Dear Dad: The Things You Said With Your Hands

Dear Dad,

You never told me you were proud of me. Not once, not with words. But I've been thinking about hands lately—yours specifically—and I think maybe you've been saying it the whole time in a language I didn't learn until now.

Your hands showed me how to change a timing belt when I was eleven. You didn't say "I want to spend time with you." You said "hand me the 10-mil" and we spent four hours under a Civic together. That was a Saturday. I remember because you usually worked Saturdays.

Your hands made me a bookshelf when I started high school. You didn't say "I'm proud you like reading even though nobody in our family went to college." You said "where do you want it" and measured the wall twice.

Your hands squeezed my shoulder at Abuela's funeral. You didn't say "I'm devastated and I don't know how to live without my mother." You squeezed once, hard, and walked outside. I found you twenty minutes later leaning on the truck, eyes red, pretending to check your phone. I pretended I didn't see.

Here's the thing, Dad. I know you love me. Tía Gloria tells me every time I see her. "Your father talks about you constantly," she says. "He showed everyone at work your report card." I believe her. But I want to hear it from you. Not from Tía, not translated through a bookshelf or a timing belt.

I'm seventeen. I'll be leaving soon—trade school, maybe the community college in Santa Fe. And I'm scared that I'm becoming you. Not in the bad ways. In the quiet ways. I caught myself last week wanting to tell my little cousin I was proud of her art project, and instead I just said "cool" and kept walking.

Cool. One syllable. The family language.

“Cool. One syllable. The family language.” Click to tweet →

I don't blame you. I know your dad was the same way, and his dad, and probably all the way back to whoever crossed the border first with nothing but work ethic and silence packed in the same bag. That silence kept people alive. It kept heads down and hands busy and families fed.

But Dad—we're not surviving anymore. We have the garage. We have the house. We have enough. Maybe now we can afford the luxury of actually saying things.

“We're not surviving anymore. We have the garage. We have the house. We have enough. Maybe now we can afford the luxury of actually saying things.” Click to tweet →

I'm not going to send this letter. We both know that. I'll probably just show up at the shop on Saturday and hand you the 10-mil and we'll work on whatever's on the lift. And that will be enough.

But maybe one day it won't have to be.

Te quiero, Dad. Even if we never say it out loud.

—Diego