The Handymxn
Bubble Gum & Beautiful Cabins
(This One’s for My Dad)
“I just need you to clean this apartment,” he says, gesturing toward a mostly empty space with dusty floors and a smell that says no one has loved this place in a while.
“The tenants didn’t really take care of it. I’ve got new ones moving in soon. And I’m telling you—I can take care of anything. I rent out the units, I do handyman work, I fix stuff. I do it all. Except... cleaning.”
Then he laughs. The kind of laugh that’s meant to be charming but lands like drywall dust in your throat.
“That’s why I hired a woman,” he says, like it’s the punchline to a joke.
I smile the way women do when we want men to leave.
“Alrighty. Let’s do this,” I say, already waiting for the door to shut.
He finally exits.
And then:
click.
That moment. That detail. That perfect piece of “handyman work” staring me in the face.
A bathroom tile job so bad it might as well have been glued down with chewing gum from a middle school cafeteria.
And right then, I know exactly what I’m doing later.
I’m texting my dad.
My father—El Gran Tito—taught me how to cut wood, how to solder pipes, how to read the pressure in a water tank.
He taught me what makes a good hammer, how to check if a piece of wood is warped, and how to lay tile correctly. (That means no shortcuts. No cheating with caulk. And definitely no bubble gum.)
We built a cabin together once, my dad and I.
From scratch.
Wood beams, tin roof, poured concrete, stubborn nails, and laughter echoing off unfinished walls.
It was beautiful.
So when I send him the picture later that night, I already know what’s coming.
The zoom-in.
The silence.
The dramatic “Ay bendito.”
And then:
That big, belly-deep laugh.
“¿Pero quién rayos hizo eso? ¿Un ciego?”
I’ll laugh too. Because in that moment, across the miles, we’re back in the cabin. Back in the sawdust. Back in the shared pride of knowing how to build something real—with care, with craft, with love.
That’s the part people like this landlord don’t get.
It’s not just about who “cleans” or who “fixes.”
It’s about respect.
For the skill.
For the labor.
For the lineage.
He thinks cleaning is beneath him.
He thinks hiring a woman means someone who doesn’t know her way around a tool.
He thinks “mopping” is the end of the story.
But I know how to lay a floor straight.
And I know a shoddy tile job when I see one.
What I don’t know is how to stay quiet when I know better.
So I document.
I laugh.
I remember.
And I keep doing my work—with more integrity in one mop swipe than he’s laid in an entire bathroom.
#DiasporaStories
#BoricuaInTheDiaspora
#TaughtByTito
#CabinBuiltByLove
#LatinaWithTools
#ThisIsSkilledLabor
#InvisibleLaborVisiblePride
#CleaningChronicles
#GenderedLabor
#NotJustAJob
#RespectTheWork
#TileTales
#DadsAndDaughters
#QueerHandsCanBuild
#DIYJustice
#FromSawdustToSoap
#FixingMoreThanFloors
#LatinxWorkerStories
#MopAndMemory
#NoBubbleGumTiles
