Tripod

Jaime. It’s pronounced “Hi-may” and not “Jay-me.” I used to hate my name. I used to hate a lot about myself. I’d always thought that there were so many things about me not to like. A lot of it was baked into my genes.

My mom, Nayeli, insisted on “Jaime” to honor her Mexican-Spanish heritage. Her mom, my abuela, Zyanya López-Cruz, is a native Zapoteca and the toughest person I know, all 4’ 11” (150cm) of her.

She met my abuelo, José Cruz, who’s about 5’6” (168cm), in Oaxaca when she was twenty. Abuelo was a young anthropologist from Vigo, Spain who was studying native Mexican cultures. He had red hair, blue eyes, freckles, and as Abuela says, “an oversized ‘personality.’”

They married in 1979, right after my grandad got a job offer to teach at the University of Illinois-Chicago. Getting married was the only quick, legal way they could both come to the US, although they would have gotten married anyway.

They settled in Pilsen, a largely Mexican neighborhood of the city. Abuela learned English, got her bachelor’s degree, then her master’s degree in social work, all while she raised my mom and Uncle Julio. She’s still a social worker in the Department of Children and Family Services. I’ve heard stories about her having it out with unfit parents. She always wins; no one ever gets the best of Abuela Zyanya.

On my father’s side of the family, my great-grandma, Esther Katz, met my great-grandpa, Mordechai “Morty” Fein, in a camp for displaced persons in West Germany after World War II. They had both miraculously survived the Holocaust in different concentration camps. Both of their families had been murdered by the Nazis and they were completely alone. In 1946, they married in the camp and emigrated to the US. When they were being processed as immigrants at Ellis Island, “Fein” became “Fine,” because that’s how it sounded to the immigration official.

They wound up in Chicago, too, settling in West Rogers Park, a largely Jewish neighborhood. Morty and Esther had two kids, my Grandpa David and his sister Betsy.

My five-foot-tall Great-Grandma Esther always said that her experience of being so close to death made her want to live even more. “To eat delicious food, to travel, to love, to have sex, that was the best revenge against those Nazi bastards.” Then she added, “Luckily, your great-grandpa, Morty, knew his way around the bedroom. When we met, that little man weighed about 100 lbs., 10 lbs. of that was his Schwanz.”

Morty and Esther’s son, Grandpa David, is 5’ 5” (170cm) and grew up to become a pharmaceutical rep for a major drug company.  As Great-Grandma Esther said, “Well, David isn’t a doctor, but…close enough, he married one.”

That brings me to my grandma, Bernice Johnson. When Mama Bernice was growing up in the ‘50s and ‘60s, people told her, “Colored girls don’t become doctors, baby. Be a nurse.” She responded by graduating first in her class in medical school, then opening the first black and woman-owned health clinic on Chicago’s south side.

Grandpa David met Mama Bernice in the late 1970s. He had called on her at her medical office to introduce her to some new drugs that his company was producing. Grandma said that Grandpa was such a smooth talker he could sell “jock straps to eunuchs.” Grandpa said that not only was he attracted to Bernice’s beauty, brains, and charm, but also because she was shorter than he was. His persuasive ways won Bernice over and they started dating. Bernice admitted she was shocked when she first saw David naked. Apparently, the apple, or in this case, the banana, didn’t fall far from the tree; David had inherited Morty’s outsized“talent.”

Two years after they married, my dad Barry was born, and two years after that, my uncle Noah. In the ‘80s, the women’s movement had taken off and Mama Bernice was pushing for her kids to have a hyphenated last name, an idea that Grandpa David wholeheartedly supported. Then he realized that Barry Fine-Johnson and Noah Fine-Johnson, who were destined to be very well endowed, probably didn’t need to advertise the fact. Word has it that Bernice and David shared more than a few good laughs over that one.

My biracial dad, Barry, was always interested in writing and, because he was an excellent student, passed the entrance exam to get into Whitney Young High School, one of Chicago’s magnet schools for the city’s best students. Dad was way too short at 5’ 6” to make the basketball team, which was his first love, but excelled in baseball. After seeing Dad in the showers after one of their games, one of his buddies joked that Dad was the only baseball player he'd ever met with his own built-in bat.

High school is where my dad met my mom Nayeli. She had also been accepted at Whitney Young. As a little girl, she’d developed a love of filmmaking and would run around with a video camera trying to capture the stories of her friends. Abuelo José inspired her to record the real lives of people she met. He told her that by letting people tell their stories, you were honoring them and their traditions and that their lives would live on forever in her films.

So, my mom and dad, two creative types, were bound to hit it off. They dated through high school and both attended college at Northwestern University. Mom majored in radio, TV & film with a minor in anthropology. Dad was an English major. They married right out of school. Dad got a job as a copywriter at one of the large ad agencies in town in one of the few fields where he could put his English degree to practical use. He’s now a creative director. Mom started as a production assistant on film and TV shoots in town. She eventually got tired of it and realized that her true calling was as a documentary filmmaker, telling the kinds of stories that her dad encouraged her to tell. She’s traveled around the world and has won awards for her work.

Which leads to me. I’m the result of throwing all of those genes into a blender. My body is a mish-mash of generations of ancestors from three continents. I have very curly, dark auburn hair. My skin is a light caramel color but full of freckles. My eyes are green but almond-shaped. My lips are full. My nose is flat and wide. I have the high cheekbones of my native Mexican ancestors. Except for a light sprinkling of pubic hair, I’m completely smooth, like a Xolo, one of those Mexican hairless dogs. I’ve got the bubble butt of a Nigerian sprinter. Thanks to generations of height-challenged individuals producing offspring, I’ve always been the shortest kid in class. And I was still a virgin at nearly seventeen because I was terrified of being seen naked.

We live in Evanston, a nice, suburban town bordering Chicago. It’s pretty liberal and fairly accepting of different kinds of people, but I never felt like I belonged. In elementary and middle school, kids used to tease me and call me names because I was mixed and short. “What are you anyway?” was the question I was asked most often as if I were a space alien.
What hurt me the most was when they called me “runt” or “mutt. “

Being an only child, I didn’t have a sibling to turn to who would understand what I was going through and I never talked to my parents about the bullying. I figured I should just toughen up and learn to take it, but young kids don’t have the coping mechanisms to deal with that kind of taunting, so I just kept it in and let it affect my self-esteem.

By the time I was twelve, I’d also figured out that I was gay. I realized that it was the male athletes inside and not the women on the cover of the swimsuit issue who were making me tingle. Add that to all of the other factors I just described, and I didn’t like being me.

One place where I had felt I belonged was in gymnastics. I was on the Evanston West High School gymnastics team. It’s one of the few sports where being short is an advantage. Our practices and meets felt like my safe space where I could let my abilities be judged on their own merits, where my height was a good thing, and where my ethnicity didn’t factor in— that is until one day in early October of my senior year. All six of us team members were showering and getting dressed after practice. The shower area had individual stalls with shower curtains, so I had privacy. I’d always enter and leave with my towel wrapped around me.

“Get your ass over here, Ron. What the fuck happened to you today?” Tyler Jacobs said as he walked from the showers to the locker room, calling out another team member.

“I don’t know. I guess I just lost my concentration. I was thinking about the other night with my girl,” Ron replied as he started to smile.

Tyler whipped off his towel and snapped it at Ron’s ass. Just as it connected with its target, Ron smiled, grabbed it, and snatched it from Tyler’s grip.

That’s when I had the misfortune of walking past Tyler, who grabbed me, ripped off my towel, and just as he was about to snap it at Ron, got a look at me standing naked. The other team members were already staring in shock.

I’m just 5’4” (163cm) tall. My limp dick hangs almost to my knees. When it’s hard, it’s over 11” (28cm) long. Tyler screamed, “Fuck, Jaime, you’re a human tripod.” Some of the other guys in the locker room started laughing and shouting, “Tripod! Tripod!”

I broke into a cold sweat and struggled to breathe. I wanted to die. With my heart pounding in my chest, I threw on my clothes and ran out of the locker room.

“Jaime, wait up!” Tyler screamed. “I’m really sorry, bro!”

But I didn’t turn around. My safe place wasn’t safe anymore. After years of holding in my feelings and hating myself for being different, the incident in the locker room was my breaking point. I sprinted home and ran upstairs to my room without saying hello to my mom or Abuela Zyanya, who had stopped by for a visit. I slammed the door and I threw myself onto the bed sobbing. A few minutes later, Mom knocked on my bedroom door with Abuela in tow and asked me what was wrong. They came in and sat down on my bed. I told them about the incident in the locker room, then added, “I’ve hated who I am my entire life. I feel like Frankenstein’s monster, made up of parts that don’t go together. And on top of that, I have to be gay and some freak, too.”

I had never come out as gay to my parents, but it was kind of unspoken that they knew. I had never had a girlfriend, but I’d never talked about my sexuality either. My parents had lots of friends in the LGBTQIA+ community and my dad’s brother, Noah, is gay. I hadn’t feared their reaction and, as parents go, they’re pretty awesome.

Abuela hugged me tightly. Mom reached out, wrapped us both in her arms, and smiled. She then told me a story I’d never heard before.

“My dad comes from a wealthy family in Spain. When he told his family that he was going to marry your abuela here, his family disowned him, ‘How can you marry a chola mexicana and not a respectable Spanish girl?’ they asked. After returning to Mexico to marry my mom, he never heard from his family again.

“And on your dad’s side of the family Grandpa David and Mama Bernice faced hatred and death threats. They were spat on because he was white and she was black.

“Your Dad and I, especially when we were younger, experienced dirty looks and snickers. It was never as bad as what our parents faced, but it still happened.

“Jaime, you are the son of generations who stared down prejudice and even physical danger to be together. Our love has endured and even grown stronger over time when other couples have gone their separate ways. You are the child of bonds that are so strong nothing could break them. You should be so proud of who you are and not ashamed of it.
 
“Our Zapotec ancestors believed in the muxe, the ‘two-spirit’ person, someone who is neither all man nor all woman, but who has aspects of both. Before the conquistadors brought the idea that sodomy and homosexuality were sins, two-spirit people were revered in Zapotec society. Being gay is nothing to be ashamed of; it is a blessing because you see the world as not just masculine or feminine but a blend of both. Because of your ethnic background, because you’re gay, and yes, maybe even because you’re short, you feel like an outsider, but this lets you see people and situations in ways that others don’t. That’s a unique gift.”

Mom paused for a second to think, clearly weighing how she was going to continue, “Now about what happened today…let’s talk a calzón quitado. The men on both sides of our family, going back generations apparently, have been extremely well-endowed. I almost fainted when I saw your dad naked for the first time. Speaking from experience, you can excite your partners and give them pleasure in ways other men can’t, but you must realize that you can also hurt them. You have to be gentle and considerate. Now that your secret is out, I wouldn’t be surprised if people start throwing themselves at you. Please be careful. Use protection. Don’t let anyone pressure you into doing something that makes you feel uncomfortable. And you can always, always talk to us about anything.”

Then Abuela wiped away one of my tears and chimed in, “Mi hijo, you are like a wonderful mole. Some have up to forty different ingredients. Some of those ingredients you’d think would never go together. But after a couple of days of grinding, mixing, blending, and cooking, you’re left with something so delicious that it’s hard to believe. You are that mole. You are kind, brave, creative, intelligent, and uniquely handsome. And you pack all those qualities into a hot, little, bite-sized body.” She let out an infectious laugh. “Maybe your variety of mole contains quite a bit more plátano than most, but that makes you supremely delicious. Don’t ever forget that and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

I was feeling a little better, but fearful of heading back to school. Mom and Abuela Zyanya headed back down to the kitchen to continue cooking dinner. To say that our family is food-obsessed is, to put it mildly. Each family, going back generations, taught both daughters and sons to cook and instilled in their kids a love for different foods. On both my mom’s side and my dad’s, cooking is seen as a necessary life skill that everyone should master, and sitting down to a meal together as a family is sacred. While each member of the extended family specializes in the cuisine of their ancestors, each also appreciates and is eager to learn the way food from other ethnicities is made. So, cooking also became one of my passions.

A big family gathering at our house might feature Mama Bernice’s greens and mac & cheese, Great-Grandma Esther’s brisket and tzimmes, and Abuela Zyanya’s tlayudas. It wouldn’t be a surprise to hear all three of the women get into a discussion over whether Esther’s challah was better than Zyanya’s pan de yema or Bernice’s cornbread. The odd thing is that each woman defended a different woman’s bread as being better than her own. And the men were just as adept in the kitchen as the women. While Abuelo José’s paellas were legendary, Grandpa David made Asian food his area of expertise, laughing about the Jews’ passion for Chinese food.

As I was letting Mom’s and Abuela’s words about me sink in, I headed down to the kitchen to see how I could help out. On tonight’s menu were carne asada and memelas. I volunteered to man the grill. While getting things ready outside, I could see the scene unfold through the kitchen window as Dad entered the kitchen. It was clear from the expression on his face that Mom was filling him in about what had happened to me at school, as well as Abuela’s and her conversations with me.

Dinner on that Friday night was interesting, to say the least. Talking about how I felt about myself and my ethnicity was uncomfortable because I needed to open up about thoughts and events that I’d kept to myself my whole life. Talking about the size of my dick with my parents and grandmother was totally weird.

“Jaime,” Dad began, “you can let others control your narrative or you can take control of it yourself. Some people will say that you are a shining example of what is great about the United States of America—a melting pot, where people from all over the world are free to love whomever they want. Others see multi-racial people as an example of what’s wrong with this country and believe that races and ethnicities should remain distinct.”

I spoke up, “Kind of like, ‘One man’s meat is another man’s poison’?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Dad said, “But about your, um, manhood, let’s just say that what some see as grotesque excess, others will see as a fantasy come true, their wet dreams incarnate.” Dad smirked and said, “In your case, I’m guessing it will be more like, ‘One man’s meat is another man’s pleasure.’”

The sip of water I’d just taken shot out my nose as I burst out laughing. Everyone else at the table cracked up as well.

Dad, always the copywriter, the maker of brand images, added, “It’s up to you to step up, take hold of the reins, and shape your brand image, rather than giving that power over to others who won’t have your best interests at heart. Jaime, you have to ask yourself, ‘What is brand Jaime Fine-Cruz going to stand for?’ Then work to make that happen.”

What a day. I needed time to process. In the space of a day, the way I had always seen myself was called into question, and I realized that who I was going to be as a man was up to me to decide.

I helped with the cleanup in the kitchen and headed upstairs to my bedroom, a chorus of voices swirling in my brain, each with a different opinion on what to do next.

Author’s notes:

This is my first work of fiction. Please feel free to leave your comments below or at the email link you’ll find in my bio.

All characters and names are creations of the author. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.