I was unfamiliar with how final death was.
Popo would not be coming back. I would never hear his voice again. I would never see his face again.
The cemetery where he was buried still had an old-world approach to funerals. After the priest had commended my grandfather to paradise, the funeral director stuck a shovel in the mound of dirt and held it out. Everybody knew exactly what to do. A silent and somber line formed, each person waiting for their turn to grab a fistful of dirt and pour it over the casket.
Maybe it was a Mexican thing. I didn’t really know.
I remember my Uncle Mickey gently taking the shovel out of the funeral director’s hands. “He was my father.”
I remember walking up to the shovel and taking a fistful of dirt and looking into my Uncle Mickey’s eyes. He nodded. I still see myself throwing the dirt and watching it hit Popo’s casket. I see myself burying my face in Aunt Evie’s arms. I see myself as I looked up and saw Mima sobbing into my dad’s shoulder.
And I remember one other thing about my Popo’s funeral. A man standing outside smoking a cigarette was talking to another man, and he said, “The world doesn’t give a damn about people like us. We work all our lives and then we die. We don’t matter.” He was really angry. “Juan was a good man.” Juan, that was my Popo. I can still hear that man’s anger. I didn’t understand what he was trying to say.
I asked my father, “Who are people like us? And why did he say we don’t matter?”
My dad said, “Everybody matters.”
“He said Popo was a good man.”
“Popo was a very good man. A very good and flawed man.”
“Did the two of you talk? I mean, like you and I talk?”
“No. He wasn’t like that. I was close to him in my own way, Salvador.”
I was so curious at thirteen. But I didn’t understand much. I took words in and even remembered them, but I don’t think I understood anything.
“And people like us? Did he mean Mexicans, Dad?”
“I think he meant poor people, Salvie.”
I wanted to believe him. But even though I didn’t understand anything at thirteen, I already knew there were people in the world who hated Mexicans—?even Mexicans who weren’t poor. I didn’t need my father to tell me that. And I also knew by then that there were people in the world who hated my father. Hated him because he was gay. And to those people, well, my father didn’t matter.
He didn’t matter at all.
But he mattered to me.
Words exist only in theory. And then one ordinary day you run into a word that exists only in theory. And you meet it face to face. And then that word becomes someone you know. That word becomes someone you hate. And you take that word with you wherever you go. And you can’t pretend it isn’t there.
Funeral.
Faggot.
Dad and Sam and Me
Dad took me to school the next day. To have a chat with the principal. When we picked Sam up in front of her house, she was all smiles, trying too hard to pretend everything was cool. “Hey, Mr. V,” she said as she jumped into the back seat. “Thanks for the ride.”
My dad just sort of smiled. “Hey, Sam,” he said. “And don’t get used to it.”
“I know, Mr. V. We have two legs.” She rolled her eyes.
I could see that my dad was stifling his laugh.
Then the car got real quiet, and Sam and I started texting each other.
Sam: Stand ur ground
Me: This ur idea of life beginning?
Sam: Worry, worry, worry. And b sides, I’m not the one who punched Enrique Me: True that. Am in deep truble Sam: Yup yup yup. Lol
Me: Zip it
Sam: Dn’t apologize for anythng. Enrique had it coming. He’s a pig oink Me: Lmao. I dont think any1 else shares our pov ?
Sam: Well F them!
Me: No cussing in dad’s presence Sam: Lol
Dad interrupted our texting. “Will you guys stop that? Were you raised by wolves, or what?”
Raised by wolves. One of my dad’s favorite expressions. Old-school. “No, sir,” I said. “Sorry.”
Sam just couldn’t help herself. She always had to say something—?even if it was the wrong thing. She wasn’t good at shutting up. “I can show you our texts, if you like—”
I could see a small grin on my father’s face as he drove. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll pass on that one.”
And then we all started laughing.
The laughing didn’t mean I was in less trouble.
When my father and I walked into the principal’s office, Enrique Infante and his father were sitting there, both of them with their arms crossed, looking sullen. Sullen was a Sam word. On certain days she was very good at being sullen.
The principal, Mr. Cisneros, looked right at me when I walked in. “Salvador Silva, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t suspend you.” It wasn’t really a request—?it was more of a statement. It was like he’d already decided.
“He called my dad a faggot,” I said.
Mr. Cisneros looked over at Enrique and his father. Enrique shrugged. Like he didn’t give a damn. He definitely wasn’t sorry. Unrepentant—?that was the exact word for the look on his face.
The principal’s eyes shifted back to me. “Physical violence is unacceptable behavior—?and it’s against school rules. It’s grounds for suspension.”
“Hate speech is against school rules too.” I wasn’t really upset. Well, maybe I was and trying to act like I wasn’t. Anyway, the words I spoke came out calmly. For the most part, I was actually a pretty calm guy. Well, I had my moments. Apparently.
“The way I understand what transpired,” Mr. Cisneros said, “you weren’t on school grounds. We can’t be held responsible for what our students say when they’re no longer on campus.”
My father smiled, kind of a snarky smile. I knew all about his smiles. He looked at Mr. Infante—?then directed himself to Mr. Cisneros. “Well, then we have nothing to discuss, do we? If the school can’t be held responsible for the things students say off school grounds, then the school can’t possibly be held responsible for the things they do off school grounds either. I’m wondering if anything can be accomplished here.” Dad paused. He wasn’t finished. “In my opinion, neither of these boys has anything to be proud of. I think they deserve some kind of punishment. But you can’t punish one without punishing the other.” My dad paused again. “It’s a question of fairness. And apparently it’s also a question of school policy.”
Mr. Infante had this really angry look on his face. “My son just called you what you are.”