¡Feliz cumpleaños, papi!

Yesterday, my dad turned 70. As I write the number, its weight becomes evident in its numeric representation. The long slide of the seven, with its little cover-against-bad-weather top and the roundness of the zero, evoking wisdom and wholeness.

My father was gifted with the deepest sensibility and also with a hilarious sense of humor. He delights in the tiny black and gray birds and the yellow-chested reinitas that come to the small bowl of water that he maintains in the balcony. The birds flock in small chattering groups to the bowl to drink as they gossip loudly with each other, or to take quick and messy baths in the hot days of the tropics.

My father is not a pet person but he's put up with his share of animals in 70 years. One time, many years ago, I was visiting Puerto Rico from Boston with my cat. My mom and I were talking in one of the back rooms of their home when my dad walked over, newspaper in hand as always, and announced: "The cat is going to fall off the balcony." He turned around and returned to his seat on that very same balcony, where he still spends most of his days, reading voraciously almost anything that's printed and about everything that's been written.

My mom and I thought he was joking, since he didn't seem alarmed and his tone was matter-of-fact, so I didn't pay much attention. A few minutes later, he returned to announce: "The cat fell off the balcony," in that same tone and attitude. My mom and I didn't believe him but we followed him this time to find that, in fact, my unfortunate cat Minushka had leaped off the fifth-floor balcony after a bird, fallen unruffled on all four legs onto the rooftop of the ground apartment, and happily continued her unauthorized explorations by getting into the balcony of an empty second-floor apartment. The rescue operation that ensued was worthy of a TV show. The expression, "The cat is going to fall off the balcony," is now a running joke in my family about my dad's sanguine attitude towards impending disaster.

My father, like nearly every Puerto Rican man of his time (and perhaps even now), was raised to be the perfect Male Chauvinist Pig. Yet he raised me, his eldest daughter, to be ambitious and to never take crap from or to feel myself inferior to a man. Still, he expected my mom to be the perfect housewife and had a lot of trouble understanding why she'd want to do anything else with her life. But he eventually saw the light, thanks to my mom's lioness-like determination and sainthood-worthy patience and their enduring affection and respect for each other. My mom followed her dream and became a renowned and respected historian, in her own right, who is a model of empowerment and strength for her daughters and her son.

My father likes to tell the story of how his daughters and wife gave him a birthday present once, a book titled "The Mind of a Male Chauvinist Pig." When he opened the book cover, the pages inside were blank. He laughs every time he tells that story.

My father has come such a long way in 70 years. He's undergone so many changes and he's had many and often incredible adventures. And he's devoted his entire life to our patria, Puerto Rico. But when all is said and done, he's also been a good father who has always loved and taken care of his family, even now when his children are in their 40s, desperdigados in voluntary exile in three separate states, and his original tribu has more than doubled to 11, including his six striking grandchildren, each with his or her own distinctive and loving personality.

For all this, and so much more, I'm truly thankful that my dad is now entering his 71st year.