30 short stories in 30 days: # 4 boys don't cry

Photo from En Madrid psicólogos

That's my boy! Just what my father said when I was born is the story he never tires of telling me, he even told all his friends that I didn't cry for a second when I left my mother's womb, that I was given the strongest spanking in the history of human birth and not a tear did I let go.

My room is full of sports equipment: balls, bats, boxing gloves, everything my father gave me in hopes of becoming a sports hero, but despite his effort to become the next Messi or the next Lebron to me, sports activity always seemed a bit boring to me.

He insisted, he told me that children must be athletes, that the first "fagot" was not born in his family and that I would not be the exception, at the same time that from the bottom of my eyes, crying meant the difference between receiving a beating Or keep listening to the boring speech about why being a man is a blessing.

It was overwhelming for me to hide what I am to assume what he wants me to be. Every time he sees me fail in sports, he shows his disappointment towards me, but I avoid crying in front of him so as not to ignite his retrograde machismo. Little by little I discovered what excited me in life: being a stylist was like a vocation that I couldn't hide despite my father's scolding and bad gestures. Soon that pride that he felt for "his only man" was diluted in a sea of ​​disappointment when I confessed that I, the man of the house, found the love between the Y chromosomes and the excesses of testosterone.

"The fagot inherited it from your family" my father said reproaching my mother. "It was that you were very soft on him" he continued to infuse as the worst profanities came out of his mouth along with two slaps. Once he pulled me out of bed and took me to a brothel. From his perspective, a "bad girl" is the best cure for homosexuality.

At his insistence I understood that he had no place in that house and less under a roof with that man and I left, I never saw him again ... until yesterday in his bed one step away from death. He was very old, you could tell that the years of loneliness made him change, he missed his only son, and when he saw me next to his bed, a tear fell down his cheek, he understood that the boys were also crying.

Carlos D. Pérez Guerrero / @ waraira777