My Tatay Nemie was a man of few words. He was not expressive, and words of affirmation were never his strong suit. In the odd times, he blurted out a joke or two. He rarely talked about his emotions, and he always avoided serious conversations. In fact, he would much rather poke fun at us, his family, than give compliments or share his feelings even when apt.
But that was just how he was. And we loved him for who he was. We loved how he never ceased to make those around him laugh. We loved how he could be the life of the party when the occasion called for it. We loved his appetite—for both food and life. We loved his tenacity.
What Tatay Nemie lacked in expression, …
Keep on reading: I came out—twice—and Tatay never confronted me