“So my mom saw you,” he casually texted last week, after our second date.

“Wait, what do you mean she ‘saw me’ ?” I wrote back, followed by both a confused emoji face and the “See No Evil” monkey. I needed him to know I was mildly shaken—so much so that I had to pause the YouTube video of Halle Berry accepting her 2001 Oscar for Best Actress. I’m nostalgic like that.

“She walked behind me when I was looking at your picture earlier today.” I should note that homeboy lives with his Italian Catholic family in Northeast New Jersey. Think The Sopranos, but (hopefully) no crime.

“Oh?” I asked, “What did she say? That she can’t handle my sexy Latino look™?” The salsa dancer emoji felt incredibly appropriate.

“Lol! Nah, she asked me if you were masculine.” Dammit! Spoke too soon.

“Hmm that’s interesting… what did you tell her?” I inquired, quietly closing the Halle tab I still had open and recorking the red wine I had beside my couch. I kept the towel wrapped around my head, though; my curls needed more time to dry after spending an extra 5 minutes in the shower singing along to Kelly Clarkson.

“I said that you were, and for her not to worry. My dad was actually kind of curious about it, too. But we’re good!”

“I see…well alright! So then, just to clarify, you’re totally okay with me compulsively watching RuPaul’s Drag Race, right?” Eyes emoji aplenty.

*sends Alyssa Edwards gif*

“Phew... Okay we’re back in business!”

OKCupid had assured me that my suitor was not of the #Masc4Masc persuasion when I first messaged him around the holidays. Nowhere on his profile did the word “masculine” appear, nor were there any shirtless Planet Fitness locker room selfies indicating he needed me “to be same.”

I found that incredibly encouraging. Otherwise, I would’ve taken my Legally Blonde DVD and bedazzled Virgen de Guadalupe blazer elsewhere.

I refuse to engage with annoyingly picky bruhs who seemingly dismiss an entire section of gay men, simply for daring to challenge one’s myopic view of masculinity. Don’t believe me? Check any app, and I guarantee you’ll find enough disclaimers (“no femmes”) and strict preferences (“please work out six days a week”) to fill Yankee Stadium during the Super Bowl.

But it never occurred to me until that fateful Halle night that perhaps this, our masculinity fetish, is a learned behavior, much like compassion, humility, and open-mindedness. It’s one we’ve inherited from our straight parents who, for the most part, probably believe in the same traditional definitions of gender expression they were exposed to decades ago while they were growing up.

“What do you mean there are more than two gender identities?” asks my 65-year-old mom, who has uttered the word “gay” fewer than a dozen times since I came out. Because when she was my age, men were supposed to be men and carry themselves as such. If not, they were immediately labeled sissies and queers. And surely, her child would never be like that, let alone his prospective partners. Any of this sound familiar to you?

I distinctly remember the brief conversation I had with my father upon telling him I was gay almost seven years ago: “That’s fine, son—I will love you no matter what. Just don’t be like one of those gays or date one. I don’t think I’d be able to handle that.”

“One of those gays” meant flamboyant, effeminate boys. And he requested I never bring this kind of boy home for fear of having to explain him to relatives still grappling with my sexuality. “Wait, so I’m confused—he doesn’t want to date women, but he’s dating him?” I already picture four middle-aged aunts literally sipping tea between their judgmental zingers in Spanish.

I’m sure my Mexican-American dad’s hesitance stems from our particular ethnic group’s emphasis on upholding machismo—for generations the manliest of men have been revered for their testosterone levels. By way of contrast, my earliest impressions of homosexuality (that is, before I ever googled “Playgirl models” using our insanely slow dial-up connection) was that they were “a little funny.” Like Nathan Lane in The Birdcage “funny.” That’s the language I heard at home. Thankfully, I wised up quickly, as did homeboy and other daters: we love our funny boys.

I get it—we can’t necessarily fault our parents for growing up with certain values. But many of them have now evolved, having being confronted with the reality of having an LGBT child with varied interests. Yet there are still some masculine-affirming parents out there who refuse to reevaluate their interpretations of identity, both with regards to their sons and potential sons-in-law. And sometimes their sons are right there with them, demonizing our “limp-wristed” brethren because Mom and Dad (through words and actions) influenced our perceptions of acceptable gender conformity.

I just feel that these “totes masc” guys need to give other bois the time of day. And hopefully that’s Sunday at noon during drag brunch.

#Masc4Masc culture is damaging, but it’s helpful to know its origins. And I’m seriously under the impression that it can be pinpointed to the very people who shape our own understanding of love, desire, and gender roles by modeling it from when we’re children. Once we’ve recognized that influence, we can educate both our parents and ourselves on the damaging effects of judging a person’s character based on old stereotypes.

As Halle Berry once said, “[Thanks], Oprah Winfrey, for being the best role model any girl can have.” Sorry, just re-watched that speech—I’m obsessed.