His stubborn confidence worked to my benefit when I transitioned. He didn’t raise me, since he spent most of my childhood in the Philippines as a drunk, but he could claim genetic credit. Papa’s insistence on his intelligence was his way of taking responsibility for my success. That’s what it was like between us he always wanted to prove he was better than me because it was his natural place as a father, and I didn’t let him because he wasn’t. He bragged about his straight A’s while I rolled my eyes about how easy his classes were, not like at Harvard where I went. But I didn’t expect him to be so unconcerned when the queer in question was his child - his first-born son.īefore he was a social worker, Papa was a taxi driver, going to night school to get his degree. Papa was a social worker for homeless people with AIDS, so he’d been around a lot of queers. I didn’t realize how much of an act my indifference was until the wave of relief from his acceptance made it hard to speak, so I quickly said goodbye. “Just make sure to be beautiful,” Papa replied. If I acted as though it wasn’t a big deal, maybe it wouldn’t be. I just want to let you know so you’re not surprised. “I’ll be wearing makeup and women’s clothes. “I’m coming in on the bus around five,” I said. I called Papa in June 2001, the night before my sister Juno’s sweet sixteen party.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |