YOU ARE YOUR FATHER'S DAUGHTER (WAS NEVER AN INSULT)
By Gabriela León Bolaños
Don Mauricio se sienta con su espalda contra la pared;
Escanea las esquinas, las salidas.
It’s a hard earned routine.
30-something years later, this will come in handy
As he gives me the talk on how to keep safe
After we’ve watched, horrified,
The emotional carnage in a movie theater’s parking lot.
Se sube en un autobús para encontrar la oficina;
Tiene una entrevista de trabajo.
He’s there a day earlier than his appointment;
Just to check the address, the commute.
Almost 40 years later, I get to the Ed building of my college
20 minutes earlier than the rest;
I’ve had the location memorized since the first semester
Preparing just for this.
Casi 60 años atrás, Abuela Dominga le enseña a remendar su única camisa
Porque el machismo no gana contra la necesidad.
Almost 60 years after this lesson,
My papi sits with me, reading glasses sliding down his nose,
Teaching me what no school curriculum ever would.
It’s not the first lesson on survival he will give me:
He teaches me how to make a pot of pollo en salsa,
Buys an ironing board, Shows me how to take the wrinkles off my interview clothes,
Grabs a broom to teach me how to sweep,
Separates the colors from the whites;
Because all these things are done with your two hands
Not with anything under your pants.
A los 9 años deja de ir a la escuela
Los abuelitos ya están viejos y los nietos tienen que ayudar.
At 21, I walk a stage, my knees shake
(the public speaking panic don’t yet come, but they’re close)
But I open my mouth
To say the most important words of my life:
Papi, sin usted esto nunca hubiera sucedido.
Papi, I’m your dream.
Papi, I’m your one a.m. wake up calls,
I’m your double shifts,
I’m your I-love-yous in actions not in words,
The stumbles, the falls, the mistakes and the goals.
Papi, I’m your wildest ambition
Never lost.
