She could still see the blue flag flowing limply in the breeze. Most certainly, it was a marker of sustenance in the midst of an indifferent and barren landscape, but it was more than that. It was also a symbol to Josie of the fragile possibilities of hope, of man’s tenacious belief that life holds endless opportunities for those who try, risk, change, and persevere, though sometimes at great cost. But what soothed her most, after this heart-wrenching day, was the fact that the blue flag stood tall as a symbol of man’s potential for love and compassion, reaching up and out to those in need.
That was the first time I felt like an authentic writer, reading words that were written from the depths of my emotions, words that moved others that day as we stood together in a circle, heads bowed, to honor those who had perished in the desert unidentified and to remember, for the families who would never know their loved one’s fate.
Not long after this, I began Gayle Brandeis’s class. Alma began to speak, and I began to write.
Upon completing Luz, I decided to contact Latina writer Alma Luz Villanueva, winner of the American Book Award for her novel The Ultraviolet Sky. I wanted to be certain that my novel rang true in the eyes and heart of a woman so familiar with both the United States and Mexico. After reading an email that included my experiences described above and then the manuscript of my novel, she responded with overwhelming support and encouragement. She left comments throughout my manuscript that told me she got every little moment that I had hoped my reader would get, expressing joy and heartbreak as she read, and bringing me to tears that someone I so admired loved my characters and my novel. Ultimately, she suggested that I include this author’s note and left me with this final blessing: “You aren’t Latina, but you have borne witness to La Luz.” This in itself meant the world to me, for it has many layers of meaning.
In the novel, Luz is the name of Alma’s daughter. In Spanish, luz means light. Alma gives her this name for a special reason, as those of you who have read the novel are aware. In addition, the phrase “dar a luz” literally means “to give to the light,” but it also means “to give birth”—such a beautiful concept. Luz/light has always been an important symbol to me. While teaching high school, I formed a club called Students In Action, only we used a candle as the “I”: Students n Action. Our motto was, “It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.” Students could team up and choose any issue— animal rights, homelessness, bullying, veterans’ rights, immigrant rights, etc. —and try to make a difference. The candle is also the symbol used by Amnesty International. And finally, I have always loved and, therefore, chose as my epigraph to this novel, Martin Luther King, Jr.’s well-known quote, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.” So, to be told by Alma Luz Villanueva that I have borne witness to La Luz was truly a blessing to me. I am not Latina, but my soul is Alma, my light is Luz, and love is the source of why I wrote this novel.
Acknowledgments
I am profoundly grateful to so many who contributed to the birth of this novel. First and foremost, to my midwives: Gayle Brandeis, whose overwhelming encouragement from the earliest stages kept me writing, rewriting, and believing; and Alma Luz Villanueva, whose praise and final blessing gave me the courage to push this novel to the light. I am so fortunate to have worked with both of them.
The seeds of this novel began in my ESL classes at Reseda Adult School, as I met people from Mexico and Central America and heard countless stories about their lives before, during, and after their travels to el norte. Their stories of courage and perseverance inspired me on so many levels, both personally and professionally. I later heard similar stories, from a different perspective, at James Monroe High School, as my Latinx students wrote about their parents or grandparents. What touched me most was to read their essays about the American Dream, often concluding that they hoped one day to buy a house—not for themselves, but for their hardworking, self-sacrificing parents.
I am also grateful to Amnesty International and BorderLinks of Tucson for the life-changing experience of visiting both sides of the border, where we spoke with Border Patrol, toured a battery factory in Mexico, and ate lunch with a community leader in Los Encinos Colonia. Hearing varying viewpoints on the complex issues at the border broadened my knowledge and opened my heart even more.
I was so fortunate to meet Father Richard Estrada, John Hunter, and Enrique Morones, three compassionate men, whose focus on saving lives with Water Stations Project put people before politics. I’m grateful to have been a part of that special day of honor in 2002 for those unidentified souls buried in the back of Holtville’s Terrace Park Cemetery.
To Dolores Huerta, a role model for social justice activism on all fronts, your spirit guided my Alma on the page, as in real life you have inspired so
