- What's up, Detroit?
Happy to be here.
Back in the summer of 1993, I was 12 years old living with my mom in the Bronx, New York.
And she decided that she was going to send me back to Puerto Rico to live with my dad
for the entire summer.
You see, when wealthy kids act up, they probably get sent to boarding schools.
When New Yoricans act up, they sent us back to the island.
I wasn't a delinquent or anything like that but let's just say puberty was hitting me
really hard and my mama wasn't feeling me.
She divorced my dad when I was two and we left Puerto Rico shortly after for New York,
leaving him behind.
As a child, I barely remember my pops, like the earliest memories I have of him are long
distance phone calls for my birthday and sometimes on Christmas.
Now you could say that the summer of 1992 started off on the wrong foot.
Literally the only pair of sneakers I took with me to Puerto Rico were stolen out of
my suitcase at the airport.
So I had to wear flip flops in the mountains for a few days until my mom who was in New
York forced my dad to get me some sneakers.
Now this is probably a good time to let you know that at the age of 12 I was already six
feet one inch tall, 230 something pounds, and I wore a size 12 sneaker.
Not a lot of size 12 sneakers in the small town of Cabo Rojo Puerto Rico, where I'm from.
So after unsuccessfully walking out of three discount shoe stores in town without a sneaker,
my dad was heated.
He knew he was going to have to take me to the mall and actually spend some money on
me.
He was mad.
Not me though.
I was excited.
I'm a true city kid.
We love sneakers in the hood.
On my block, what you wore on your feet represented where you were in the food chain.
You wore some busted looking kicks, mm mm, the kids were going to eat you alive.
So when we got to the mall I went straight to the Nike section, picked out some Air Force
Ones, and brought them back to my pops.
My dad had a serious face on.
He looked at the sneakers, he looked at the price, then he looked at me and in Spanish
he said, "No."
You all speak Spanish.
He told me to get something cheaper.
So my next logical step was to get some Reebok's for like $29.99.
But before I could even get to him he was shaking his head emphatically, like if I was
juggling grenades or something.
By then I could see the frustration on his face.
And I barely knew this guy.
So it was kind of intimidating.
I gave up rather quickly and I allowed him to pick out whatever sneaker he wanted.
Now I don't really remember the name brand of sneaker he chose because I think I repressed
it, but I'll never forget how ugly these sneakers were.
They were like a taupe-ish tan-ish, grayish, brownish.
And they were complete knockoffs of the Reebok Pumps.
You all remember the pumps?
They had a little ball on the tongue.
Your sneaker would fill up with air.
Those sneakers was so dope.
These taupe-y knockoffs were not.
They cost him $13.99.
And I was so disappointed he didn't buy me those Nike's.
I was 12 years old.
So him not getting me those sneakers obviously meant to me he had no love for me.
I was gossiping with my mom on the phone that night and I was telling her, "My dad is so
cheap "Mom, I promise you when I have my own kids "I'm going to buy them the most expensive
sneakers "that I could afford to show them that I love them."
Those are lies now.
Mm mm.
Yo, my two and five year old wanted some sneakers, yo, they better get a job.
Here's the crazy part.
Even though, here's the crazy part, even though my dad this is tough, I'm sorry.
Even though I felt my dad didn't have love for me I definitely had love for my father.
So much so that I actually fell in love with those ugly sneakers just because he bought
them for me.
And when I got back to New York, I literally wore those things till they ripped apart.
People made fun of me for wearing them things.
I didn't care.
My dad gave me those sneakers and my dad never really gave me anything.
Those ugly things hugging my feet were the closest I was going to get to a hug from my
dad.
And I held onto them as long as I could.
After that trip, I went once or twice as a kid, but then I took a long hiatus from Puerto
Rico.
I didn't go back till I was 19 years old.
By then I was a high school graduate, college sophomore actually.
I was working so I had a little bit of money in my pocket.
So I went back to Puerto Rico wearing name brand everything.
It was the early 2000s, so I was rocking them shiny Sean John shirts, super baggy Pelle
Pelle jeans.
But most importantly I was rocking Jordans not just any Jordans either, we talking about
the shiny patent leather Air Jordan 11s.
If you don't know anything about sneakers, just know that the Air Jordan 11s are on top
of the food chain.
I was showing off.
I was trying to show my dad the man that I was becoming without his help.
But I realized a few things on that trip.
I realized that I was completely wrong about my father.
My dad wasn't cheap, he was just struggling.
He lived most of his life living paycheck to paycheck trying to support his family,
my younger siblings.
I looked it up, minimum wage back in 92 was like $5.25, if he was lucky to be making that
in the factory.
So those $13.99 that he spent on them ugly sneakers must have been like half a day's
work for the dude.
And I was embarrassed and I was humbled.
But it was that trip at 19 that I finally laid the foundation for a relationship that
I always wanted with my dad.
And the more I got to know about him, the more I got to know about myself.
Ironically, several weeks prior to that trip I wrote this psychology paper on nature versus
nurture.
Nature versus nurture is a theory in psychology that tries to debate what are the important
factors in the development of a human, their genetics or their environment, nature, nurture.
And when I wrote that paper, I was on the side of nurture because I thought I was a
product of my mama, a product of the streets of New York.
But then I got to know my dad and I realized I had a lot more of Cabo Rojo Puerto Rico
coursing through my veins.
And it was scary.
I wasn't raised with this guy, but there we were liking the same types of music and movies,
personal philosophies that we shared, little things from the way we signed our names the
same to even the type of girls we liked.
All of them, we liked them all.
It was scary.
It was like looking into a mirror for the first time and seeing your reflection.
Dude is one of the nicest people you ever meet but don't cross him 'cause he's also
one of the snarkiest people you ever meet, just like me.
Extremely artistic, really good with his hands loves to draw and paint and build, just like
me.
And his skills with the ladies.
Mm, mm mm mm, impeccable.
Nothing like me.
I didn't get none of those genetics.
I love my dad.
I always knew who he was, but on that summer I finally allowed him to be my father.
Now I want to tell you things have gotten better for the guy, but we've probably seen
some of the news coming out of Puerto Rico, political unrest, earthquakes, Hurricane Maria.
And that was before the pandemic.
But my dad is a survivor and he does what he has to do to make ends meet and I try to
do as much as I can for him.
But he's one of these prideful Puerto Ricans that rather live in a house with a half a
roof and no power than to take a hand out.
But I do what I can.
I have to.
He's a part of me.
Not so long ago we were hanging out, I was on vacation, and I noticed that his sneakers
was looking run down, like I seen better sneakers hanging off power lines in the hood.
So I tricked him, took him to the mall, the same exact mall he took me to when I was 12
and I told him pick out whatever sneaker he wanted.
And after like a 20 minute argument 'cause he's hardheaded just like me, he finally picked
out a $20 pair of no name brand sneakers.
And I turned to him.
And in Spanish, I said, "No."
That day my dad walked out with a fresh pair of Nike's and I know he loved them but not
as much as I love those old taupe-y knockoffs.
Thank you.