When you first sat next to me that day as I studied hard to comprehend some sort of wordy description of injustice, I had no idea the things I was about to learn. Your rich voice booming out jokes about our dear friend Eddy Said, and the many other “post-colonial babes” we both loved, was just the beginning of an incredible bond. A bond that would be cemented when despite the distance between us, you never forgot to notify me when something I must surely know was in your thoughts as well.
I spoke to you just days ago of how together we would queer the Latin American world, and how the one thing we both shared— our experience with one foot in each door of our parents heritage and a mind in the confusing space between, was a bond we would never lose as we pursued our respective dreams. We would be neighbors in a villa of a town we would create, a world emancipated from the view that told those we loved most they were not worth listening to, and that we, products of a strange attraction between worlds incommensurate, did not have a place.
You left before we could share those experiences, yet your visions and dreams have not yet gone. We will pick up the words of your narrative and build upon your dreams. Someday, from wherever you are now, you will see that world we dreamt of, and I will give thanks for all you gave us.
from Bolanos, who I know you loved so well. May these words reach your heart somehow.
Atiende esto, hijo mío: las bombas caían
sobre la ciudad de México
pero nadie se daba cuenta.
El aire llevó el veneno a través
de las calles y las ventanas abiertas.
Tú acababas de comer y veías en la tele
los dibujos animados.
Yo leía en la habitación de al lado
cuando supe que íbamos a morir.
Pese al mareo y las náuseas me arrastré
hasta el comedor y te encontré en el suelo.
Nos abrazamos. Me preguntaste qué pasaba
y yo no dije que estábamos en el programa de la muerte
sino que íbamos a iniciar un viaje,
uno más, juntos, y que no tuvieras miedo.
Al marcharse, la muerte ni siquiera
nos cerró los ojos.
¿Qué somos?, me preguntaste una semana o un año después,
¿hormigas, abejas, cifras equivocadas
en la gran sopa podrida del azar?
Somos seres humanos, hijo mío, casi pájaros,
héroes públicos y secretos.