My Son The Cheerleader

September

Today is my first day back in America, and already it grates on me. It is just as I remembered from my business trips: twenty-two and a half hours in a tin can suspended a mile in the sky, surrounded by tourists only to arrive in a skeleton of a city. The sidewalks are empty, no vendors, few pedestrians, just street after street of bright graffiti, garish advertisements, and smog-belching cars. Even the trees here are skeletons, stripped of leaves, they tell me, for the winter, but I think they might never have leaves at all. Why would they? There’s no sunlight in between these monoliths of steel and stone! It was bearable before, if only barely, a week here, a week there, eating in expensive restaurants and selling equally expensive insurance. But now, I am ripped out of my home in the Philippines and transplanted here, like an orchid without a greenhouse. I miss Manila already. 

At least Marco is enjoying it. I mean, I know he wanted to go to school here—insisted, really—but I figured that, once he saw it, felt the cold, dry Pittsburgh air on his skin, that son of the tropics—that son of mine—would want to turn back immediately.  But he just bundles up and spends all his time with his chin up, quite literally, gawking at the buildings and high-rises. 

One of the Americans taught me a phrase: “when hell freezes over.” They use it for events that are never going to happen. That seems odd to me, given that here I am, in this frozen hell. I need to get back to the Philippines.

October

Well, Marco got his wish. He is going to school in America, some private Christian school in the middle of the city. To be honest, I didn’t even look too closely at it, and I don’t think Marco did either. All he cares about is that it’s far from home. Frankly, I think he’s doing it to spite me. 

It’s not just the school, either. I can tell he’s trying to dress like an American. He wears these skinny jeans and bulky sweaters, and shoes like he plays basketball instead of fútbol. As if these things can change where he’s from, who he is. It’s ridiculous. 

November

Good news, I suppose: Marco has made some friends. I can hear him now, talking on his phone or computer or whatever it is the youth use to communicate these days. I can only hear one side of the conversation, but he sounds happy. Laughing a lot, at least. Of course, I don’t think he was ever worried about that. He is certain Americans are the friendliest people on Earth, totally uncaring of what you look like or where you are from. I am not so sure. Still, I suppose I should not have worried for him; he’s a friendly kid, and what was he doing if not learning American culture while watching all of those old American sitcoms?

December

I’m worried about Marco again. Well, less about him and more about my relationship with him. He knows how much I miss the Philippines and it seems  every day he tries to become more American just to spite me.  His accent is fading quickly, so that now he almost sounds like any other American and the other day he refused to take my homemade adobo to school for lunch because it ‘reeks.’ Frankly, he’s been refusing a lot of food recently, and it seems as though he’s losing weight. He’s definitely thinner than when we left, although it is hard to tell because of his American clothes. It’s snowing now, so he’s always wearing his coat—a pink, puffy thing with fur lining on the hood. It goes down to his knees, it’s so big. Below that he usually wears these skin-tight black pants, leggings, he calls them, and brown boots called Uggs. I think they look ridiculous. He says it’s the American style. I’ve never seen any other American boys wearing them.

And it’s like his American friends are his family now. Every night, we eat dinner, chewing in silence like his tongue has been cut out, and then as soon as he goes upstairs it’s like a switch has been flipped. Suddenly his a chatterbox and I have to tell him to shut up at midnight to get any sleep. The other day, I noticed a necklace around his neck—a piece of black lace right below his chin, so tight I thought it might strangle him.

“Hijo,” I said, “what is this?”

“A choker, papa,” he said, “some of my American friends gave it to me. For Christmas.”

So now I have to compete not only with the American’s culture, but with their gifts as well. I don’t even know what Marco would like any more. Maybe a new shoes? He seems to really like shoes. 

January

Apparently Americans do a thing called ‘New Year Resolutions’? I have never heard such a ridiculous thing. Why wait to change something until a new year? Change now. Marcos, of course, needed to participate. He says that he will stop cutting his hair. Already, it is near his shoulders, but he is determined not to cut it. In fact, he seems to be rather enjoying it. This morning I found him in his bathroom, singing to some American singer—Taylor Spears, maybe? Brittney Eilish? I am not sure, there are too many of them to keep track. Anyway, I found him singing along, blow-drying his hair. I asked him where he got his blow dryer, and he said another gift. His nails are painted, too. I didn’t even ask where he got the polish. I didn’t want to know. 

February

I’m so embarrassed. I picked up Marcos today at school because he had a dentist appointment that he would miss if he took the bus like normal. So I pull up to the curb, not six feet from where he was standing, and I don’t recognize him! My own son! He just looked so much like the other Americans! With his long hair and tall boots, he blended in with the two… girls? He was standing next to. They looked like girls to my eyes, at least. Pretty girls, even, but this American fashion makes it hard to tell. There was also a boy there, thankfully dressed a bit more traditionally in chaps and a polo. He was big, too, a fútbol player, probably. Next to him, Marcos looked thin as a rail, even in his huge pink coat.

In the car, I asked him about them. The boy was named Jason, and apparently he was on the football team—American football, of course. I asked if that’s who he was taking to on the phone all the time, but he just laughed and said, ‘sometimes.’ The girls—they were girls—were Heather and Macey. I asked if either was his girlfriend. He said neither. I asked which had given him the necklace that he still wore around his neck. He looked down, like he was afraid to meet my eyes. It was Jason. 

March 

Last night Marcos and I had a fight. I saw him in his pajamas, just some sweatpants and a tank top, and I could practically count his ribs. I told him he needs to eat more, he said he’s not hungry. I told him it’s the crap they’re serving at the cafeteria, he said he just wasn’t hungry. Most nights, I’d let it slide, but I had to put my foot down somewhere, and if this is the hill our relationship dies on, so be it. So I told him he had to join a sport. I knew he was already in some clubs—theater, I think, and maybe chess. But the boy needs some muscle and some appetite, and the only thing that I knew could do that for him a sport. He refused, of course, and I told him that his allowance depended on it. That shut him up. He just went up to his room and locked the door, then spent the rest of the afternoon and night talking to his friends. Didn’t even come out for dinner. 

I was just about ready to apologize when he came home from school the next day with a bright smile on his face and a uniform in his hands.

“Papa,” he said, “I made the team!”

I was so happy, I was almost crying. “Congratulations, mijo!” I exclaimed, spreading my arms wide in a hug. He jumped in. That was the first hug we’d shared in months.

“What position?”

“Second row, in the middle. Smack dab on the fifty yard line.”

“What?”

“It’s a good position, papa. Everyone in the bleachers will see me.”

“See you? What about scoring?”

“Papa, there are no points in cheerleading!”

And that’s how I learned about the American sport of cheer.  

April 

Today I answered a knock on our door and was surprised to find a girl standing on the other side. It was Heather, the friend from all those months ago. Apparently she and Marcos had arranged to hang out in the mall. I remember asking if they needed money, and she said no, so I assumed they wouldn’t be buying anything. Then they come back four hours later, arms full of bags from all kinds of stores: Forever21, Hot Topic, even some Sephora. They walked into the house, giggling like madmen. At one point, I think the girl even called Marcos ‘Maya’. Now he has an American name, too. Great. I’ll just leave it with all the bags the girl left behind. Another gift from the Americans to compete for my son’s love, I suppose. Perfect.

But, as I was doing the laundry, I found something shocking: a pair of panties in Marcos’s laundry. He’s got that puta wrapped clean around his finger! She’s taking him shopping, buying him gifts, and still he fucks her hard enough to make her forget her panties! His mother, may she rest in peace, may not have approved, but I couldn’t be prouder. Fuck those Americans, Marcos! Fuck the putas and leave ‘em wanting more!

May

I went to one of Marcos’s cheer… things today. Apparently they don’t have their own games, so they have to piggyback off of other sports. So I had to sit through half of an hour of a lacrosse game (idiotic sport, by the way—worse than cheer) just to see my son. 

So they walk on, and I start cheering because it’s, you know, a sports game. That’s what you do! But then some mom shushes me! ‘They’re about to start,’ she says! I know they’re about to start, that’s why I’m cheering! But I shut up anyway.

They were all wearing the same clothes, kinda similar to what Marcos likes to wear: skirts, crop tops, and big bows holding their hair back. All in maroon and white. School colors, I suppose. They held these big balls of shiny paper which they shook to make noise and make sparkle. Then they yelled some rhyming chant so fast I could hardly make out what they were saying before some music started—the Brittany Spear or whatever it is Marcos listens to—and they started dancing in sync with each other. It all looked very rehearsed. Then the woman who shushed me before—the gall on this woman!—she has the balls to ask me which is my daughter! During the performance!

‘Son, you mean,’ I corrected her. She looked at me confused. I guess I'm not the only one that finds it hard to tell which is which in those American clothes. ‘He’s that…’ I tried to point, but the bodies were all moving so fast, and all wearing the same clothes, in the flying hair and pom-poms it was hard to tell which was which. Finally, at the end, they all stacked up on top of each other. Not like a dog pile but more like a pyramid, with each cheerleader supporting the one beneath them. And there was my Marcos, right in the middle row on the left, standing on the shoulders of two of his teammates and with another on his shoulder. He was right: the whole bleacher could see him. 

‘Him,’ I finally said to the woman, pointing, ‘That’s my boy.’

July

Today, Marcos got his driver’s license. I knew it would happen eventually; as I understand it, it’s an American right of passage. He’s driving off to his friends’ to celebrate, Jason, the football player, I think. 

He’s also finally shed that atrocious coat for good. Nowadays his wardrobe is a bit more varied if a little monochromatic—pink, white, and teal with this kid, always! Today he left in denim shorts so short and so tight that I had to wonder how his polla wasn’t hanging out of them. Another gift from the Americans, I suppose. That’s what he says whenever I question what he’s wearing. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t question it anymore. His leggings, his crop-tops, his yoga pants, even his skirts; I don’t even pretend to understand American style. 

That being said, as much as I hate that American style, the girls must love it. When he came home from Jason’s (way past his curfew, might I add), he collapsed on the couch and fell fast asleep. I didn’t mean to snoop, but I couldn’t help but see the used condom in his waistband. I may not like it, but that style is helping him pull chicks alongside that muscled-up jock!

Not to say Marcos doesn’t have any muscles; that cheer practice is really working him out! He’s still lean, but when he wears his crop tops I can see his abs and he had to buy new leggings because the old ones would hardly fit around his legs anymore. In short: my plan worked! I’m the best dad!

July 

School’s out, been out for a week. Marcos has been taking full advantage of his new freedom, too; every day he’s driving somewhere, hanging out with his friends, going to the mall, whatever.  Just yesterday he went to a lake-beach, as if we didn’t just leave the best real beaches in the world a few months ago! 

But despite the fact that school has been out for some time, I get this concerned call from the principal. He says my son and I have to come in to school, very urgent. So I get Marcos and put him in the car, and all the way he’s asking, ‘why are we going to school,’ ‘what’s this all about?’ as if I have any idea. 

So we get to the principal's office, and he starts talking at us:

“Mr. Fernandez,” he says, “Marcos. Do you know what this is about?”

“Of course no,” I say. Marcos just crosses his arms. Smart boy. Knows not to talk to the cops.

“Marcos?”

“He doesn’t know shit,” I say. I don’t know if it’s true, but at this point I’m in full protection mode.

“A… video has been circulating featuring your… son, Mr. Fernandez, video of a very explicit nature.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Marcos? Care to explain?”

He still sat silently, arms and legs crossed, pout on his face. It was hard to look simultaneously furious and annoyed while wearing cut-off shorts and a halter top, but he was pulling it off.

“Very well. Mr. Fernandez, I’m going to show you the video, edited for… decency’s sake.”

He turned his laptop around to show us the screen, and on it was a girl laying on her stomach. She was clearly Philippina, and she wore the same cheer uniform as Marcos as she bounced up and down, back and forth, moaning like a bitch in heat. 

I was about to yell at the man, scream at him for exposing my son to such filth, but then the girl turned her head to face the camera, and her face—it was my Marcos…

“Now, Mr. Fernandez, legally I cannot take issue with your… son’s “gender identity.” Transsexuals are a protected group in the state of Cleveland, so I cannot stop him from dressing or acting like a woman, even if it is un-Christian to do so. We even made allowances, altering the dress code, allowing him to join the cheer squad…”

I put my hand on Marcos’s thigh and looked into his makeup-laden eyes.

 “Is this true?” I asked, “are you…?”

He just nodded, his long, silky hair bobbing as he did. Suddenly, I felt so stupid. How could I have missed it? As I was still reeling from this revaluation, the principal just droned on:

“As you can imagine, this video circulating online is rather damaging to our reputation as an educator of upstanding and scholarly Christians. Not only pre-marital sexual relations, but sodomitical sexual relations at that! While wearing the uniform of our institution!…”

“Who?” I asked

“Who do you mean?” the principal said, shaken from his speech.

“Who posted that video?”

“Well, only your son’s face is visible, so it’s difficult to say, but…”

I turned to face my s—my daughter.

“Who filmed that video?”

She looked down, shy. “Jason.”

“Mr. Fernandez, the other party at fault isn’t material here, what’s important is that…”

“No, what my daughter does in her free time is not fucking important,” I said, standing up, “and it’s sure as hell none of the business of your prude school and least of all your pedófilo ass. Here’s what is important: someone made a porno featuring my fucking daughter. My girl. I know her, she didn’t want to get filmed. This fucking creep, Jason, whipped out his phone to show all his little creep homies. If you were actually concerned about creating ‘upstanding and scholarly Christians,’ you’d go after him and his voyeur-ass friends, but instead, you’re here harassing my daughter because she likes to wear skirts.”

I stood there for a moment, panting. I’d run out of things to say. Instead I just looked at Marcos. She was looking right up at me, positively beaming. We walked out of there in silence, and as soon as the door closed, she hugged me like never before, clamping onto my torso like a bear trap.

“Papá,” she said, muffled because her face was against my shoulder, “thank you. For everything.”

“Any time, míja,” I said, chuckling, “just try to get less sleazy boyfriends next time, okay?” She laughed too, but I could tell it was through tears.

“I just,” she said , her voice strained with tears, “I was so worried, that once you found out…” I held her at arm's length, bending over slightly so we were at eye level. 

“Míja,” I said, brushing the hair out of her eyes. Her mascara was running. “It doesn’t matter if you’re a boy or a girl, gay or straight, Phillipina or American. I’ll always love you.”

She looked up at me and smiled, and in that moment, I noticed something so obvious that I felt like an idiot for not seeing it sooner: My míja looked just like her mother.