“For he was a true man. I was not.”

​“Don Macho”

by Kevin Irigoyen Penatello

Don Macho was a true jíbaro. A man’s man. Rugged and ungiving.
His skin like tanned leather. His hands calloused from years of labor.
His frown lines carved deep into his forehead. His teeth yellow from café and cigarillos.
His shoulders stooped from heavy lifting.
For he was a true man.
I was not.
 
Don Macho was the type of man who would buy you a conejito.
Let you love it. Fatten it. Hug it.
Then snap its neck, string it from a tree, skin it, and hand it back.
“Wipe away your tears and bring it in for abuelita to cook.”
For he was a true man.
I was not.
 
Don Macho believed the kitchen was the woman’s territory. Asunto de mujer.
Cooking was the task of those less able. Lady’s work.
The thought alone could make you gay. The brake fluid on his hands would only soil the food.
The salt crystals on his moustache would over-season. His words were bitter enough. 
For he was a true man.
I was not.
​
Don Macho could cobble together a fence with little more than grit and his iron gaze.
Power tools feared him. Luddites worshipped him. He was forged by God himself.
The broken hammer was proof of his might.
The newly installed fence was proof of his determination. Solid. Sturdy. Ungiving.
For he was a true man.
I was not.
 
Don Macho could steal, barter, and harass his was way out of any situation.
No one even batted an eye. He could curse like a sailor, and cheat like one too.
He could catcall, insult, and degrade with style.
He could hit, choke, and bruise like it was an art form.
For he was a true man.
I was not.
 
Don Macho was everything weak Puerto Rican men aspired to be, yet couldn’t.
He was what every Puerto Rican woman abhorred, yet submitted to.
He was what every Puerto Rican grandchild feared, yet obeyed.
The man every priest prayed for. The man every novela searched for.
For he was a true man.
Until he was not.
 
 Don Macho was human after all.
And if there’s one thing that can break a man, it’s the death of his mother.
Abuelita said to avoid his room after he got the call. He wept, like a woman.
I looked on, like a voyeur. For that split second, he wasn’t invincible. He was weak.
He couldn’t cheat his way out of this one.
On that solemn day he felt what it was to be a man, a true man. 

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Kevin Irigoyen Penatello was born on the island of Borikén (Puerto Rico). He is a Boricua writer and creative, based in the U.S.A. The author uses his time spent on and off the island, as a basis for his writings. His works address topics such as toxic masculinity, indigeneity, and the daily goings-on of Latinx culture. 

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