LEWIS ROSARIO

Bocú

I don’t know what bocú means. Nobody does. But if you ask my Tío Rafa, he’ll tell you with his whole chest that bocú is real and serious and that I need to stop asking so many damn questions.

“Pero, ¿qué es bocú?” I ask again, leaning against the counter of his bodega.

He slams a crate of plátanos down like he’s sealing an argument. “Bocú is bocú. Why you need a definition for everything?”

That’s the thing about Dominicans in Washington Heights—sometimes words exist, but only in a feeling. Like when your grandmother tells you to go get la vaina and you just know she means the plastic bag under the sink with more plastic bags inside.

But this one has been bothering me since I was a kid. Because according to Tío Rafa, bocú can be a person, a thing, or a situation.

“Bocú came for my cousin in ’92,” he once whispered like it was folklore.

“The Mets lost because of bocú,” he grumbled last season.

“Don’t be out here acting all bocú,” he warned me once when I got caught sneaking into the movies.

And now, at twenty-seven years old, I’m having a crisis because I still don’t know what the hell it means.

The bell above the bodega door jingles. A kid walks in, grabs a bag of Takis, slaps a crumpled dollar on the counter, and eyes me. “You look mad bocú right now.”

I whip around. “¿Cómo que bocú?”

The kid shrugs like I just asked him why the sky is blue. “It’s just bocú, bro.”

I turn back to Tío Rafa, betrayed. “You see? This is a problem.”

“No,” he says, ringing up the Takis. “This is language.”

“No,” I say, pointing at him. “This is gaslighting.”

Tío Rafa ignores me, but I’m heated now. Because maybe it’s not just a word. Maybe it’s something bigger. Some ancient Dominican knowledge that they refuse to pass down because they think we don’t need to know anymore, like how to navigate life without Google Maps or how to fix a car using only a sock and prayer.

I walk out of the bodega, deep in thought. If bocú is real—if it’s an actual force in the universe—then I should be able to test it.

So I do what any rational man in an existential spiral would do. I step into the street with full confidence that bocú will reveal itself.

A car horn blasts. I jump back.

The driver rolls down his window and yells, “¡Tú ta’ bocú, loco!” before speeding off.

I stare after him. Oh my God. Bocú is real.

I go home, sit at my desk, and open a fresh notebook. If bocú is an active force in the Heights, I need to document it. This could be my legacy. My contribution to humanity.

Entry #1: Bocú is both noun and verb. It is always observed, never defined. Like the wind, but Dominican. Entry #2: Bocú can be blamed for losses, but never credited for wins. This suggests bocú is chaotic, possibly malicious. Entry #3: Bocú has been used to describe me three times today. This feels personal.

The door creaks open. My roommate Ricky walks in, looks at me hunched over my notes, and sighs.

“You still on that bocú thing?”

I lift my pen. “Do you know what it means?”

He drops his backpack onto the couch. “Yeah.” My heart stops. “What?”

“Bocú.” He shrugs. “It’s bocú.”

I launch my notebook at him.

It’s been six months. The notebook is now full. I have theories, diagrams, maps of linguistic migration patterns, and a list of known bocú hotspots in Washington Heights. I’ve interviewed thirty-three Dominicans, all of whom have used the word but refuse to define it.

And still no answers.

Last week, I confronted my grandmother. Sat her down, looked her in the eye, and said, “Abuela. You have to tell me. What is bocú?”

She took my hand, patted it gently, and whispered, “Ay, mi hijo. You been bocú since you was born.”

I give up.

Lewis Rosario is a 25-year-old writer and RIT graduate with a bachelor’s degree in English. A storyteller with a sharp eye for mood and atmosphere, he spent three years working as a freelance writer, honing a voice that blends clarity, humor, and a subtle appreciation for the darker edges of narrative. When he isn’t writing, Lewis is immersed in his passions: video games, horror, and the kind of genre filmmaking that leaves an unforgettable mark on him. He’s especially drawn to the Saw franchise and the Friday the 13th series, admiring their creative complexity and iconic lore. Outside the realm of fear and gore, Lewis has a laid-back love for comedy and finds just as much joy in laughing as he does in getting spooked. With a balance of curiosity, creativity, and humor, Lewis continues to shape his craft and explore stories across every medium that inspires him.