Pedagogía de un carnicero: My Father’s Legacy of Mentorship, Craft, and Care

Antes de la misa

Just before the funeral mass, a man approached me outside the church. He was maybe a few years younger than me, in his early forties, and had just pulled up in a sleek, late-model electric car. Dressed neatly but nervously adjusting his sleeves, he walked over, his eyes filled with emotion, and said, “Disculpa… tú eres el hijo de José, ¿verdad?”

His name was Manuel (at least that's what we'll call him), a name that sounded vaguely familiar because my dad had mentioned him so fondly, not often, but with warmth, like someone whose story had stayed with him.

​“He taught me everything,” Manuel said, his voice thick with both pride and grief. “Everything I know about meat cutting, your dad taught me. He changed my life.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. You could feel the weight of what he meant. “I was in a bad place,” he added. “And he gave me a way out. He gave me something I could be proud of. That changed everything.”

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Un nuevo camino: El arte como propósito

Later, I told my mom about the encounter. She nodded, not surprised. “Tu papá lo sacó de la calle,” she said. “Ese muchacho andaba en cosas feas con pandillas. Pero tu papá lo ayudó a encontrar otro camino.”

It wasn’t charity and it wasn’t about saving anyone. It was about purpose because my father believed in the dignity of craft—la dignidad del oficio. In the art of a clean cut, the pride of a well-wrapped package, the rhythm of a long day behind the counter. And he believed that through this work, through the intentional and embodied act of making something with care, you could reshape your place in the world.

​My father’s mentorship didn’t come with formal lessons. It was steady, hands-on, embodied, quiet, and rhythmic. He didn’t just teach people how to butcher meat, he taught them how to take pride in precision, how to show up consistently, how to build a life from the small acts of excellence.

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Mentorship as Speculative Fabulation

In my scholarly work, I write about something called speculative fabulation, a kind of world-building where people, especially those from historically marginalized communities, imagine and create new futures through creative, embodied practice. I’ve explored how this happens in classrooms, in afterschool programs, in digital storytelling clubs. But the truth is, my earliest model of this was my dad.

He wasn’t using a laser cutter or teaching in a university setting. Instead, he was in carnicerías, teaching young men like Manuel how to break down a side of beef, how to sharpen a knife, how to treat each customer with respect. He was offering them more than skills. He was offering them a way to author a different story about themselves.

​That is speculative fabulation; the cyborg world-building through the everyday. It’s the way my dad helped people reconfigure their lives, reconfigurar sus caminos, through care and attention to craft. And in doing so, he helped others build futures rooted in dignity.

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Fabular con las manos

What I saw in Manuel that morning was more than grief, it was gratitude. It was a living embodiment of what it means to be mentored not just into a trade, but into a life of possibility. One where past mistakes didn’t define the future, and one where cutting meat could be revolutionary.

Mi papá saw him, believed in him, and offered him time, skill, and trust. In his pedagogía, there weren’t any fancy lectures, just daily acts of making, with care and purpose.
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I’ve come to realize (through my work and guidance of my own mentors) that mentorship, true mentorship, is not about having all the answers. It’s about creating the conditions for someone to imagine themselves anew. To fabular, to dream, to craft a new narrative about who they are and who they might become.

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Legado y palabras no dichas

Before we parted, I told Manuel that my dad had spoken of him often. That he remembered him with affection and pride. Manuel’s eyes welled up again. He looked at me and said something I didn’t expect.

“He talked about you, too. Said you were doing good. He didn’t totally get what you were doing, con todos esos títulos y estudios,” he chuckled, “pero decía que eras trabajador. Y eso para él… that meant everything. He was proud of you.”

Those weren’t words my dad ever said to me directly. But hearing them, especially in that moment—from someone he once mentored, someone whose life he helped transform—hit me hard. It reminded me that even when words go unsaid, love can be shown in other ways. He did so in the way he told others about me, in the way he worked, and in the way he showed up, again and again for his family and for others.
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Gracias, Papá, for the lessons in care, for the love wrapped in action, and for the quiet pride and enduring legacy you passed on through every cut, every shared story, every life you helped reimagine.