I.
¿Sabes cómo zapatear? Tío Pachuco
asked me at his daughter’s quince. I
swell my chest up, straighten my back,
throw my hands to my sides, bend
my knees, and start stomping. Loud and
fast. I throw in a spin or two. I look up,
sweat dripping down my back and
legs. ¿Así? He let out a loud laugh, Así
no joto. ¡Mírame! Mira como se baila
como un hombre. He tucked his shirt in. Grabbed
his Modelo Negra con una mano y con la otra
grasped onto his hat. And started stomping. His
body jumping up and down. A mixture of beer and
sweat gushing through his skin. Ahorra tu.
¿Sabes cómo zapatear? I ran off the dance
floor as my entire family walked la quinceañera
onto la pista zapateando.
II.
That night I went home and snuck into
Papi’s closet. His three Dodger sweaters, two
pairs of 501s, and one pair of Nike’s were the
only thing in sight. I threw myself and started
reaching. Grabbing. Looking. For something
to teach me como zapatear.
III.
Papi was the best dancer at any baile. The way
his body moved in and out of the trumpets, danced
with the drums, spinned around an imaginary
center, hands mirroring his legs kicking the floor and
the air. His arms spinning around him like a hula
hoop. Mami’s body a perfect reflection of his. And
at the bottom of all of this, his shiny brown
boots. Everyone wanted them. I wanted to
be in them.
IV.
Papi’s botas I found in the basement, so
dark I couldn’t see my own skin, didn’t
fit me. But I put them on anyway. ¿Qué
haces con mis botas? There he was. His
large silhouette standing behind me. Así no
se zapatea. Mira. Y con un grito he
told me to start. Sígueme. Haz lo que yo. We
danced around his hat all night long. Un hombre
bailando con otro hombre en la oscuridad. Slowly,
I started moving Papi’s botas up and down. My feet
sliding in and out with every stomp. My heels flailing and
searching for the ground.