He Played with Dolls: Growing up  through the machismo experience 

What’s that saying–– “our parents did the best they could with the tools they were given”? Try telling that to the 12-year-old boy whose mother had just beat him with the Barbie he was playing with, just for playing with it. 

“It’s gonna be okay; she’s only got pliers for that loose screw. Eventually, she’ll get it right.” 

Or the 6-year-old boy whose dad keeps calling him a “pussy” for crying after punching his tiny little arm as hard as he can. He then spanks him with a belt, because according to him, not being able to sit for a week is an acceptable reason for a boy to cry. 

“IKEA gave him the wrong size Allen wrench,” you’ll tell the boy. “Don’t worry, though; he’ll be dead soon.” 

I was only 10 when my dad accidentally flipped his car into a ditch filled with water and drowned. It didn’t take long for the monthly family reunions to stop––a familiar family story. He was the glue that kept the family together, they’d say. Aunts stopped talking to aunts; uncles were no longer forced to speak to other uncles by the aunts; and cousins lost touch. Birthdays and family events such as weddings or quinceañeras were mandatory — otherwise, as we got older, we were allowed to choose which family members we wanted to see. Deciding who to visit on long weekends wasn’t hard for me. I could visit the aunt who never smiled and whose husband shamed or hit his sons every time they missed a pass during touch football.

“Ram into him!” He’d order my cousin, asshole Junior. “Use your fucking elbow! Don’t be a faggot!” 

“Tío, this is touch-football,” I’d remind him.

“Go play with the other girls,” he’d say back. 

Or, I could choose Uncle Manny, the exiled uncle whose wife got into a physical altercation with the aunt who never smiled. 

“Let’s go play in my room,” my cousin Monica suggested as soon as we walked in the front door the weekend after my 13th birthday. We ran to her room, locked the door behind us, and gathered all her Barbies and their clothes. 

“My Barbie is going to wear boots with her dress,” I said as I held one pink lace-up knee-high boot and hunted for the other. “Got it!”

As I combed Barbie’s hair, the story I gave her began to bring her to life. The more life I gave Barbie, the safer I felt in the world I was creating for her––for us. I was still feeling on edge from the last time I had gotten caught playing with dolls. 

“Cual quierres? Which one do you want? The pink one?” My mother yelled as she threw my sister’s dresses at me. “You’re a boy! Boys don’t play with dolls! You want me to send you to school in this one!” Mommy Dearest continued, smacking me across the face with another dress as my sister watched, hiding behind a pillow. Crying. 

“No!” I begged. 

She thought she could scare the femininity out of me by threatening embarrassment. What she didn’t realize was that sending me to school in a dress would end me. The boys at school were beating me up. Teasing me for having a soft voice and hanging around with girls. I couldn’t imagine what would happen to me if I showed up in a dress. 

—

“She’s a model. And Ken’s an actor,” I said. “But he cheated on Barbie with a co-star, Christie, so now my Barbie will murder them.” My stories always ended with someone getting murdered, usually being telenovela-slapped off a chest of drawers imagined as the Empire State Building.

“What do you think about her hair? She just got out of the salon,” Monica said, twirling her Barbie displaying every angle of her off-center ponytail. 

“It’s beautiful,” I lied. “What do you think about…” Fear instantly flooded my body. We forgot to lock the door. I threw the Barbie, but it was already too late. Uncle Manny walked in and made the face of someone accidentally walking into an occupied dressing room. My heart pounded against my chest. I was sure he would yell at me and forbid me to come over again. Who wouldn’t? Only weird boys play with toys meant for girls.

He slowly entered the room, closed the door behind him, and locked it. I closed my eyes, waiting for my punishment. I felt him walk past me, opened my eyes, and saw him pick up the Barbie I had thrown across the room, now, lying face down on the floor, missing a boot. He handed her to me. He sat on the floor, picked up a brush, and recently murdered Christie. As he began to brush her hair, he asked me in his soft voice, “What’s your Barbie going to wear to the party tonight, Nachito?” 

I looked over at Monica. “He plays with us all the time,” she said, assuring me it was okay. I watched while Uncle Manny played with Christie––a big, tall man with a soft voice brushing a doll’s hair. He smiled at me, confirming what Monica had assured. That with them, I was safe.

When we finally learn to accept that our parents did their best with the tools they were given by God or the Universe, their parents or Grandparents, or even YouTube, it’s easier to move through the shame. I think that’s true for everyone. The wrong tools, I imagine, are dumped into our own unorganized toolboxes in the form of shame, rejection, and fear that we then have to dig through or discard as we experience our own lives. Mom, before the screw was stripped too far, eventually figured out the proper tool to use. I like to think that somewhere along the way, had he survived the accident, my dad would have been given that Allen wrench. At Uncle Manny’s funeral, I told Monica that her dad was the first person in my life that made me feel accepted and that I belonged. 

“How did he do that?” she asked. 

I smiled, held her hand, and said, “he played with dolls.”