by Jaime Cortez
I look up at my mami. She has her eyes closed and still the tears sneak out. Even though I hardly know Doña Ofelia, I start crying too. I move a little bit, so the sleeve of my shirt touches my mami’s arm. While I stand there with my sleeve touching her, the trumpets cry out the last bit of the song, and a breeze carries it into the desert.
Acknowledgments
Many people have directly and indirectly helped make Gordo possible. I thank my family elders, who were the first great storytellers in my life. I thank James Weir, my first creative writing teacher at Watsonville High School. I thank my pre-gentrification San Francisco village of artists, activists, intellectuals, and mal vivants, who were the first community to see me and invite every bit of me to the party (Pato Hebert, Tisa Bryant, Jorge Cortiñas, Wura Ogunji, Vero Majano, Horacio Roque, Adela Vasquez, Ricardo Bracho, Sarah Patterson, Lito Sandoval, Diane Felix, Joel Tan, and Al Lujan, among others). You were the first community I wanted to make art for and with. I thank Dorothy Allison, Reinaldo Arenas, David Wojnarowicz, Toni Cade Bambara, Jean Genet, Richard Rodriguez, Hermann Hesse, and David Sedaris for lighting my way.
I thank my editor, John Freeman, and my agent, Frances Coady, for their expert guidance and support. I especially thank Rebecca Solnit for modeling writerly excellence, believing in these stories, and championing them with such determination and generosity.