• Marcelo barely remembers his father, the last time he saw him was when he was four. He was on the back porch of their old house with his father and his grandfather. He remembers his father was wearing a stained white shirt, he had on denim shorts with a hole on the bottom and he remembered he had tattoos that covered the whole portion of his upper body. He didn’t care though, Marcelo walked outside as he watched his grandfather and his father play cards. He really wanted to see what game they were playing. So he tried to climb on his father’s lap, but his leg didn’t reach all the way. So he fell down, he began to cry but he remembered his father told him real men don’t cry. He wiped his tears and he began to climb on his leg again. He pulled on his father’s shirt and made himself up. He looked at the tables to see brightly colored chips and cards spread throughout the table. He assumed it was the game his preschool teacher taught him; he didn’t bother to remember the name. He was distracted by the tattoos on his father’s neck. He moved his long, curly, brown hair to reveal a great amount of tattoos some were smudged, or they were in Spanish. Either way Marcelo didn’t understand them, “C-A-R-M-E-N.” Marcelo read aloud, “What does that spell Papá?” He asked as his tiny finger followed the trail of tattoos on his neck.
    “You don’t know how to spell your mother’s name?” His father softly spoke as he laid a hand of cards down on the table.
    “El muchacho es estúpido.” He grandfather mumbled under his breath.
    “Papá!” His father yelled, “Well do you Marcelo?” he asked as he moved Marcelo’s curly hair out of his face. Marcelo was afraid to disappoint his father. He balled up his fists and shook his head slowly, “It’s Carmen your Mama’s name. You better remember it.”
    “Okay Papá, but where’s my name?”
    His father put both of his hands on Marcelo’s head, pulled him close, and kissed him on the forehead, “It will be there soon.”
    “You promise?” Marcelo asked as he started to mess with the cards on the table.
    “ Marcelo, párese!” his grandfather yelled as he snatched the cards from him.
    He took the cards back and gave them to his father, moved his father’s hair and whispered into his ear, “Papá why can I learn Spanish.”
    “Some things you don’t need to understand, not just yet.” his father kissed him on the forehead and moved a stack of colored chips near him.
    Marcelo scanned his father’s arm he stopped at his favorite one. It was in black ink and it said in cursive, Picador. It was the only Spanish word Marcelo could pronounce. And even if it was a good word or a bad word Marcelo liked it, he loved the way his tongue tingled after he said it. He was about to ask his father what it meant but he heard his mother rush in. She scooped Marcelo up and slapped his father in the face, “You are sick! I can’t take it anymore, I’m taking Marcelo and we’re gone!”
    “ Podemos hablar? Por favor no abandóneme.” his father begged as he followed Marcelo’s mother throughout the house as she gathered her things.
    “No Mario, I can’t take it anymore.” she set Marcelo down and fixed his clothes, “Go wait at the front door for me.” she said as she put the things in a bag.
    Marcelo nodded his head as he walked slowly to the front door. He leaned against the wall and waited for his mother. She came out yelling at his father in Spanish and started to push him out of her way. She stormed out of the house and quickly came back in, “Marcelo say goodbye to your Papá.” she said as she dug in her purse for her car keys.
    His father picked him up and kissed him. Marcelo wiped the tears that were strolling down his cheeks, “Marcelo, be good for your Mama, be a man and protect her okay?”
    He kissed his father on the head, wiped the tears that were streaking down his cheeks and he whispered to him, “Picador.”
    His father kissed him once more and set him down to release him to his mother. She helped him into the car seat into the back and shut the door. Marcelo waved to his father as the car slowly drove off. He knew that was the last time he was going to see his father. As his mother drove he could only think of one thing. Picador, Marcelo was going to make his father and be a picador just like him.