Being able to call my dad a piece of shit, has been surprisingly liberating, and not in this vindictive kind of way. It feels cathartic, powerful, and I hope in time totally relieving over the fact that he was, actually,. In essence, I am giving myself the freedom to call my father a horrible human being, which he was, along with so many other toxic relationships because I never really had the permission to do so. I had to call them flawed, and, at best, myself a sensitive person lacking selectivity. The problem, neither label fits the truth; they were bad people that I chose because I was bad to myself, which means I was not that good. 

Growing up, my parents were OBSESSED with making sure I knew I was flawed. For my mother, it was all her fucking Aquarius placements flaring up to make sure she gave lessons, to me, on how to be a good person. To my father, it was that he was terrible  and bad people will always be the loudest, most arrogant personalities to discuss what is good. For God Sake´s, Donald Trump leads with evangelicals. I always wondered if my mother´s obsession with making me a virtuous, human being was some odd response or acknowledgment to the fact my father was not. I had to over-share and be so transparent like a Ziplock bag to compensate for how he muddied everything that came out of his mouth. I had to be so genuinely kind to prove I was not a con or  had a trick or scheme up my sleeve. It was overwhelming because I could see my self-perception changing, through time, to become a child that was good into an adult that did not feel like that, anymore. Still, I held on to their ideal training that you are a worse person for calling someone bad when they are. 

There we were, Yali, Josie, and our special guest star, Gigi, drinking up a pre-game to go to the club and, potentially, hoe it up. Yet, you cannot get a group of Latinas in a room with liquor and the safety of no men, and not, somehow, discuss how men make us unsafe. What surprised was Yali and Josie’s reveal. Part of Gigi’s depression was that she came from a good family, and, an unfortunate run-in with a rapist, would chase her perception of the world. Meanwhile, Josie had mentioned that our father´s shared ¨mujeriego´ tendencies and their sheer aloofness and abandonment of us, especially as their chosen scapegoat amongst their many kids. Yet, Yali´s dad was a bigamist, as well, having a whole other family in his native Honduras. Out of all of us, I was the only one that cut their toxic father off, but they had each, minus Gigi, begun questioning the purpose of such a dynamic. 

¨My mother just always told me to be nice to him,¨ Josie said as she guzzled her Michelada. 

¨Mine, too,¨ I corresponded. ¨She said if I was nicer to him, he would be less mean, and now I, literally, think I say that as an affirmation before I start a 3 year relationship that ends with me demanding my shit back.¨

¨You do that, Yali,¨ said Josie in her typical, banal bluntness. ¨You always make like the men in your life do not really hurt you, when clearly they destroy you.¨

¨Are you talking about my ex?¨Yali replied knowing she was, and clearly upset about it. She had yet to even SIP her Prosecco. 

¨Who else?¨

¨Öh, shit,¨ sighed Gigi. ¨Here We Go!¨

¨He helped me through a crisis with my family and took care of my when I was sick,¨ she responded quickly. For Yali, looking back at her ended marriage was like looking for scraps in a trash can. She needed to find some things that made so many years of pain worth it, and, some of us, had found it annoying. We lived under the shadow of her marriage; watching her ebb and flow in rage for us, the world,  herself, but never truly for him, despite being the main trigger of all her anger and depression. She would turn to us, even feeling g suicidal. We thought the break up would trigger more celebration and genuine awareness/ vulnerability from her. Instead, she was still hiding. 

¨I think it’s hard to call our villain … villains. We were so trained to believe it was bad to call bad people…. bad. I regret that. I never got to tell my dad, he was evil, and even if he denied it. I said it. LOUD AND CLEAR! Without so much sugar-coating over the shit-piles he left me in.¨

¨I feel we say it,¨ affirmed Gigi. ¨We don’t say it loudly or aggressively, but we do say it. I say no. I said no,¨ she said with a sudden, downtrodden tone. ¨They really just did not care to listen,… and I think for you all, it took you while to care to listen to yourselves.¨ Her rape had left her consistency wondering if she was the most naive, dumbest person to trust a man. The odd part is that question was defining our lives… were we stupid… or were they evil?