Fishing For Lessons

Aaron

When I became homeless, I quickly realized I had to adapt to survive. One of the first decisions I made was to use dating apps—not as a way to find love, but as a way to navigate the world around me. It might sound unconventional, but I figured that meeting men who were willing to take me out would ensure that I stayed busy, entertained, and occasionally fed. It was a way to stay connected to the world outside of survival mode.

But it wasn’t just about getting by. People fascinate me. Even if I’m not attracted to a man, I’ll still give him a chance. Everyone has a story worth hearing if you’re patient enough to listen, and that curiosity has kept me open to opportunities, even from places I wouldn’t expect.

That’s how I met Aaron.

I don’t remember exactly what it was about him that caught my attention, but I do remember liking his height. At 6’4”, Aaron towered over me, and I was instantly drawn in. I don’t know when it started, but I’ve developed a thing for tall men. It’s strange because I used to prefer guys closer to my own height. Now, though? The taller, the better. There’s something about feeling like I could be a cute little backpack on a man that makes me feel safe, even in the most unconventional circumstances.

Aaron described himself as a “hillbilly,” which intrigued me. When we met in person, I was greeted by his rotted teeth and a thick drawl that made him sound like a character straight out of King of the Hill. He promised to teach me how to fish, and that piqued my interest. Fishing seemed like a practical skill for someone living out of a van and constantly on the move. I don’t even like fish, but I figured it could be something I could sell if I got good at it.

So, I said yes to a fishing date with Aaron.

We met by the lake, and it was an unexpectedly peaceful day. Aaron opened up about his life while we fished. He told me about his family’s 100,000-chicken farm, a business he didn’t want to inherit but felt trapped in. He wanted more for himself, but he didn’t know how to break away.

That’s something I’ve learned about men like Aaron—men who seem to have everything by society’s standards but are quietly drowning in their own lives. I stay meeting rich white men. It’s wild, honestly. Aaron had money, land, and privilege, but he was just as lost as I was in that moment.

It was a hot day, and Aaron took off his shirt. I’m pretty sure he wanted me to notice how built he was—and he was built. But then he turned around, and I gasped out loud.

Startled, Aaron spun around, asking, “What? What is it?”

I could barely get the words out: “You have a confederate flag tattoo on your back.”

My mind raced. Here I was, a Black Latina woman, alone in the woods by a lake, with a man who had a literal symbol of hatred inked on his body. Every story I’d ever heard about people who look like me disappearing in places like this played on a loop in my head.

Aaron sighed, almost as if he had been expecting the reaction. “Oh, that? Yeah, I’m dumb,” he said, shaking his head.

He explained that he had gotten the tattoo when he was 15. He didn’t fully understand what it meant back then, and now it was just a mark of something he regretted. He didn’t try to defend it, and I appreciated his honesty, even if the explanation didn’t entirely put me at ease.

We started talking about tattoos—bad ones, meaningful ones, and everything in between. That’s when I noticed another tattoo on his arm: the name “Otis.”

“Who’s Otis?” I asked.

Aaron’s face changed. The humor and casualness melted away, replaced by something raw and painful. “That’s my son,” he said quietly.

Aaron went on to tell me that Otis, who was part Dominican, had drowned when he was just three years old. Negligence, he called it, though he didn’t elaborate. He said Otis would’ve been 19 now. He would’ve been fishing with us, Aaron said, if things had been different.

For the first time that day, I stopped seeing the confederate flag. I stopped seeing the rotted teeth and the drawl. All I saw was a father carrying 16 years of grief for a child he lost.

I cried for him. I hugged him, even though we barely knew each other. And he cried too.

Aaron didn’t fit the mold of the so-called boogeyman we’re taught to fear. In fact, the real boogeymen—the ones who haunt us the most—are often the ones we see in the mirror. They’re our shame, our fear, our regret, and the stories we tell ourselves to keep love and connection at a distance.

Aaron taught me something that day. He taught me that the people who can help us, or teach us, or even just show us a glimpse of humanity, don’t always come from obvious places. Sometimes they’re people we’d never expect.

But Aaron wasn’t perfect. A few weeks later, he borrowed $70 from me and never paid it back. He ghosted me out of shame, and I never saw him again. But that didn’t diminish the value of what I gained from knowing him.

I learned how to fish. I learned how to hold space for grief without judgment. And I learned that sometimes, the best way to show love to someone is simply to listen.

Aaron may not have been able to receive his blessings, but he gave me one. I was Aaron’s “homeless homie,” as he called me, and in the short time we knew each other, I showed him that love can still exist, even in his pain.

For me, that day by the lake wasn’t about catching fish. It was about catching something far more important: the understanding that love, in all its messy, imperfect forms, is everywhere. It’s in a man’s regret, in his grief, in his vulnerability. And it’s in our willingness to see the humanity in someone, even when it’s buried under a lifetime of mistakes.

This is just the beginning of my story, but it’s one I’ll carry with me forever. Love, after all, doesn’t always look the way we expect it to. Sometimes it shows up as a tall hillbilly with a confederate flag tattoo, a broken heart, and a fishing rod