JULIOT, A LETTER
To my father,
It was one of the last times we ever had an extensive conversation. You had the news radio on blast in your car. Tim Hardaway had just revealed his homophobia to the country and the first words of wisdom you shared were “… it’s not that he thought it; it’s that he said it aloud.” You went on to dig deeper into the caverns of bigotry before I abruptly asked you how long it’d take before we got to Ft. Lauderdale International Airport. I had ridden on the passenger side of your car – typically Camrys – on average once a year, when you mostly filled the air with jazz, kompa, and meanderings about the ways of the world. You knew Brooklyn, Manhattan, Miami, and Ft. Lauderdale well enough to ignore the roads for long junctures as you hoped to remind your third child that you were his – my – father.
As a boy, I listened with hopes that you would return. As an adolescent, I listened for whatever keys you had for kindling a confidence that seemed first-nature to you and tertiary at best for me. As a young adult, I uncovered that I had aged quicker than I wanted to, through bruises, humiliation, and restraint. I had already grown angry with you through those years, resenting that our phone rang incessantly from family friends, but rarely had you on the other end. Your barely-annual visits featured those protracted journeys to whichever spot that was, the drop-off to my grandmother’s house or your significant other’s house, and agony that the man I exalted so often would leave me CONTINUE READING: Juliot, A Letter | The Jose Vilson
