A Father's Pride
By River Rivers
It took eighteen long years to raise my son to manhood. Tonight, I could lose him forever after one match on a plastic and foam gym mat. Time doesn’t piss around that way. At least it’s consistent. Either he submits, or I do. Those were the agreed-upon rules of engagement.
There he stood across from me; refusing to look into my eyes. Every time I took a step forward he took a step backward. An uneasiness lingered over the dojo as the events of our past did. Célio Criado, my first baby boy, my only natural child: my opponent. He is the only fraqueza (weakness) I have and “a fighter must have no weakness. Else you will lose.” Hélio Gracie, the Brazilian martial artist, was the patron of this saying. I’d failed his lesson many times in life. I let love beat me down.
Before engaged to a man, I married and loved a woman named Aldina Criado. She was a brilliant person who spoke more than four languages and made her living as a commercial pilot. We married young at eighteen. The day I found out she was pregnant with my child, we decided to move to America from Brazil. After Célio’s birth came with complications we decided on Tubal Ligation Surgery. Later we decided that we still wanted kids and adopted a pair of sisters from Brazil named Telma and Luana.
Life treated me too damned good those days. As a commercial pilot Aldina flew all over the world. I can’t recall how many nights we cuddled together under the Brazilian night sky. I studied to become a software engineer, all while taking care of the kids and training my jiu-jitsu. Over time we saved up enough money to buy our own home where we could grow together as a family. The twins got their kittens, Célio got his pet lizard, and Aldina and I got each other. Then one blistering hot afternoon Aldina died from an aneurysm. Célio, Telma, and Luana were thirteen at the time.
That was a decade ago. Life changes. At the time, I resented her for leaving me with an impossible task. Children need their mother and I needed my wife. I developed a ritual to get me through the mourning. Every day, to give me strength, I close my eyes to remember what she looked like during our wedding. I liked to think of myself as more patient, since I possessed a third degree Preta (Blackbelt).
His base was phenomenal. He kept his head up, back straightened, knees widened, and weight lowered. A reversal here would be difficult to do. The focus was on defending a pass and mount.
And I conjure her ever fading voice inside my head. I liked to imagine her saying, “Valente.” (My name always sounded the best rolling off her tongue.) I found it therapeutic to invoke her memory at least once a day. When I currently tried, all I could see was Célio, whose every appearance favored his mother over mine, from his amber eyes to his cheek dimples. The way he spoke; his words reminded me of her. The way he walked and moved his body, the way he was so passionate when he thought he was in the right. No doubt, A habit Célio picked up from our most turbulent arguments when he was an impressionable toddler. While I tended to bond more with the girls, my wife and firstborn grew inseparable. Sure, I took him to martial arts classes, but that was it. I missed his first words, steps, and birthday. Aldina was there for it all and taught him all he knew. From the many languages he spoke, to his currently held Catholic beliefs. Everything came back to her. What I love about my son and what I hate.
I tightened the belt on my gi (uniform) and bowed at my opponent. He didn’t return the courtesy and the match began.
We hadn’t even touched hands, yet I could see the disgust in his eyes. It was the same look Japanese fighters had whenever I crossed an ocean to compete against them. You could tell that if the rules allowed they would spit in my face, bite while rolling, or elbow me out of spite. That was because they preferred their own Japanese jiu-jitsu over the art I practiced. I could excuse that. Yet, my son’s disgust of me was in his own homophobia. That was no excuse as far as I saw it. I never came out as homosexual to Aldina while she lived, a fact I regret. I’d always known I was gay. I had only been intimate with men before we met.
But, I like what I like; and at the time, she blew any available man out of the water. After she passed, I explored more of my homosexuality, seeing it as the next phase in my life. Before, I had to hide that part of me from a world that was far less accepting of the gay community. I still grapple with whether it was wrong of me to allow her to die without knowing my secret.
After the children were grown and out of high school I met someone I intended to start a relationship with. I finally told the kids my truth. I had done my duty to Aldina and raised them with her values and direction. They were exceptional students and community members who were all going to study abroad in Brazil and finish their education in America. As adults now, capable of understanding the situation, I could no longer lie to their faces as I did their mother.
My daughters had their questions. Though they accepted the decision and welcomed my partner, Tiger, into their lives. Célio wasn’t as easy. He told me straight to my face that he wouldn’t “accept a faggot for a father.” We hadn’t spoken since his move to Brazil, and eventual return to a California college. He had requested for me not to attend his graduation two years ago and studied his jiu-jitsu a city over so that he didn’t have to cross paths with me. I wasn’t even aware he earned his black belt until the instructor who awarded it to him told me. It took all I had in me to reach out to him with the wedding invitation. I figured he would ghost the invite; that my daughters would tell me his response. This was a man who held his religious convictions and didn’t agree that gays should marry, despite both of his home countries having legalized the act.
To my surprise, I received a letter with an address to his dojo and a date with a time. The proposition was that if I submitted him, he would attend the wedding. If Célio submitted me, he was never obligated to speak to me again or accept my life choices. I mailed back with my answer and here we are.
After awhile in the clinch, neither of us was taking advantage while cross facing. Célio grabbed and threw me aside with a judo inspired move. My son was adding other forms of martial arts to his training.) This was to be more versatile for his Ultimate Fighting Competitions. I slapped my arm to the ground to use a break-fall. I rolled out into the guard position as Célio was attempting to pass my legs. He was younger, more athletic, and stronger than me.
I panicked a bit when he over hooked an arm of mine and gained control. My guard technique made an opponent work more for their holds. Célio grew up watching me practice and absorbed a lot of knowledge from old VHS videos of my fights. He knew the moves I’d make better than I did. It was like a chess teacher beat by a student with forgotten tricks. This was too easy for him. My fighter’s fog allowed no clear vision to victory.
It wasn’t fair. His mind was completely focused on the task of submitting me. He wanted to humiliate me as I humiliated him. He wanted this to be over as soon as it started. I wouldn’t allow that. I fought hard to earn my right on this mat as a gay man. I knew many a instructor who spouted homophobic opinions in class. “If you roll with a gay kid and he bleeds you are taking a risk that he doesn't have AIDS or HIV.” “If I learn one of my students here at the dojo is a cocksucker, I will not hesitate on submissions. I will make certain you don’t return.”
I respected many of these people for what they did outside of their hate speech. It broke my heart to hear them say those words. I was further conflicted that I never spoke up. I was complicit in many gay men and women's humiliation. It was the exact same world-shattering feeling I felt when my son, who I love more than anything, called me the F-word. Self-inflicted homophobia is the worst thing someone like me could do to themselves. And for the longest time, I thought the absolute worst of myself. I listened to the world: I believed I was a cocksucking faggot who wasn’t the man others thought he was. That belief was so wrong and nasty I could puke thinking on it.
To my satisfaction, we were sparring on the ground for ten more minutes. He was becoming exhausted, as I lost myself in thoughts. I took deep breaths. And focused on the fact that there were kids out there, in Brazil, forced into conversion therapy. All because a judge said it was a disease. That, in that same country LGBTQ murder rates have climbed by 30% in a year. That Conor Mcgregor and professional fighters still used the F-word as an insult. Like it meant nothing. Like the people who’ve been get called that word meant nothing. That people like him and my son thought people like me were less than.
That kind of bullshit drives my anger.
Using a barrigada technique I happened to never show Célio I raised my hip upwards to make room from the underpass. And I reversed his dominant position with my legs. This put me at advantage for a leg lock as I twisted the momentum towards the ground. His hand tapping sounded almost rhythmic. It was music to the ears. I let go of his leg to allow us a much needed breather. The fight had made us both irritable and miserable. Our heavy breaths filled the room as beads of sweat dripped onto the mat.
I smiled at my frowning boy. Losing was never an option. I would have Célio at my second wedding. Yet, the petty win felt almost empty. The fight for tolerance from him was over. My fight for acceptance had only begun.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
River Barnes, professionally known as River Rivers, is an emerging writer from Southern Oregon. His most recent stories are currently featured on and set to appear in Literally Stories, Who Writes Short Shorts, TallTaleTv, Snow Leopard Publishing and the Drabble Dark Anthology. You can follow River Rivers on Twitter @Catch22FictionCand on instagram @riverrivers921
By River Rivers
It took eighteen long years to raise my son to manhood. Tonight, I could lose him forever after one match on a plastic and foam gym mat. Time doesn’t piss around that way. At least it’s consistent. Either he submits, or I do. Those were the agreed-upon rules of engagement.
There he stood across from me; refusing to look into my eyes. Every time I took a step forward he took a step backward. An uneasiness lingered over the dojo as the events of our past did. Célio Criado, my first baby boy, my only natural child: my opponent. He is the only fraqueza (weakness) I have and “a fighter must have no weakness. Else you will lose.” Hélio Gracie, the Brazilian martial artist, was the patron of this saying. I’d failed his lesson many times in life. I let love beat me down.
Before engaged to a man, I married and loved a woman named Aldina Criado. She was a brilliant person who spoke more than four languages and made her living as a commercial pilot. We married young at eighteen. The day I found out she was pregnant with my child, we decided to move to America from Brazil. After Célio’s birth came with complications we decided on Tubal Ligation Surgery. Later we decided that we still wanted kids and adopted a pair of sisters from Brazil named Telma and Luana.
Life treated me too damned good those days. As a commercial pilot Aldina flew all over the world. I can’t recall how many nights we cuddled together under the Brazilian night sky. I studied to become a software engineer, all while taking care of the kids and training my jiu-jitsu. Over time we saved up enough money to buy our own home where we could grow together as a family. The twins got their kittens, Célio got his pet lizard, and Aldina and I got each other. Then one blistering hot afternoon Aldina died from an aneurysm. Célio, Telma, and Luana were thirteen at the time.
That was a decade ago. Life changes. At the time, I resented her for leaving me with an impossible task. Children need their mother and I needed my wife. I developed a ritual to get me through the mourning. Every day, to give me strength, I close my eyes to remember what she looked like during our wedding. I liked to think of myself as more patient, since I possessed a third degree Preta (Blackbelt).
His base was phenomenal. He kept his head up, back straightened, knees widened, and weight lowered. A reversal here would be difficult to do. The focus was on defending a pass and mount.
And I conjure her ever fading voice inside my head. I liked to imagine her saying, “Valente.” (My name always sounded the best rolling off her tongue.) I found it therapeutic to invoke her memory at least once a day. When I currently tried, all I could see was Célio, whose every appearance favored his mother over mine, from his amber eyes to his cheek dimples. The way he spoke; his words reminded me of her. The way he walked and moved his body, the way he was so passionate when he thought he was in the right. No doubt, A habit Célio picked up from our most turbulent arguments when he was an impressionable toddler. While I tended to bond more with the girls, my wife and firstborn grew inseparable. Sure, I took him to martial arts classes, but that was it. I missed his first words, steps, and birthday. Aldina was there for it all and taught him all he knew. From the many languages he spoke, to his currently held Catholic beliefs. Everything came back to her. What I love about my son and what I hate.
I tightened the belt on my gi (uniform) and bowed at my opponent. He didn’t return the courtesy and the match began.
We hadn’t even touched hands, yet I could see the disgust in his eyes. It was the same look Japanese fighters had whenever I crossed an ocean to compete against them. You could tell that if the rules allowed they would spit in my face, bite while rolling, or elbow me out of spite. That was because they preferred their own Japanese jiu-jitsu over the art I practiced. I could excuse that. Yet, my son’s disgust of me was in his own homophobia. That was no excuse as far as I saw it. I never came out as homosexual to Aldina while she lived, a fact I regret. I’d always known I was gay. I had only been intimate with men before we met.
But, I like what I like; and at the time, she blew any available man out of the water. After she passed, I explored more of my homosexuality, seeing it as the next phase in my life. Before, I had to hide that part of me from a world that was far less accepting of the gay community. I still grapple with whether it was wrong of me to allow her to die without knowing my secret.
After the children were grown and out of high school I met someone I intended to start a relationship with. I finally told the kids my truth. I had done my duty to Aldina and raised them with her values and direction. They were exceptional students and community members who were all going to study abroad in Brazil and finish their education in America. As adults now, capable of understanding the situation, I could no longer lie to their faces as I did their mother.
My daughters had their questions. Though they accepted the decision and welcomed my partner, Tiger, into their lives. Célio wasn’t as easy. He told me straight to my face that he wouldn’t “accept a faggot for a father.” We hadn’t spoken since his move to Brazil, and eventual return to a California college. He had requested for me not to attend his graduation two years ago and studied his jiu-jitsu a city over so that he didn’t have to cross paths with me. I wasn’t even aware he earned his black belt until the instructor who awarded it to him told me. It took all I had in me to reach out to him with the wedding invitation. I figured he would ghost the invite; that my daughters would tell me his response. This was a man who held his religious convictions and didn’t agree that gays should marry, despite both of his home countries having legalized the act.
To my surprise, I received a letter with an address to his dojo and a date with a time. The proposition was that if I submitted him, he would attend the wedding. If Célio submitted me, he was never obligated to speak to me again or accept my life choices. I mailed back with my answer and here we are.
After awhile in the clinch, neither of us was taking advantage while cross facing. Célio grabbed and threw me aside with a judo inspired move. My son was adding other forms of martial arts to his training.) This was to be more versatile for his Ultimate Fighting Competitions. I slapped my arm to the ground to use a break-fall. I rolled out into the guard position as Célio was attempting to pass my legs. He was younger, more athletic, and stronger than me.
I panicked a bit when he over hooked an arm of mine and gained control. My guard technique made an opponent work more for their holds. Célio grew up watching me practice and absorbed a lot of knowledge from old VHS videos of my fights. He knew the moves I’d make better than I did. It was like a chess teacher beat by a student with forgotten tricks. This was too easy for him. My fighter’s fog allowed no clear vision to victory.
It wasn’t fair. His mind was completely focused on the task of submitting me. He wanted to humiliate me as I humiliated him. He wanted this to be over as soon as it started. I wouldn’t allow that. I fought hard to earn my right on this mat as a gay man. I knew many a instructor who spouted homophobic opinions in class. “If you roll with a gay kid and he bleeds you are taking a risk that he doesn't have AIDS or HIV.” “If I learn one of my students here at the dojo is a cocksucker, I will not hesitate on submissions. I will make certain you don’t return.”
I respected many of these people for what they did outside of their hate speech. It broke my heart to hear them say those words. I was further conflicted that I never spoke up. I was complicit in many gay men and women's humiliation. It was the exact same world-shattering feeling I felt when my son, who I love more than anything, called me the F-word. Self-inflicted homophobia is the worst thing someone like me could do to themselves. And for the longest time, I thought the absolute worst of myself. I listened to the world: I believed I was a cocksucking faggot who wasn’t the man others thought he was. That belief was so wrong and nasty I could puke thinking on it.
To my satisfaction, we were sparring on the ground for ten more minutes. He was becoming exhausted, as I lost myself in thoughts. I took deep breaths. And focused on the fact that there were kids out there, in Brazil, forced into conversion therapy. All because a judge said it was a disease. That, in that same country LGBTQ murder rates have climbed by 30% in a year. That Conor Mcgregor and professional fighters still used the F-word as an insult. Like it meant nothing. Like the people who’ve been get called that word meant nothing. That people like him and my son thought people like me were less than.
That kind of bullshit drives my anger.
Using a barrigada technique I happened to never show Célio I raised my hip upwards to make room from the underpass. And I reversed his dominant position with my legs. This put me at advantage for a leg lock as I twisted the momentum towards the ground. His hand tapping sounded almost rhythmic. It was music to the ears. I let go of his leg to allow us a much needed breather. The fight had made us both irritable and miserable. Our heavy breaths filled the room as beads of sweat dripped onto the mat.
I smiled at my frowning boy. Losing was never an option. I would have Célio at my second wedding. Yet, the petty win felt almost empty. The fight for tolerance from him was over. My fight for acceptance had only begun.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
River Barnes, professionally known as River Rivers, is an emerging writer from Southern Oregon. His most recent stories are currently featured on and set to appear in Literally Stories, Who Writes Short Shorts, TallTaleTv, Snow Leopard Publishing and the Drabble Dark Anthology. You can follow River Rivers on Twitter @Catch22FictionCand on instagram @riverrivers921
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