Father

"If you dont have time, make time"

My father was, is, the driving force behind my identity. And he was not a good father. By no means was he a decent father. But he was my father. And I love him, regardless of his flaws. Regardless of mine.

Before they were my parents, before I chose to inhabit Edith's womb, Luis and Edith were trying for a second child for five years. They already had a daughter. A young, powerful, intelligent beyond her years child. They named her Estefania, why? Well I always thought it was because of the short Estefania novels my father would read. But honestly, I'm not to sure about my sister's mythology.

And here it was: after five years of trying. After receiving treatment in the Dominican Republic, my families home since the slave trade, my mother carried a second being in her womb. I know the conception story. I hear it every year. But I will spare you the details. Let's just say: my father knew she was pregnant after a night of fighting and reconciling.

August 15, 1992. 5 am. On a Saturday. A king was born. And they never knew his sex. Family was sure I was to be born female. But nonetheless I was born, and my father was overcome with joy. I was not his first born son; I was his second young man but the one to bare his name. And his father's name. And so their legacy is part of my identity. For I was born with their karma, with their intentions, but not their most beautiful feature: black skin.

At a young age I asked my very white passing mother, if I was adopted. Estefania told me I was and I was convinced. My father's skin looked like ti was kissed by the Sun itself. Lightly pressed against him as he morphed into a man. And here I was, light like my mother. Perhaps this was the beginning of my dual consciousness. Of my Blackness. Nothing like having a Eurocentric Dominican mother and a Afrocentric Dominican Father to make you question: what am I?

And I knew from the moment I was young. I was, and for eternity be, Black. Black from the Diaspora. Black from the American narrative and experience. Black because my soul yearns for Mother Africa like we just left yesterday. But we were stolen. We were taken from the womb of this planet.

My father, God rest his spirit, raised me to love my Blackness. He was, and will eternally be, the first Black Dominican I've met. He raised my conscious through meditation: he would punish me by having me kneel on rice and hold bricks in my hands as I held them out while squatting. He cultivated my mental fortitude and emotional intelligence. He cultivated me.

And my father, my beautiful, spiritual, glorious friend of a father raised me best he could. To the absolute best of his abilities. I do not harbor hatred for the physical and emotional abuse. I do not see them as abuse, but my therapist sure does.

He loved me. And I loved him. Completely.

I am a momma's boy. And I am proud to have her as my Queen. No woman shall come before my mother, dead or alive.

But my father. My feo (ugly in Spanish and our nicknames for eachother) was my king.

It's been two years feo. Two years since I received the call of your death. And I will forever, in the Eternity, miss you.

Happy Father's Day King!

I love you, forever your son and confidant, Luisito (little Luis)