“Alligator Tears” Traces a Zig‑Zag Escape from Poverty https://ift.tt/8ynkuPX
Born and raised in Florida, I was taught to run in zig-zags if I ever needed to escape an alligator, purportedly because the animal can only run in a straight line. It’s flawed advice. Although gators can run fast in one direction, they can’t hold that pace long.
In his latest memoir, Alligator Tears, author Edgar Gomez recounts his journey of such a chase, not from a reptile but out of poverty, sharing with humor and honesty the brutal ways in which capitalism leaves behind the most vulnerable, not by negligence but intentional impediment, having folks try to zig-zag their way out of poverty, leaving them exhausted from running three times as far only to find themselves exponentially behind.
If I passed Gomez on the street, I’d want to ask about their Mamá, what she was growing in her garden, if she was healthy; if their brother, Hector, was getting any sleep with the new baby, if she was walking yet; what Alán was up to. These people closest to him became alive on the page as if I knew them, too, Gomez writing with blithe vulnerability about the nature of his relationships, capturing the dignity of those in his life whom society sought to diminish, challenging with simple storytelling the heinous assertions from Pennsylvania Avenue about immigrants and poverty and the LGTBQ+ community, among others.
The child of a Puerto Rican father and Nicaraguan mother, born in Miami, their father slipped into addiction that forced Gomez, his brother and their mother into poverty. His Mamá worked so hard to keep them fed and housed on minimum wage that she suffered a stress-induced stroke. Gomez writes of getting expelled from a magnet school after being intimidated into confessing to a crime they didn’t commit, of the struggle of being gay in conservative Central Florida, of selling his body to make ends meet — whether for sex or due to the nature of the retail industry, endlessly asking permission to pee.
Theirs is a story of more than suffering, joy finding Gomez in the brackish swamp water despite the lurking predators — joy cultivated, rather than floating by with passive chance. He writes of the “privilege” of being gay, that “it was because of my queerness that I was able to see how the paths set out for me weren’t enough, pushing me to leave home in search of more.” Privilege, it seems, can also be painful.
I found the memoir wildly original, from Gomez’ distinctive voice and tone to the book’s overall structure, which collects their story into ten essays linked by topic rather than a linear recounting. He’s a child, teen and adult in nearly every chapter, their life quilted together, displaying how our stories shape us, how the place from which we come stays with us long after we leave that place.
The recurring thread is one of community, the backstitch repairing what the world has torn apart. A co-worker doesn’t ask if Gomez needs her to cover their shift the morning after 49 people were massacred at the Orlando gay bar Pulse, the place that was his sanctuary; she texted she was covering it. When the isolation of shelter-in-place became suffocating, their roommate transformed the bedroom into a nightclub and the two of them danced the night away. For the launch party of his first book, High-Risk Homosexual, Gomez got to wear a replica of his dream dress — the green Versace Jennifer Lopez wore to the 2000 Grammys — because a friend of a friend was a costume designer who not only loaned it but tailored it to fit. It was the thought of Olga, Gomez’s morning replacement at the suit department of JC Penny, that motivated Gomez to clean up a — literal — piece of shit he’d found in the fitting room when closing out his night shift. Otherwise, she’d have to clean it.
The existence of this book shows the power of the written word, the need for stories to be shared not as a trauma at which to gawk but for the power of voice that cannot be erased. Writing “reminded me there was something I was skilled at other than cleaning up customer’s spills.”
To this end, Gomez challenges the notion of strength and what it means to be strong, those who told him his sacrifices “served a greater purpose,” that “what didn’t kill [him] made [him] stronger,” and that “the universe would pay [him] back” for all of it. “They said these words like they were supposed to be compliments, but I was beginning to recognize them for what they truly were: a cheap consolation prize given in exchange for our time, labor, and health.”
The trajectory of their life shifting is tangible, from faltering on calling an ambulance as his mom lay dying, to the queer community raising $30,000 nearly overnight to save her house when she fell behind on payments because she was supporting her brother’s widow and children. Gomez puts on display how reliance on community for survival makes the bonds stronger, but there’s an ache there, too. The systems at play have such hefty investment in the community’s oppression.
While Gomez doesn’t address this directly in the book, alligators do, in fact, shed tears. It’s not because they get sad. They swallow their food whole, and the chunks press against their tear glands. Empty sorrow for the suffering, which underscores the entire narrative of the book, of Gomez’s life: the reality that the less affluent you are, the less white, less straight, less able-bodied, the more society seeks to devour you, attempt to erase your existence, and often does so under a false pretense of care.
Gomez, however, leaves no room for pity, while making it clear they’re not walking into the sunset and leaving all troubles behind. They write from a place of recovery — my language, not theirs — rich with the wisdom and serenity that comes from understanding the greater context of the harm inflicted, that although it wasn’t personal, the responsibility to heal is deeply one’s own. Recognizing these systemic pressures placed upon their family allowed for reconciliation, while casting blame where it belongs, refusing to ignore the fact that healing is limited when the sharp teeth of capitalism continue to grind flesh and bone.
In the end, I was left with the effect of having bit into a juicy ruby red grapefruit, the kind grown not far from where Gomez was raised — the sweetness of its flesh exploding on my tongue and becoming cinders of face-twisting sourness on the taste buds.
Of course it’s heartwarming and uplifting to read the story of someone surviving the Proverbial orphan-crushing machine, and perhaps that’s why we consume them — we keep trying to erase the bitterness with another bite, but the cycle never ends. The only way for our society to regain humanity is to become obsessed with questions about why such a machine exists then taking steps to dismantle it, instead of pacifying ourselves with thoughts of the handful who lived to tell about the experience of escaping its pincers, of people who resist their oppressors with their very existence.
“It frustrates me to think that the people I love may never be rewarded with everything they deserve, but I’m comforted by the fact that they don’t let the current bleakness of the world keep them from fighting to make it a better place. Every day they claim their joy.”
NONFICTION Alligator Tears By Edgar Gomez
Crown
Published February 11, 2025
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