Virgil Suárez: In Thanks and Praise

Be as careful of the books you read as of the company you keep; for your habits and character will be as much influenced by the former as by the latter.
Paxton Hood

If we must
all die, why not drown in our own
words, our tongues rolling back
into our throats to reach happy notes.
Virgil Suárez, “My Need of Bruce Weigl,” 90 Miles: Selected and New Poems

Of all the writers I know, Virgil Suárez, a Cuban-American, is the most generous.

I met Virgil in 1997 when, as director of the Humanities Program at Appalachian State University, I helped sponsor his participation in the English Department’s Conference on World Literature. I was already a fan of Virgil’s work, having greedily devoured his four novels—The Cutter, Latin Jazz, Havana Thursdays, and Going Under—as well as Welcome to the Oasis, his first collection of short stories.

Several years earlier, Virgil played a key role in furthering my love for Latina and Latino fiction through Iguana Dreams—the magnificent anthology of short stories that he and his wife, Delia Poey, compiled and edited. For this blessing alone, I am forever in Virgil’s—and Delia’s—debt.

When Virgil visited Appalachian State, in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, he had recently published Spared Angola—a deeply moving and candid “autobiography” told in vignettes and verse. And as Virgil and I started to become friends, he mentioned that he was giving up fiction for poetry, which he described as his “passion.” At the time I questioned the wisdom of that decision—mostly for selfish reasons, being such a huge admirer of his novels. (Virgil has since published another collection of short stories, Infinite Refuge, so he hasn’t abandoned fiction altogether.) But today, almost ten years after that conversation, I realize that Virgil was right in following his writer’s heart—in pursuing his calling he has become one of the most highly regarded poets in American letters.

In the years that followed our first meeting (we’ve stayed in touch and our paths have crossed several times since), Virgil has wholeheartedly supported my entry into the world of fiction, and whenever I knock on his door in search of sage counsel, he always awards me a few minutes of his precious time. (It was Virgil who introduced me to Elaine Markson, the agent we share.) What’s more, he has encouraged and helped countless other aspiring authors. As I said earlier, Virgil’s the most generous of writers.

But the largest debt I owe him is a creative one.

The final chapter of Bernardo and the Virgin was, by far, the most difficult to write. In it, the author/character that brings the novel to a close embarks on a quest to tell Bernardo’s story shortly after experiencing a nervous breakdown. I wrote four different drafts of this chapter—all failures. In these, I was unable to describe such a crisis convincingly. A small knot still forms in the pit of my stomach whenever I recall the moment in which—feeling utterly defeated—I pressed the delete button, permanently erasing over fifty pages of painful writing.

At the time I started to believe that, having finally arrived at the last hurdle in my own quest to produce this novel, I was destined to fail. I brooded for days, unable to think of another way to conclude Bernardo and the Virgin. But to my good fortune, I was able, eventually, to suppress my panic and, in an inspired moment of lucid, rational thought, ask myself: have I ever read a novel in which a character suffers a complete emotional breakdown? The answer came to me at once: Going Under, by Virgil Suárez.

At the World Literature Conference where Virgil and I first met, I delivered a paper on Going Under as a part of a panel discussion on his fiction. Now, with the certainty that Virgil, once again, had something to teach me, I picked the novel off the bookshelf, reread it carefully—in the process remembering why I liked Going Under so much—and then let him show me how to put a character through a psychological meltdown. Afterward, with Going Under as my blueprint, I followed Virgil’s paces and successfully resolved my dilemma. The concluding chapter of Bernardo remains one of my favorites—and several readers have told me that it’s their favorite as well. And I’m always happy to share the story of Virgil’s “contribution” with them, adding that I’m lucky to have him as a friend and mentor.

In the acknowledgements of Bernardo, Virgil’s assistance is recognized, albeit cryptically: [to] Virgil Suárez (for helping me, by example, with the most difficult chapter of this book). But while writing what turned out to be the successful draft of the last chapter, it occurred to me that the best tribute I could give Virgil for his aid in rescuing my novel was to have Xavier Cuevas, the main character of Going Under, make a cameo appearance toward the end of Bernardo and the Virgin.

For his seemingly boundless generosity, for his apostolic zeal in spreading the good news about Latino and Latina literature, and, in particular, for allowing me to borrow his character to help me bring my first novel to its conclusion, I shall always be grateful to Virgil Suárez.

A Blessing for Isabel

Saying goodbye doesn’t mean anything. It’s the time we spent together that matters, not how we left it.
Trey Parker and Matt Stone, South Park, Tweek vs. Craig (1999)

Are you local?
The League of Gentlemen


The house is eerily quiet. The guest room is empty, and my wife has already cleaned it out. Life feels a bit emptier.

Isabel is gone.

For the past school year, my wife and I have been the adoptive parents of a high school senior. A year ago, the Montoya’s—Isabel’s real parents—returned, along with their other two children, to their native Colombia after several years of self-imposed exile.

Isabel, who was about to enter her senior year at Balboa Academy—where my wife teaches history—wanted to complete her high school education in Panamá. Her parents, at the suggestion of the school’s director, asked my wife if Isabel could board with us.

I admit that when my wife proposed the idea to me I was extremely apprehensive. Did I really want a high school student in my house? Did I want to put up with strange music, dates, boyfriends, long telephone conversations, competition to be online, college applications, proms, prom dresses, graduation, and the loss of a bathroom? And although I had met Isabel on a couple of occasions, I barely knew her. What if this young woman turned out to be a harpy? But, trusting my wife’s assurance that Isabel and I would get along well and that everything would be fine, I agreed without making much of a fuss.

And things did turn out well. In fact, the past year was a fun-filled learning experience. It also helped that Isabel isn’t your typical adolescent. She relates better to adults than to her peers. She’s a homebody as well, which meant that she spent most evenings with the old folks rather than with her friends—making the past school year one of togetherness, like in a real family.

Among the year’s highlights: appendicitis (I was in the States giving readings of Bernardo when Isabel was operated on, leaving all the worrying and running around to my wife); watching every single episode—courtesy of Isabel’s “uncle” Ben—of the British television comedy series The League of Gentlemen (which makes South Park seem like Sesame Street); attending two thrilling performances of Dracula, in which Isabel played the role of Mina; Bollywood movie marathons; countless viewings of The Lord of the Rings; a school trip to Paris, on which my wife went along while I stayed behind to take care of the zoo; Poetry Nights; Poker Nights; and other fun “family” activities.

The year Isabel stayed with us was also the year in which I wrote the first draft of The Saint of Santa Fe. And since this novel takes place, in part, in Colombia, Isabel was a superb informant, helping me grasp the nuances of being Colombian—a nationality of which she is very proud and, after hearing her stories about Panamá’s southern neighbor, rightfully so.

More importantly, she was a loving daughter who fit wonderfully into our lives. With Isabel gone, the days have, for the time being, become a little dimmer.

As Isabel left for the airport to catch her flight to Colombia—where she will get a couple of months of rest before leaving for Canada to attend the University of British Columbia—I blessed her like we’d often seen in our beloved Bollywood films. Placing my hand on her head, I said: May you live a long life.

And, Isabel, may your life also be a happy one.

The Face of Abu Mussad al-Zarqawi; or, Martyrs Recruit

For some not to become martyrs is martyrdom indeed.
Leo Rosten

The tyrant dies and his rule is over, the martyr dies and his rule begins.
Soren Kierkegaard

It’s déjà vu all over again.
Yogi Berra


Seeing the blown-up photograph of Abu Mussad al-Zarqawi in death—with Maj. General William Caldwell announcing the elimination of Al-Qaeda’s leader in Iraq—took me back to when I was thirteen years old and living in Nicaragua.

In August of 1967, the Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional (FSLN), then a four year old floundering guerrilla movement, suffered a crushing defeat in Pancasán, a remote area in northern Nicaragua. La Guardia Nacional had decimated an entire column of revolutionaries and Novedades, the Somoza family newspaper, displayed the photographs of eighteen young guerrilleros, also in death, with a headline that proudly proclaimed the total annihilation of communists and communism in Nicaragua.

I can vividly recall my shock as I stared at the photographs. Somoza’s publicists did their best to degrade the dead, and in the process warn other young Nicaraguans about the consequences of following their example. Somoza’s pitiless handling of the matter made me admire the sacrifice of these Sandinistas. What’s more, in spite of the grotesque spectacle, I could see that these young men, only a few years older than me, were not the monsters the dictator’s press made them out to be. And starting that day I became a Sandinista sympathizer.

More than thirty years later, while comparing notes with other Nicaraguans my age, I learned that I wasn’t the only adolescent so impacted. In fact, after the Nicaraguan government’s callous display of the dead there was a surge in Sandinista recruits—and Pancasán became a battle cry for the hundreds that joined David in the fight against Goliath.

When I look at Maj. Gen. Caldwell standing next to the photograph of Al-Zarqawi, it saddens me to know that thousands of young Muslims are now knocking on Al-Qaeda’s door, ready to join as a result of their outrage over the heartless—and undoubtedly perceived as boastful—display of their dead.

The Pentagon could have learned a valuable lesson from the mistake of a former ally and, for many who work there, fellow West Point graduate. Instead, the leadership of the U.S. armed forces in Iraq committed a major public relations blunder. They’ve created a martyr worthy of imitation and handed Osama bin Laden a formidable recruitment poster.

A Time for Truth

Santa Fe: This tiny mountain town remains one of the untouched gems of Panama.
The Lonely Planet Guide to Panama

La Iglesia panameña está decidida a introducir en Roma su causa de beatificación. Queremos que sea proclamado santo y mártir. Pero nunca podremos hacerlo sin conocer cómo murió. Sin saber con exactitud y con todos los detalles cómo fue el preciso momento de su muerte, Roma no declara a nadie santo ni mártir. Necesitamos la verdad.
Monseñor Marcos McGrath, former archbishop of Panamá

The truth is out there.
The X-Files


Friday, June 9, will mark the thirty-fifth anniversary of Father Héctor Gallego’s disappearance. This crime remains a source of deep pain and division in the town of Santa Fe, Veraguas—that “untouched gem of Panama.”

While researching The Saint of Santa Fe—the novel I’m writing about the life and times of Father Gallego—I spent a considerable amount of time in this community. I had lengthy conversations with many persons whose lives were deeply affected by this noble Colombian priest. Among them were Jacinto Peña, a founding member of la Cooperativa La Esperanza de los Campesinos, and the lone witness to Father Gallego’s abduction; Father Raúl Rodríguez, Santa Fe’s current parish priest; and Edilma Gallego, Héctor’s sister who first came to Panama in September of 1999, when it was thought that her brother’s remains had been found. Edilma Gallego, a person every bit as courageous as her older sibling, has chosen to stay in this country to continue his work. And she and her family still have hopes that one day they will learn the truth about what happened to Héctor.

The stories I heard while in Santa Fe are both inspiring and heartrending. Personally, I believe that Héctor Gallego was more than a mere political martyr. Because of the exemplary life he led, and because he never wavered in putting the well-being of others before his own—a practice based on his steadfast adherence to the teachings of Christ—I’m convinced that he was, and is, a saint.

Others hold him in even higher esteem: “He was the angel God sent to liberate us,” an elderly campesina said to me.

“To know him was to know Christ,” said Eric Concepción, for whom Father Gallego obtained a scholarship so he could continue his studies in Atalaya. At the time of our conversation, Eric was the president of Panamá’s organic farmers.

“He was a prophet,” Father Rodríguez, Santa Fe’s parish priest, claims. “And sadly, as history repeatedly demonstrates, prophets meet a tragic fate because the truth they speak threatens the established order.”

And Father Héctor Gallego did speak the truth. And as the first parish priest in the four-hundred year history of Santa Fe, he helped bring an end to the exploitation campesinos had been subjected to for centuries. Sadly, the truth offended the local cacique—a first cousin of Omar Torrijos—and this cost Héctor his life.

Who kidnapped Father Héctor Gallego; on whose orders; how did he die; and where are his remains are questions that several former members of Panama’s defunct military can answer. But in a wretched display of loyalty to the uniforms they once wore, they have closed ranks to hide the truth from Héctor’s family, Panamá, and the rest of the world.

In spite of the wall of silence they’ve erected, my research has led me to conclude two things: first, the two former members of Panamá’s military who were convicted of the crime and are currently serving prison sentences are scapegoats; and, second, without question, Omar Torrijos Herrera knew beforehand of the kidnapping.

The General may not have ordered Héctor Gallego’s death (in fact I highly doubt that was ever the intent behind the abduction), but he certainly knew what went wrong and who was responsible. But instead of being forthright with a grieving nation, Omar Torrijos chose to orchestrate a cover-up.

Panamanians now deserve to know the truth. They deserve to know what happened to this loving, saintly man who gave his life so that the campesinos of Santa Fe could live freely.

Time has not healed this wound.

Thus, the question now becomes: are those in charge of Panamá's justice system willing to order a thorough and truthful investigation that will, at last, bring closure to this thirty-five year old travesty?