My Father’s Dyke Daughter

Young boys grow up mimicking their fathers so that they can become men. Those boys become fathers and teachers to their sons. The cycle continues with each young boy standing beside his father as he shaves his chin in the bathroom mirror. In ten years, the young boy will recall the times he’s studied his father and perform the rehearsed motions. As my brother and I grew out of adolescence, he took his natural place beside my father, and I fell into the feminine role designed for me. Perhaps it’s this structure of misguided gender rehearsals that results in my inability to style my hair correctly. 

I stand reflected in my bathroom mirror each morning with hair recently departed from my pillow. My eyes are half shut in the glaring overhead light, as I groan at my unkept state. At twenty-six, my body seemed to go through a second puberty. Acne from an anxious meltdown had reared its head the morning of a first date. The bags under my eyes mock the 10 p.m. bedtime I set to rid myself of them. I sigh and brush my teeth, remembering to schedule a dentist appointment for the new gap that has found itself between my bottom front teeth. My therapist says my anxiety is in my mouth- what the hell does that mean?

A familiar dread washes over me as my hair remains suspended against gravity. The collection of dark brown mess twists over itself until my scalp is a collection of untamed cowlicks. I assumed the tedious management of my hair would cease when I cut it to the nape of my neck, but it’s only become more evident that the universe hates dyke lesbians. 

Each morning, I attempt to recall my father in the bathroom of my childhood apartment in Queens. The bathroom tile is blue, as it remains today, and I watch him from the doorway as he reaches for the black bottle in the medicine cabinet above the sink. The foam comes out with a hiss and then vanishes in my father’s thick black hair. His movements were always effortless and precise. 

I could tell you my school grade based on the style of my father’s moussed hair. If the photo is clear enough, I can identify if my father was attending a party on my mother's side or his, doing laundry on Sunday, or going to work. In his thirties, he opted for a side part, I assume, to manage the amount of hair on his head. In his forties, he transitioned to a curled flip of hair at the front.

I predict my father learned to mousse his hair from his father. He and my uncle, as young boys, must have watched my grandfather’s perfected method. Unfortunately for me, I am not a son who grew up mimicking his father. I do not know the secret motions of one’s hands that place hair in the romantic Latin style they wear. 

“Never touch a Lujan’s hair,” Is a statement I grew up hearing. As an outsider, I was only meant to observe the shiny styles of the Peruvian men around the Thursday night dinner table. I would laugh as my father swatted away an aunt’s menacing hand coming for his head, and question my envy for the inside joke I could not be a part of. My hair, kept long to emphasize my femininity as a child, was in constant reach of being played with. My aunts would run their fingers through my hair, complimenting how thick it was and warning me to never cut it. While my hair was twirled and braided with tenderness, I admired the light that reflected off my uncle’s hardened strands of gelled hair. It remained untouched and perfect because it is, and always has been, taboo to touch a Lujan’s hair. 

Perhaps if the universe didn’t have it out for dyke daughters of Latin men, I would be privy to the knowledge of my paternal side. If I had only known I’d sport a butch haircut with my first apartment lease, I would have paid closer attention to my father in front of the mirror before the schoolbus came.

There is an alternate reality where I came out as a butch lesbian at the age of five, cropped my hair similar to my fathers, and navigate life with the perfect moussed hair that is effortlessly handsome and forever timeless. In this hypothetical reality, I am the child who mimicked my father to understand the performance that is masculinity. 

Hair, though a superficial characteristic of a person’s beauty, cannot be denied its importance in my vision of my father. As the daughter who is countlessly called a copy of her father, I spent my formative years analyzing his features. His broad nose and eyebrow bone parallel mine. My favorite features of my father have always been his large mouth and the large teeth that complete a goofy smile with sharp canines. My father's playful personality is enhanced by the animated smile that splits his face. Fortunately, my wide mouth and the large teeth it holds remind me that I genetically carry the charm I have observed in my father’s subtle smile. If all else fails, I can give a goofy grin and hope my terrible joke lands.

With my recent birthdays, I re-examined my relationship with masculinity. As I navigate how I want to live in masculinity, I look to my father for reference. My father is a traditional 49-year-old Peruvian man who understands masculinity rooted in South and North American subtext. To take on his performance of gender would mean I disregard my feminine upbringing, which I hold on to tightly. Therefore, I only take what fits me. To be clear, I do not wish to divest myself of femininity; in fact, I’d argue that the integration of masculinity in my identity has increased my appreciation for my girlhood and womanhood. I do not speak for the entire Butch Lesbian community, but the embracing of masclinility does not eliminate the existence of femininity. 

As a dyke daughter, I have the privledge to choose which characteristics of masculinity coexist within me. Beyond my father's physical features, I hope to inherit his capacity for love. I acknowledge the limitation of affection my father permits himself to show due to expectations of being the head of the household and a man; despite this, I’ve never questioned my father’s love for me.

Growing up, my mother and I shared a running joke about how my father was wrapped around my finger. We’d laugh and motion an imaginary string wrapping around my tiny pointer finger when my father gave in to my requests with little fuss. My father, a man not known for expressing love through words, shows affection in mundane acts and being present at milestones. My parents were present at every family dinner, attended every graduation, award shows for my writing, and a Greyhound bus to Buffalo with overpacked suitcases to move me into college. I’m fortunate to have a fridge frequently stocked with a week’s worth of tamales my father brings from Queens because he knows they remind me of home. His check-in phone calls often find their way into the gaps of my schedule. He practically moved me into my two Manhattan apartments in two years by himself  (primarily due to his stubbornness on how to “properly” load a U-Haul van)- not to mention both moves being in the height of NYC summers. 

My father still calls me “baby girl,” and though the image of someone affectionately calling me the pet name without irony can make a crowd laugh, it’s a comforting reminder of my father’s love. Of course, no one should predict their parent will withdraw a lifelong amount of affection the moment they come out as a Dyke, it’s ignorant to deny the fear that resides at the back of one’s head. I came out to my parents in a fit of tears on the stoop of my childhood apartment after a dramatic Fourth of July BBQ, the words “.... and I’m gay” pushed through a series of sobbing. Considering the original context of the tears was due to a racist comment made by an uncle in the height of Trump’s first presidential term, dropping the gay bomb felt only right. I was outed at my graduation party months prior, but I was unaware if the news had made it to my parents yet. 

I have never been known to be “subtle,” so my parents were well-versed in the sporadic nature of my coming out.

As my gender expression shifts to be more masculine, the way I am treated has done the same, but my father’s pet name remains. It’s a comfort to have something definitive to hold on to as a testament that not everything needs to change as I do. When those outside of my family hear my father call me the nickname I’ve lived by for 26 years, their faces are curious, wondering if I am unsettled by the hyper femininity of the words. The reaction is understandable. They, folks who have only ever known me in this present expression of gender, can not imagine the term “babygirl” pinned to my sweater. In their minds, I was a five year old Butch child who moussed my hair beside my father and brother.

I like to think there is another reality where my father mimics me. If children are indoctrinated into behaviors of gender, maybe my father can learn how to be a lesbian. My parenting would give my father an in-depth understanding of what it means to be a Lesbian- more specifally a Butch Lesbian. 

He will know the community of queerness. In this reality, I bring my father to a drag show and witness his mind make sense of the women on stage. Not only will he feel the electricity of being at your first drag show, but he will understand the protest and art that is inherently in drag. 

My father who is now training to grow up to be a Butch Lesbian, will mimick my every move. He’ll dress in boxy clothing and fuss over how his chest looks in his shirt. He will walk the farmers market three times over to find the perfect bouquet of flowers for a woman he’s only known for four weeks. I’ll share the horror stories of your first lesbian breakup. Warn him about the women who will use him to experiment with their sexuality. 

He will learn the ins and outs of Lesbianism because he wants to take his place beside me. I would bring him to the lesbian bars in New York City, have him select his go-to bar beer, and applaud him when it's an IPA. I want him to know the lingo of the queer communtiy, but not enough to understand what it means when my friends call me a service top. 

Similarly to my father, who became a parent at 22, too young to have a full understanding of what it means to be a man or father, my parenting in Lesbianism is limited in my short experience. The prospect of parenting my father increases my patience with my parents as young adults trying to raise their firstborn child. How can someone properly guide another through life when they have yet to live it fully?

I say this as someone ill-equipped to parent a human child or my hypothetical lesbian father.