Silhouette of Strength

Chapter 6: The quiet strength of Daddie Louie

My grandfather, Daddy Louie, was the embodiment of a gentle soul. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. There was something serene and calming about his presence. An energy that never felt rushed or harsh, only patient and kind. He moved through life with a quiet dignity, never seeking to dominate a room but always managing to leave a lasting impression on those who took the time to see him for who he truly was.

On the Cuban side of my family; the Artesona’s, Daddy Louie was seen as a bit of an oddball. They called him a gentleman, and they weren’t wrong. He was always neatly dressed, often with a hat perched just so on his head and a handkerchief tucked into his pocket. He had an old-world charm about him, something that stood out even more because it didn’t quite match the louder, livelier personalities of the rest of the family. While they cared about him. They didn’t respect him. They saw him as a bit eccentric. That’s the word they used often: “eccentric.”

My mother, who grew up in my great-grandmother’s house surrounded by her aunts and uncles, saw the way they used to joke about him. They’d laugh behind his back, sometimes even right in front of him, teasing him in that way families do when they think someone is too soft or too different. But my mother never found it funny. She was fiercely protective of Daddy Louie, even as a child. She didn’t like the way they treated him, how they overlooked the depth of his kindness or dismissed his quiet ways as weakness.

That’s why, when she became an adult and had a place of her own, she brought Daddy Louie to live with us on Croes Avenue in the Bronx. She wanted him to be somewhere he was safe, somewhere he would be respected and loved. In our home, Daddy Louie was not a curiosity or a target for jokes. He was part of the heartbeat of the house. His presence was grounding. He had this way of making even the most chaotic days feel a little lighter, simply by sitting in his favorite chair, reading the paper or humming a tune from his youth.

The bad day that didn’t happen.

My mother, Pops, and I were in the apartment, along with Daddy Louie. I don’t remember why my father showed up that day, but he was upset. He sat in the kitchen, gripping the arms of the chair like he was holding himself back from something worse. His eyes burned with frustration, his jaw tight.

The air in the room was thick, heavy with words unsaid.

Then, my grandfather, knowing what was on my father’s mind did the unexpected. He was never one to get involved in drama. He walked up to my father and in a steady voice. He told him, she is with Charlie now. They are in love! Just like that It was direct and final. Like the slamming of a door that would never opened again.

I had never seen my grandfather take a side like that before, but in that moment, he did. My father’s face twisted with something between anger and heartbreak. Without another word, he stormed out of the apartment. The door slammed behind him, and just like that, he was gone.

The silence that followed sat heavy in my chest

Daddy Louie taught me, without ever trying, that gentleness is not weakness. It’s a strength all its own. In a world that often celebrates the loudest and the boldest, he was a steady reminder of the quiet power of kindness and grace.