Cariño Prohibido

You scroll through photos from my cousin’s wedding: 

my son in the pews, his toddler tuxedo adorably too big

smiling as he listens to the mariachis serenading the couple

while family members hug, catch up and laugh together

when suddenly, my phone seems too hot to hold

you hand it back to me abruptly and hurry away 

without a word, like a vampire recoiling from the sun, 

leaving me to wonder why in your wake.

I look down at my screen, curious to see which image 

provoked your unexpected reaction, what combination

of lines, shadows and colors you deemed forbidden

and what I find is the harmless form of my father

as he lies on his side in a hotel bed, mouth slightly open, 

napping alongside my son, sprawled on his back,

bow tie crooked and flipping up like the golden curls

of his hair, tuxedo jacket nowhere to be found.

To me, this is a familiar portrait of my father, a man

who always showed affection toward his daughters

and his son, who was never afraid to cuddle, hug or kiss us,

but to you, a Mexican man whose emotions are elusive,

this moment of innocent intimacy between a man and a boy

flies in the face of the traditional toughness you were taught

cutting deep through the comfort of your stoic masculinity

reminds you of moments rarely yours, is too much for you to bear.

The Pink Cup

When you asked if he 

could drink from the pink cup, 

because the red and blue one

was dirty, your hesitancy was

an ocean pushing us apart, 

marooning us on faraway islands.

You acted like the color pink 

would be an insult to your nieto, 

and to me, his mother. 

Were you afraid that

the particles of pink would

escape their plastic prison 

and seep into his cells

streaming through his body

marring his future manhood?

Maybe you feel sipping milk 

from a bubble gum rim

is the first step down

a path of nonconformity

too threatening to take. 

A path teeming with thorny vines

barbs of rejection and reproach.

A path you wouldn’t dare choose

to keep the peace of the family

and community you treasure.

Luckily, I teach my son to appreciate 

all colors regardless of his gender

and he gives a toothy grin as he takes 

the pink cup without a second thought

lifting his lips to drink a refreshing elixir 

of milk, love and acceptance instead of 

machismo that threatens to poison him.