Iris Chacon

Flushing, New York, 1973
My father loves watching Iris Chacón. La bomba de Puerto Rico. La Vedette de América. He watches with a shit eating grin on his face as Iris and her fellow dancers gyrate to the Latin rhythms, shaking their asses, their costumes barely holding in their breasts.
I walk through the living room, glance at the TV, wonder what he’s watching. Whatever it is, the expression on his face speaks volumes. He sees me watching, asks me to sit next to him, watch her with him.
All these beautiful women. The flashy costumes. The undulating bodies. ‘What is this?’ I ask.
‘Iris Chacón’, he says. ‘She’s a dancer.’
I don’t understand a word of it but neither does he. I don’t even think it matters to him. He can’t wipe the smile off his face. We watch in silence for awhile. I find myself smiling too, although I’m not quite sure why.
My mother walks into the living room, glances at the TV, sees me and my father sitting together on the couch, our eyes glued to Iris’s gyrating body. ‘Don’t you think he’s a little too young for this?’
‘Leave him,’ my father says. ‘It’s okay.’
It isn’t so much that watching these half-naked women has any real effect on my seven year old mind. It’s the fact that my dad wants to bond with me — father and son.
The smile never leaves his face.
Nor mine.
