peace with my father.
I’m not sure how our tradition began. One day our feet carried us across town and never stopped. No maps, no destination in mind. It’s difficult for my father and me to have a conversation without one of us storming away and bursting into tears, but walking is the only form in which we can communicate. Instead of, “I love you,” I’d ask him if he needed water. In place of, “I’m sorry,” he’d offer to buy me a tostada on the way home. Our walks were a spectacle to my mother and sister: It was as if they were witnessing a vulture holding a sermon for a corpse and giving it a proper Christian burial.
The moment he found out I was a girl, my father pictured me to be a lovely flower that bloomed on command, a Mexican beauty with long curls, who would dance in an enormous ball gown at her quince. He believed all women had to embody the grace of a swan and the dainty step of a doe. These foundations of beauty were expected to be ingrained in my feet, and I would have to follow the trail paved for me.
As much as I tried to be his picture-perfect daughter, I couldn’t keep up with my father’s pace. He ran with the idea of mi niña, his precious girl, while I stayed behind and questioned why I had to fit the mold of female perfection. He wasn’t the type to follow traditions either.
In my family, the youngest child is expected to stay home and care for the parents. However, that was not what my father had in mind. Instead of harvesting corn and heating tortillas for my grandmother, he chose to leave behind family dinners and sweet smells of pan dulce for the littered and unfamiliar streets of Fair Haven.
In the United States, my father tried to maintain the social standards he grew up with, but I confronted him with a persistent disobedience. Always wear a dress to weddings. Put on makeup to impress the boys. Never cut your hair too short or las primas will think you’re a lesbiana. I never followed any of his guidance. He told me these pieces of advice to protect me from the cruel judgement of strangers, although he was the only person to comment on my “growing masculinity.” As I began to explore my gender identity, I became more distant from my father. In his eyes, gender was binary, and if I rejected my identity as a girl, it meant I had adopted the role of a boy. Maybe he will never understand that I do not have the ability to wake up and feel like a woman, but our walks remind us of our unsaid love.
On walks alongside my father and the Quinnipiac River, I am more than just a conflicted teenager. I am both fearful and brave, neither a son nor a daughter. I am my father’s wildest dream, his unknown path. In many ways, we are the same: He left home, and I left my label as a woman. Neither of us relied on the approval of our families.
From the way we stroke our hair, to our unsynchronized walking pace, my father and I could be mistaken for complete strangers. Yet, it is our defiance that brings us together, our nomadic spirits that never settle for the sand between our toes, or the dirt beneath our shoes. Now that we have replaced our summer shorts for winter coats, I begin to miss the comfort of these moments of peace with my father.
