Transcript of Chapter 4: Revelations

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Futuro. Hello? Hello?

Hi, Mom.

Hello? Hi, baby.

Hi, Mom.

So, how are you this morning? Did you guys do it yesterday? Yeah, we did it yesterday. How was it for you two? How, how was your heart?

The stories we make of our lives are full of omissions, both purposeful and accidental. These omissions are their own story, a parallel story. The absences complete their counterpart, like a figure-ground image: a vase that is also 2 faces, a young lady who is also an old hag, a cityscape that is also the jagged edge of a key. The wholeness of the image Is found in what is left out.

Wanna hear what my dream was before you guys tell me? Yeah, tell me about your dream. So I dreamt that you were with your dad, and then he said, you guys have turned out okay. I woke up and I felt hopeful for you two.

And so then the truest story, as close as we can get to it, if truth is even possible, takes inventory of all constituent parts: omission and inclusion, absence and presence, speech and silence, memory and oblivion.

Reaching out.

Reaching out. Reaching out. Reaching out. So, how was it?

Mom calls from a writing residency in upstate New York. The connection there is unreliable, but you take a chance on it anyway. Connor and you share one pair of headphones. You are left. Connor is right. As you speak, you idly revolve around the narrow kitchen like 2 ends of a compass.

He was— did he seem surprised? Did you guys, like, ambush him at work?

Sort of. Connor is economical with detail. He begins the story a little past the beginning, after the anxiety, the mile drive, the near change in plans, the anticipation as you sat. Your father with his broom, his dustbin full of hair, his smock, his glances. The moment he calls you up.

And then Sarah walked up with the note. Then we both walked out.

Connor doesn't mention the sky or the light or the barista who gives you tap water. He collapses all these fragments of time into a line.

A whole hour went by.

A whole hour went by.

The lights were out.

You turn to leave.

And then he came out.

I think he's coming.

I think he's coming.

Your birth father stands at the opposite curb. The boulevard that separates you from him runs 2 ways, east to west. The difference is approximately 64 feet in width, taking about 1 minute to cross from one end to the other. He advances towards you and Connor, and each passing second is pitch dense Containing within it innumerable outcomes. He takes a step, he tells you to leave him alone. He takes a step, you tell him to fuck off. He takes a step, he places your hand in his, begs you for forgiveness, tells you he wants you to meet his wife, tells you he's been looking for you too. Where have you been? He's at the median, his face gripped by an unreadable expression. Between father and sons, between here and there, All the world's histories and stories, all of its archetypes and schemas, arc plots and fortunes, all expectations met and subverted, all dreams and disappointments, all karmic machinations. He is feet away, the opportunities foreclosing, finalities blossoming like sedge from the asphalt. And now he's here.

Hey.

Hi.

He had a smile on his face. And he gave us a handshake and asked our names.

Sayre.

I'm Connor.

You apologize for ambushing him at work. Sorry about that. He understands. You laugh in the same register.

And then we had a moment of awkwardness. Well, um, shoot.

Hadn't planned this far.

We had been planning the whole time to, like, get to that point, and then we were like, uh, what do we do now?

You're sitting, your father, then Connor, then you, on the cement bench in front of the cafe where you waited. The first thing you notice about your father is how much he reminds you of Connor. It's not just the physical resemblances. Though they share the same brushstroke eyebrows, same angular nose, are both hunched forward on their elbows in a similar shape, they're nervous in the same way. It's in the voice, in the way they speak, unaffected, neutral, but in a way that suggests that they're hiding behind their tone, trying not to give too much away, waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves.

Yeah, I mean, we thought about it a lot and how we'd go about it and Your father is tall, just like your aunt said.

He's wearing a short-sleeve button-down shirt and slacks. His hair is perfectly combed back in a sleek pompadour. His frame is imposing, but he carries it less like a weapon than an unwieldy suit of armor. And his eyes are soft. His gaze is fixed to the sidewalk. He labors to lift it to meet yours and speaks through an uncertain smile. The second thing you notice is that you have nothing to say. You imagined your first meeting as a confrontation. You would force him to look at the space he had left behind and atone for it. Instead, you volunteer information which in sum amounts to very little of who you are. Chronology. I moved here August 2020. Geography.

I'm still up, up in the Bay Area.

I live down the street.

I do wildland firefighting, and I'm trying to get a school for carpentry.

Yeah, I'm a journalist— a documentarian, really, I feel like is probably a better term for it. I work in audio podcasting. You receive in exchange a similarly clinical view of his life. He's lived here for decades, but he's lived in other places too. He's cut hair for decades, but he's done other work too. He has several siblings, And he has a wife, the same woman he married a few years after he left your mom. You don't know why you expect more. This is, after all, what life adds up to in the end. Your obituary will read as a quantitative accumulation of numbers. Years lived, number of children, how long you've been married.

Oh, that's a long time. Yeah.

What you will remember most as you recount this meeting to your mom is not everything that is said, or even what he looks like, but the feeling of being near your father. The tenuous warmth and helplessness a newborn might feel when a habitual face rises at the side of its crib in the middle of the night. An alien mix of familiarity, distance, and an awareness of a power which is capable of both protecting and breaking you. Competing impulses whisper to lean in closer, and also to run away. As if sensing this restless tenor, Connor prompts your father for more.

We're just, like, really interested in, like, knowing who you are, and I don't know, we're not coming at you with, like, any— I don't know, we're just curious.

Your birth father says he is not the most interesting guy in the world and hesitates for a moment. Then he tells you his version of the story of how you were born. In his words, Mom and him were hot and heavy, but the relationship only lasted a month. When she got pregnant, he told her he wasn't ready to be a father. She said she wasn't ready to be a mom. But then he says she saw she was having twins and had a change of heart. When Connor relays this story to your mom, he focuses on one particular detail.

What?

We did find out that you guys only dated for a month.

You're not sure why Connor chooses to focus attention on this number. Did he think their relationship was longer, deeper? Does the briefness give your father more credibility for leaving, or her less for keeping you?

I don't know that that's really true, but, you know, it's not like we had a relationship.

You feel the need to jump in to defend your mom, but also to defend your father.

To be fair to him, he was basically just like, yeah, we like had a casual— we had a casual relationship, and— but it was very, you know, it was very passionate and it was great. But then we, you know, it sort of burned out. And then your mom told me that she had gotten pregnant and I'd been supportive of her keeping it or not, whatever. But like— and he told us that you at one point had thought you were, You were going to get an abortion, but then you found out you were going to have twins and you decided that you were actually going to keep it. Well, he was not supportive.

Yes.

He wanted me to get an abortion. And that is when I stopped talking to him. I just felt like I needed to make that decision on my own. I agree with him that we did not have a, like, a deep, meaningful, you know, like an involved relationship. But it did go on longer than a month.

Yeah.

And, and there were like touch points. You know, like he had, he had keys to my house. I generally do not give keys to my house to people I have dated really super light, like, like a one-night stand is what I am trying to say. So, you know, it was involved enough that I had given him keys to my house, and then we had a fight. And I said, Well, this isn't fun anymore. Give me my house key back. And then I didn't see him for a while, and then I saw him again, and we got together again, but didn't get back together, just like hung up. And then, um, and then I was pregnant.

You never considered whether your mom and birth father had been in love when they created you. It had always seemed that if they had loved one another at all, he would've stayed. That's child logic. In reality, like death, most people create life with less caution or reason than is comfortable to admit.

I can imagine it is much easier to remember, for him to remember that time as a really short thing and to not remember, not, you know, I mean, 'cause kind of how do you look at these 2 beautiful, beautiful beings and say, I really wanted your mom to have an abortion. I do remember running into him, and I do not know if he asked me, you know, like he was like, well, how are you doing? I think he assumed I had had an abortion. I was like, I am doing great. I did not correct him of his belief that I had had an abortion. I just, I did not want his opinion. I did not want him to decide this for me. I needed to decide it for myself. And I also felt like his wanting me to get an abortion so emphatically meant that I was on my own. And so I don't know if he remembers me getting in touch with him after you guys were born, because I thought— I thought he would feel differently when he saw you. And so we set up to meet and he never showed up. And that was it for me, you know.

I mean, I, I can't— I— what I can tell you about being young is I had zero threshold for being hurt, and I was really, really hurt by that.

Your origin story can be told in 2 irreconcilable versions: your father's, of a short fling; your mother's, something more involved. Your father's of support, your mother's of rejection. And both of your parents need their story to be true, because whichever story they tell is the one that affirms their choices. And their choices are who they are, because their life bears it out.

It must be hard for him to see you now. And to know what a mistake he made.

Sitting there on the busy thoroughfare, you can't be sure he regrets any of it. It's difficult to assess any choice like that decades after the fact. You have this sense that all 3 of you— you, your brother, your father— are watching one another, not so much with the distance behind you, but in front of you. Who would you be to one another? What did you possibly have to offer now? Your brother and you, adults. Your father, nearly an old man. Nothing could be undone. Would it even be worth it to try? And even then, how?

Well, I think, um, I don't know. What do you think, Connor? I don't know. You know, who knows how it would have been if he stuck around.

At one point towards the end of the conversation, your father asks if either of you believe in God. It was funny, actually, when I— when we figured out who you were, I had realized the day before I had actually eaten dinner right here across the street from you. I think I might have even actually seen you. The part of me that's like, is there a God? You know, it's like, well, I would like to believe that there's a reason that things happen. Your father agrees. Everything happens for a reason. If that's the case, you wonder, why are you here? What could the reason be?

I don't know how I feel about, about everything. Well, I, I would imagine you need a little bit of time to integrate. Mm-hmm. Yeah, I mean, you know, all 3 of us were, like, in a shock of sorts.

All 3 of you retreat into private silence. You've said all you can for now. This meeting, hours, days, years too brief to accomplish anything that meaningfully resembles reconciliation or healing. The conversation can't go on. You have exhausted your introductions, and there's nowhere left to go that any of you have the energy to navigate yourselves. You hear the acceptance of this in your voices. There will be no finality this evening. He will reach out to see you again.

Yeah. All right.

It was good to meet you.

Yeah, nice to meet you. Your father walks up the street. You and Connor cross to the other side. You all accidentally intersect at the same corner. You laugh. We meet again, he says. Yes!

So soon.

So soon. You and Connor are giddy and exhausted as you get into the car. He was so much nicer than you expected, so much more human.

Whoa.

But Connor has left something consequential out of this story, a small leaden detail that your father hands to you at the end of your meeting, which weighs down the end of this interaction and all meaning you make of it after. As you get ready to leave, Connor asks if you can see him again.

I told him I'd be in town for probably 5 days, and if he's interested in talking to us again, that we'd appreciate it a lot. And he agreed. But he also gave us bad news.

Your father isn't sure he will be around this week. He shares his bad news as more of a practical matter, like the bad news is a logistical inconvenience, a scheduling snafu, an unfortunately timed double booking. Like you might mention inclement weather or bumper-to-bumper traffic. Just something in the way. He will be around, but likely incapacitated. He's got a regular appointment he's kept for the last couple of years tomorrow morning. His bad news is a possibility you had not considered when imagining this interaction.

What's the bad news? He has cancer. Oh, Connor and Sam.

Yeah. Sorry.

I'm really sorry that you guys have to deal with that.

You're now standing on the threshold of your living room. Connor is sitting on the couch, braiding and unbraiding his hair. The connection has become unstable. Your mom's voice cuts in and out.

I feel bad because I feel like I've kept some from you, but I don't think that's true. You're just the way— You're breaking up again a little, Mama.

Last night, you and Connor sat on this same couch and tried to work through this new arithmetic together, the past and future contracting beneath your father's illness. If there were things left unsaid, How much of them would be worth saying no? How much of the past is worth holding on to if the future is suddenly diminishing before your eyes? He's human to me now, Connor said, as you shared a cigarette in the parking lot behind your apartment. He's not just a story. It sucks. Why? you asked him. Because now I care about him.

I was saying that I really, I'm really sorry. And then I feel like I've Kept something from you, and I didn't mean to. Okay, yeah, I blame you. It's not like I didn't want you to have a father. I tried as much as I could, you know, like that I could handle, you know, like I reached out, I connected with him.

I can't, I can't hear you, Mama. Yeah, do you want to Zoom? Do you have Zoom?

You prop your laptop on a stack of books. Your figures appear in the corner, closer and smaller now. Mom takes up the whole screen. She's framed by a lush tropical forest and a halo of light and mist. In the smaller frame, you and Connor sit on opposite ends of the couch.

I never wanted to keep your dad from you. I, I did the best that I could. You know, I wish I would have been stronger and would have kept trying to get in touch with him, but I feel like I, you know, like, I feel like I was really hurt when he didn't show up to meet you guys. And then I, and I'd reached out to his mom and, um, His mom and I were in contact for, I guess, about a year and a half or something. He told me about how he was going to get married with this woman, and he was really happy. And it just— I just kind of felt like, well, that's really great. And it doesn't stop you from— it isn't just because you're happy doesn't mean you get to erase your whole past and your responsibilities. You know, and like, I wasn't asking him for money. I wasn't asking him to support me or you. I, I had— I could support you. I felt like I could take care of you guys. I didn't want that. I just didn't want— I guess I didn't— I felt like it would hurt you to know that he wasn't interested.

And so I didn't want that to happen. I was trying to make that— not be true. But I also feel like I reached my limits of what I could take, like what my heart could take, because I— yeah, because I felt it too. Like, I— it's hard not to take it personally.

If your father is more tangible now, so is your mother. You've always known that she meant to protect you, but now it's also clear what parts of herself she had to silence in order to do so. What pains she kept a secret so that the story of your father would feel less hurtful for you and Connor. And she's doing it still now, shielding you from her pain so that you can have what she has not been able to give you, a relationship with your father.

It is sad, and it makes me really sad that you've connected with him now and that he's ill, you know? 'Cause I want you to have— I mean, this is the best outcome. You know, that he's open and being nice, and it creates an opportunity for you guys to have a relationship with your biological dad, and I want you to have that.

Though she says nothing, you are struck by the unjustness of this compromise, that your father should appear before you as he recedes from view, that you should be allowed to have something, but only if it comes at the cost of your mom's comfort.

You guys want to try to Zoom again tomorrow?

What's tomorrow? Sunday?

Sunday.

I could be down. I can be down.

Well, what holiday is it?

Presidents' Day.

Oh, I thought you had it off because of Remembrance Day, because today is the anniversary of internment.

Oh, wow.

It is Japanese internment. Yeah.

Yeah, that would be cooler.

We should ponder that versus our—

I think, I think all organizations, I think it would be a great equity move. To look at the, the legal holidays...

And then change them.

And swap them out for something that acknowledges not just, like, tragedy, but also moments of liberation too.

Yeah, I agree.

Mom's so smart.

That's why I turned out so smart.

Standing in place, we can only see directly in front of us. Such is the limitation of being one body with two eyes. Our field of vision blocked by the machinery that carries us through the world.

Are you smart? I am smart. Dad might be a little dumb because— Who?

Nothing.

Me?

What?

Huh? I don't know what you're talking about. I'm okay with being dumb. Yeah, it's like that though.

You're not dumb, Connor. Stop that.

It's okay. Sarah's ingrained it into me since I was a child.

Wow.

Yes, it was me.

I'm the one who made you Feels so dumb. It's mean. It's the one I went out of my way. What? I made the— I made—

you were the one who was just literally calling me dumb.

I know, I know it's all joking stuff, but you know, it makes me feel dumb. It's called projection. And then take it back. No, it's called manipulation. You're manipulative.

Oh my God, stop it right now.

Said something and then he took it back and said it's my fault for doing it.

Every once in a while, an opportunity arrives. Without warning, a reorientation, a mirror. Suddenly, we can see a dimension of ourselves that is obscured from us, the dimension of ourselves that we spend our lives staring out from, but that only others can see. Connor, I'm sorry.

Thanks.

You also could stand to be a little less mean too.

What are you talking about? It doesn't—

it's a two-way street.

It's not a one-way street. You literally called me dumb.

I know, but Connor, so you're not—

you could also— victim—

you're not the victim of— you're not the victim of all—

You're leaving a strand out.

Okay, I could admit that I fucked up, but also—

You're leaving a strand, a pretty big strand.

Only because I asked you to.

You can be really unforgiving sometimes.

Sarah, you can be too. You literally just called me dumb.

Connor, I just apologized.

Yeah, just now.

I know, literally. What— when should I apologize? In the past, before I said it? What appears before you, this part of you you believed was hidden away, which Connor is telling you he has been able to see the whole time, and which you can so clearly hear now as you listen to yourself speak to Connor. You are not so helpless as you would like to believe. Not so innocent. Not so free of judgment. Not so nice. In fact, you are an asshole. I'm apologizing to you in this moment. You, it's your responsibility to decide whether—

I don't want you to raise your voice at me.

Okay, well then stop. Like, I feel like you, like, take pleasure in being the victim in a situation, even when there's an apology. Like, even when I'm super apologetic, like, you can't help but put yourself in a situation where it's like, well, what? You've always made me feel this way. You've always said this to me. Connor is braiding and unbraiding his hair, barely making eye contact with you. He gets up from the couch and then sits back down. Your joints buckle with helpless rage. Connor, I apologize. Connor, I always apologize to you.

Can I ask you guys a favor, please? Just, just— I want you to try something. Can you try something, please, for me, guys? I want you to, for a moment, just stop talking. And then I want to ask— I want you to think about what it is that you need from from the moment. But what is it that you really need? And Sayer, why don't you start? What do you need?

Um, I need my actions to not be like proof of what a horrible person I am.

That is you projecting.

Connor is not helping, of course. He can see your anger as defenselessness disguised as defense, and he is striking you while he still has the chance. You can't blame him. Maybe you would do the same. Connor, Connor, Connor, why do you have to do that? Like, I'm literally just saying how I feel.

Can you just shush? So you need to feel like you're not a bad person.

I want to feel like I can be forgiven. Connor, I would like to be able to be forgiven. Like, I would like to feel like I can have a turn and apologize. I want to be able to be forgiven, actually be forgiven, instead of it feeling like this thing where it's like, I'm going to tuck this into my pocket for later. So that I can prove what a bad person you are. I would like to, like, be able to say, I'm sorry, I know I fucked up, and actually feel like the, the apology I'm being— is accepted. And I just want to feel like I'm allowed to be imperfect.

Okay. And, and why is that important to you?

Because I am imperfect, and because it makes me feel insecure and bad about myself when it's like, this is the way that you are, this is who you are, this is how you've always been, this is how you will always be. And you're never going to change. And I can see it.

Connor, what do you need for you?

What do you need for you?

I need you not to make—

No, no, I'm not asking you what you need from Sayer. I'm asking what you need for you. What do you need to feel?

What do I need to feel? I don't know. I don't know. I literally don't know.

Do you want to feel heard? Do you want to feel understood?

Yeah, definitely all those things.

Well, I'm, I'm trying— what I'm trying to do is trying to help you figure out what it is that you are needing versus what Sayer is doing wrong. And I'm not because you— that You get to talk to people about the things that they do that don't feel good to you, but I think sometimes we don't know what it is that we actually want, what the need that we're trying to fill.

And I—

because I hear you both, I'm like watching you both say stuff, but I also feel like you have this underlying thing that I hear when you're fighting. And you both— you're trying to hear each other and you're trying to speak what it is, but you can't hear each other. Like, I, I see how desperately you want to express to the other person what you need.

I mean, I— you know, the same thing that Sarah said is kind of how I feel too. I feel hella judged. I feel fucking stupid.

What, what do you feel is judged?

I feel fucking like a fucking idiot. I don't know. I took a really unconventional route in life, and I feel like I get judged by it hella hard because I didn't go to school and because I made stupid decisions and because I'm like a fucking idiot sometimes. I don't know. I mean, it's like Sarah says he needs forgiveness, and it's like, I feel like I do too.

What do you think And your stuff needs to be forgiven. Like, because you're using really harsh words to talk about yourself. Sometimes I'm a fucking idiot is really, really harsh. Is that what you think other people think about you?

Yeah.

Is that what you think about yourself?

Mm-hmm.

Your mother's face softens. You are both defenseless now, having revealed yourselves completely. And seemingly for the first time, you are a mirror too, and see between you and your brother the same wounded figure reflecting back and forth interminably.

I don't think you're an idiot.

I don't think you're an idiot either. I haven't— I've literally never had that thought.

No, you're my mom.

No, I'm not. I'm not that good of a person. That, you know, I, I'm not— I'm flawed as a human being, and I have judgments, but I have never— I might not have agreed with some of the decisions that you've made, but I've never once thought Connor is an idiot, ever. But I also think, Connor, that you have a really harsh, critical voice. And then you— I wonder if you think that we all have that kind of voice towards you too.

You had somehow missed it. Your brother is afraid. Afraid that he is excluded from love by a fatal deficiency. Afraid that he won't be forgiven for not measuring up. For all the ways your lives have diverged, For all your fundamental differences, by choice and by chance, through freedom and constraint, in the most essential, most consequential way, you and Connor are exactly alike. And each of you is desperate to make sure the other doesn't see it.

I think sometimes we can hear, we hear something that feels hurtful, and then we attach a whole story to it, Connor. I just want to offer that to you because I feel like I did that for a really large part of my life. And, you know, I think it's really interesting to be talking about— to be having this conversation after having the conversation about you guys meeting your dad, because if I had learned how to not do that earlier, I could have probably— Continue to try to connect with your dad. Your dad was terrified of having kids. That had nothing to do with me. It wasn't about me not being a good person or not being lovable. But I spent years believing that that's what it was, and that's why it hurt so much. But that wasn't true.

If we are especially lucky, and perhaps only a handful of times in our life, 3 mirrors, a full orientation. Now we can see all dimensions, including the part of ourselves that is normally hidden from us, the part of ourselves we spend our lives walking away from.

We tell ourselves these incredible stories that really end up hurting us and sometimes other people, because I think that you guys have been hurt by the fact that I couldn't That I couldn't separate myself out from what your dad was saying about himself and his fears from mine. I don't want you guys to suffer as much as I suffered. I did a lot of unnecessary suffering, you guys.

I'm sorry, Connor. It's okay, it's okay. Do you actually forgive me? I do, yeah.

Okay. I love you.

I love you too. Can you look at me?

Yes.

I have a hard time feeling these moments.

I know.

It's okay. You look to Connor at your side, and then Mom, the distance of a country between you. All this pain you've held onto, all the fear, the loneliness, the shame. And for the first time in many, many years, your brother holding you, you cry.

Hmm. It's okay.

I love you.

I love you too.

This feels like a really big moment for both of you, and I just really want to make sure that you don't, like, shut down and, and let it go by without Accessing all of your feelings. Like, I don't know that you can figure it all out. I think you just need to have the feelings. And then as the feelings come out, you can— stuff will start to just puzzle together. But this is— This is the stuff. This is what— this is the stuff that And what life is about, it's about really connecting. I think about you two when you were little tiny babies. You would be in the little crib together for your naps, and I would put you together and you guys would connect and hold each other and be comforted.

Tonight we will drive to the desert. There is a party here. We will snort ketamine in the front seat of the truck and drag our sneakers through the sand. We will notice the stars, which grow brighter proportionate to the darkness. And then we will go home. that surrounds them. Orion's Belt, Ursa Minor. Nothing is definite in nature. Not even the constellations, which appear fixed, remain the same forever. Though we will be long dead before these shifting arrangements are perceptible.

I have uttered your holy song. I have uttered your holy song. Vegetation ceases.

This party is a pseudo-ritual celebration of Lupercalia. A prayer to the she-wolf who raised the twin founders of Rome after they were abandoned at the river. But really, it's a rave put on by CalArts students. There are still days to come. A day where we will go our separate ways. Days of chores and rituals. Days that dampen the shock of our new lives, which are different from before, but not as different as we had hoped. We are not so different as we had hoped. Not remade by this, so much is undone. These coming months, are merely an interlude. And so perhaps this is the right time to account for the omissions of this story, including the man who raised us, the man we have called Dad our whole lives.

Hey.

Hey.

Hello. How are you? Happy Father's Day. Oh, thank you. On the street outside of the blue, where you long to know who you are in your eyes. Can't wait for the next episode.

Join Futuro+ for early access to the whole season, ad-free listening, and exclusive bonus content for Reaching Out. Go to futuromediagroup.org/joinplus to get access today. Reaching Out is an original podcast from Futuro Studios in partnership with KCRW. It is written, produced, and narrated by me, Sarah Quevedo. Editing by Maria Garcia, with additional editing help by Marlon Bishop, Fernanda Chavetti, and Sam Leeds. Special thanks to Sarah Rattay Maloney for editorial feedback. Our production managers were Jessica Ellis and Victoria Estrada. Mix by Stephanie LeBeau. Scoring by Lucy Little. Show art by Simran Chawla. Executive produced for Futuro Studios by Marlon Bishop and Maria Garcia. Our marketing team included Anelo Reyes and Luis Luna. Futuro Media was founded by Maria Hinojosa.