Transcript of Chapter 5: MDWIMD New

Hello, it's Sarah here. First off, I just want to thank you all for the opportunity to share this story. I've been really touched by all the love and support, and I'm just incredibly grateful to be here with you all in this moment. With that being said, myself and the team at Futuro want to do something special. We're creating a bonus episode, and we want to hear from you. After listening to this series, I know you might have some questions, so this is the chance. Ask me anything. Send a voice note with your questions to this number: 646-571-1224. Again, that's 646-571-1224, and you might get the answer you're looking for, or at least an answer. This special episode will be dropping on the Futuro+ feed for our subscribers, so if you haven't yet, please subscribe. Okay, that's all. Talk to you all soon. 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. In the months since you met your birth father, you were overwhelmed by a sense of waiting. You fill your notebooks with regimented timetables, assigning every waking moment an activity.

8 AM, wake up. 9 AM, gym. 10 AM, read. 11 AM, journal. And on and on. You join a meditation group for 2 weeks. You attend AA once. This sense of anticipation searches for its appropriate expression, but self-improvement feels more like a distraction than a remedy. You call your Aunt Cathead for guidance. She references the I Ching.

Hexagram 63. It's the second-to-last one. It's called Before the End. The image there is that you've climbed a mountain and you know everything there is to know about getting to the top of that mountain. But you have no idea what the other side looks like at all.

As the witness to your mother's life, she fills in more gaps of her story.

Your mom thought she was told in England that she couldn't have children.

Oh, wow. I didn't know that.

Oh, I remember one thing is that she said he drank too much and she hated that because of her dad.

None of these answers placate the waiting feeling. Early summer, you start dating a therapist in the Bay Area, which you initially think of as a cosmic reward for defeating your daddy issues. He does breathwork and sings Sufjan Stevens songs to you. You find excuses to make the 6-hour drive up to Oakland every other weekend, spending an average of $50 on gas each way.

Mm-hmm. Yeah, I know you're in the Bay all the time and you haven't hit me up at once.

I have hit—

I've hit you up every single time. You didn't hit me up. No, you didn't hit me up.

A month and a half later, the therapist breaks up with you over Zoom, sitting at the desk where he takes clients. You drive aimlessly across Los Angeles, chain-smoking in your hybrid SUV, past the gridlock on Melrose and Normandie, past the Wilshire Country Club and clean Craftsman-style bungalows. The sterile glass high-rises of Wilshire Boulevard and crowds of college students in Westwood. You find your way home without a map. For a moment, you consider the ozone you've depleted with this failed relationship. Your nights are spent out at the leather bar. You say you are California and New York sober, which means you no longer drink but still smoke weed and do drugs. The outcome isn't so different come morning time, except regrettably, you remember it all. Nearly 5 months now since you met your birth father and no word from him. He said he would call, but he hasn't. You tell yourself he should be the one to reach out now, as a matter of principle. But by June, You're out of distractions. On Father's Day, you call him. He does not pick up.

At the tone, please record your message.

When you have finished recording, you may hang up or press 1 for more options.

The knot in your stomach tightens. You hesitate and then dial a different number.

Hey.

Hey.

Hello, how are you? Happy Father's Day. Oh, thank you.

The voice on the other end of the line, your dad, is proof that you are lying to yourself.

I just watched a video of you guys this morning.

What video?

It was the one that I did when you guys were like 13. And so like all these kid photos all the way to, you know, supposedly 13, although there's a lot more ones when you're little babies than the rest of it.

If you are forced to confront it, it might begin to help you bridge the gulf between the story you have told and what has really happened. To know what you are waiting for and why.

Reaching out. Reaching out.

Reaching out.

Reaching out.

This phone call, Father's Day of 2022, is the only call you have recorded of your dad in the hundreds of calls you've kept. At the time of this conversation, you haven't spoken in months, maybe a year. If you've called before this, you didn't think it was worth recording it. This is the first of several revelations that occur to you only now as you are forced to commit your experience to the record. As you listen back, as you write these words, you called your birth father first because you weren't sure he would answer. You called your dad second because you knew he would. There's only one other recording you've made of your dad. It's from 4 years before this phone call on Father's Day. The recording is from 2018. You're visiting California for a couple of weeks. Your dad and you are driving to the beach.

I'm gonna record you using my phone.

Yes.

Really?

No pressure. Um, yeah, you're definitely more of an extrovert than an introvert, I think. At least the way you present yourself.

Well, yeah, I think, yeah. I mean, yeah. But we all have both sides to us.

Mm-hmm.

In different situations.

Yeah.

Like right here, you're definitely an introvert. Mm-hmm.

I'm also just tired and hungry, too.

No, but I think it's, you know—

Generally.

Well, it's just our relationship.

Mm-hmm.

You've never been really forthcoming sharing your life.

Mm-hmm.

How's your love life?

Huh?

How's my love— oh, God.

How should I ask you? Is that a bad way to put it?

That's not a bad—

You pause the recording, or it cuts out on its own. It's hard to know. When it comes back on, the conversation is over. You've turned up the radio. You broke up with your ex a month ago, but you don't tell your dad this. He doesn't know that you have an ex. You're making your way to the ocean. Your dad drives too quickly. But you are relaxed in the passenger seat. You have driven the same road hundreds of times now, starting when you were 13 years old, when he first taught you to surf. John has existed in your life as long as there's been a record of it.

I'm a gator!

But he's always been in the background.

Yikes!

Oh no, concession stand! Ah!

When you were 5 or 6, when him and your mom were dating, he was often the one holding the camera. This is when you first started to call him Dad.

What do you think, Sarah?

Um, that way.

Oh, that way.

Okay.

He also recorded your school plays. I think we're lost.

Don't worry, we'll just go back the way we came.

Which way did we come? Your dad was an amateur filmmaker working at the community college nearby. That's where your mom and him met. In his first film he ever showed you, he plays the main character who gives an impassioned monologue about the power of film.

People still gather around a campfire and tell stories. People gather in a dark room and watch as we unveil a story.

Every 24th of— And then collapses from an infected paper cut. Wait a minute, I'm a doctor. There was another film about a superhero made of aluminum. Another, an animated film about an alien studying a distant planet. The alien's eyes crawl out of his face to explore this strange world where the flow You didn't understand what any of these films meant, but you could tell he was like you, like a kid. He had a skateboard, an acoustic guitar, a collection of Dungeons and Dragons books that you and Connor would borrow, tracing giants and elves that would find their way into the games you played together. Even after your mom and him broke up a couple years later, he stayed in your lives.

He was always there.

And he did the dad things. Taught you how to ride a bike, to swim, helped you with school projects.

Animal communication.

Humans aren't the only ones who know how to communicate with animals. The fact is that animals can talk to each other. Animals will communicate with their bodies, their voices, and tails. He came to talent shows, birthdays, graduations. He took you camping every summer. You went to his house for Thanksgiving and Christmas with his side of the family.

2, 3, 4.

Make him talk to us.

2, 3, 4.

Are you filming this, Cami?

Yeah.

I am Thicker H. Bird.

Ha ha ha. He drove you to school each morning, and he continued to attend all your performances in high school and record them. A second revelation. The records that allow you to see your life were made by someone who appears in almost none of yours.

Oh, shit, there's no parking here. There's parking there.

It would be nice to say that's why you're recording him in 2018, making your way to the beach. To make him part of the record of your life. It would be nice to say that. You're recording your dad because you want him to tell you a story.

I'm recording, by the way.

All right. Do you need me to sign a release?

No, hopefully. Um, I want to interview you about your friend.

Oh, okay. That's what you want to interview me about? Okay. All right.

The story he tells you is not so important now. It is only important that you make him tell it to you. The story is this: after he dated your mom, your dad fell in love with a man who did not want him. They met at community college.

I was working in the film lab. We were working there late. It was like the end of the day.

He stops the story to point out a guy wearing a red hat making his way across the beach holding a surfboard.

The guy in the red hat. When they had a shark attack, Channel 2 interviewed him and they pulled out he had— was renting Jaws that night.

That's really—

He had it in his car.

He had a copy.

Top head job. It was good television.

You don't even look. Instead, you check your levels, confirm the seconds are passing on the screen to make sure you're still recording.

What happened with your friend?

Uh...

You're the one who's saying that we don't have deep conversations, so here's your chance to have a deep conversation.

Okay, so yeah, well, uh... It was a normal friendship, and then, uh, but you know, it was a really good friendship, and it was like a very strong friendship, and probably one of the strongest friendships I've ever had. And so then it got too much for me, and I just felt like there was this hidden thing underneath I told him, you know, basically, basically I loved him and was crying at his work. And so then I didn't see him anymore.

But years later, your dad found him again. And in the months that followed, he sent ceaseless emails, gifts, letters, songs, birthday cards, Christmas cards. All with no response.

And I just kept up emailing him. I did this for, like, almost till April with no response. And then finally he responded, and he said basically, you know, I said the truth back then, I'm saying it now, you know, I'm solely into women.

In the moment of recording this, you are filled with a deep embarrassment for your dad. The embarrassment you are feeling is because you have accomplished what he has not. You have just left your ex. You have cleaved yourself from your obsession. You have resettled the scales. You are back on high. You think you are free.

Why, why do you keep sending him letters? Emails?

Because I'm— like I said, he was like the best friend ever. I wish we could still be friends.

Do you feel like you really want to just be friends, or do you feel like you're still holding out hope?

Oh, I'm still holding out hope, but I still would like to be just friends if that's all I can have, you know.

The month before this conversation with your dad, you laid beside your ex and tried to figure out whether or not he loved you. When you and your ex first met, he climbed onto your roof and looked at the moon with you. And since that night, you had drifted back and forth towards one another like 2 twigs tossing in a The first months come to you in images. Ham sandwiches on the beach. Pressing a finger to a cheek to hold an eyelash one of you could make a wish on. And then the images are washed away by an eager tide of anticipation. Waiting for a message, sometimes hours, sometimes days. Early morning intervals. Wondering who you will wake next to. The person you had fallen in love with, Or a colder version who had emerged without warning. This version told you you shouldn't trust him, that he did not want you to call him your boyfriend. But when you lay in his arms in the dark, he would tell you that's who you were to him. He would whisper that you were lovelier than you knew, but you couldn't tell whether it was a compliment or an observation of a fact.

That if you did in fact know how lovely you were, that you would have left after the first few months when he gave you Or on your anniversary, when he got upset by your gifts, pressured to show you that he loved you when he wasn't really sure he did. You didn't leave then either. And one bright morning, a month before this conversation with your dad on the beach, when you finally did leave, it wasn't because you had stopped loving him, but because you were tired. Because with no warning, you realized you were fully depleted.

I'm sorry.

And now you had nothing to give, to him or to anyone else. And even though you were the one that ended it, you hung around areas you thought you might run into him. You searched for his face on the subway platform as your train passed. 2 years from now, you will meet him on your 27th birthday to try to convince him to come home with you and end up shouting at each other beneath the viaduct of the M Line. And you are still thinking about him even now. Sitting on the beach, wondering if a text might arrive to your phone, even though you're almost always the first to send a message, rarely the recipient. A message that would return you to a pain that was familiar, not this new pain which has no resolution. But you don't tell your dad this.

You should delete that dude's email.

Why? No way.

Yeah, so that you can stop emailing him and whatever, like get rid of his address So you think I should—

it's stupid to me to keep emailing him?

Yeah, even as a friend.

I'm hearing that.

You can't be his friend.

Yeah, no, thanks. I'm hearing that.

You need to— yeah, you need to hear it. It's unhealthy to go run after people who don't want you. You shouldn't have to chase after people like that.

Remembering and forgetting are not simply 2 separate ends of an axis. It is possible to do both at once. This parallel state of unremembering is the allure of a cigarette when you quit, nostalgia for your hometown after years away. It is also how you fall in love with the wrong person— simultaneous, forgetting how they hurt you as you remember when they didn't. All right, you think you're going in the water?

Yeah, is that cool?

Yeah, and then we're gonna head out?

Yeah.

All right.

These parallel acts lack a moral consistency or consequence. Sometimes forgetting is benevolent, and sometimes remembering is malicious. As in this case, making your father recount one of his most painful memories to you so you can tell a story, and for a moment, letting him forget the distance you put between you.

It's unhealthy to go— to go run after people who don't want you.

Yeah.

To go run after people who don't want you. People who don't want you.

You.

You.

You.

This is the point of the story where you make an escape from more familiar passages. But this is why you made that call on Father's Day, isn't it? You have to tell the story of the distance between you and your dad. This is the story you write. Your dad moved out for good when you were 15. Though you never said it out loud, You got used to him being there. His makeshift bedroom created by 2 bookshelves that split the living room in half. The baby blue hatchback he drove you to school in each morning, parked in the driveway. The sound of his voice in the other room. One day, you came home, and he was packing his stuff to leave. He was moving out to live with his new girlfriend. Painfully shy, French, a janitor at the community college, owned 2 Pomeranians. Nice enough. He never discussed it with you. This is how it began, you think. But as you commit this story to the record, doubt creeps in. You will ask your mom to verify the sequence of events.

Is that right?

No. That's so funny. No, uh, he moved out to— and moved in with his mom. For the most part, we were very transparent with both you and your brother.

Really?

I have the memory that I had.

The memory I had of it was it being feeling very sudden. In your memory, not a year or so later, you learned secondhand that he and the French woman were going to try and have a baby. His silence on the matter proved somehow that raising you had not been enough. That he did not really see you as his kids. But if that first part of the story is not true, then you're not sure the second part is either, which calls the origin of your distance entirely into question. Like, did you notice a shift with us? With John? And if you did, when, when do you think it, it started?

John was really, you know, thinking about his sexuality, and I was trying to get him to get more comfortable and trying to give him support. He decided to tell his horrible, horrible friend that he was in love with him. And his friend was so abusive and horrible to him when he came out to him. It was after that that he got involved with the French girl, I think.

You didn't really answer my question though.

What was the question?

Maybe it's only the instinct to order your life into a story that makes you want to look for a singular source for this distance, an inciting incident. The question was, when do you think— did you notice a rift between me and Connor and Dad? And if so, when do you think it started?

I think that as you guys got older, I think it was challenging for him to deal with your emotional growth. And your desire for deeper connection and a deeper honesty. You were emotionally maturing. And I think that was terrifying for your dad because that would have required him to look at parts of himself that were things that he was scared of. And I guess that's why I went into the whole story. There were some incidents that I think really were challenging. For you in particular? I think when he got pulled over and he had pot in his pocket and you guys got searched by the police. I think that was really big for you.

Oh, I forgot about that.

I mean, you lost, um, a lot of respect for him.

It's strange to say that you can't even conjure up the details of that day. Only a blurred mental tableau. Cars traveling north at golden hour from the side of the 80. You can't even be certain this memory is not a composite of the many afternoons seen outside the window as you drove to your weekly dinners. And even stranger to say, that it may be one of the reasons you started to pull away, even though you didn't remember it until this moment.

The way he handled it was by trying to minimize it. And pretend it was not that big of a deal. There's something that says you cannot depend on your dad when something like that happens and he won't process it with you.

So, it may have been his leaving. It may have been that episode on the side of the highway. It may have been the hypothetical baby. Or it may have been the pattern that emerged across all of these incidents, that he seemed incapable of having a real, honest conversation with you.

And he felt terrible. He felt terrible that he couldn't— he didn't have the emotional bandwidth to process it with you. It wasn't like an evil thing. He just really did not. It was almost like he aged out.

In your teen years, the things you loved about John as a kid became the things you learned to resent about him. A goofy stoner who liked to skateboard and play guitar, who sang along off-key to the radio, who made short films you didn't understand. All evidence now of his ill-suitedness for the role of caretaker. You began to imagine a different kind of father was out there for you. Your real father. Your real father was an adult. He would know how to take care of you. Your real father would know how to love you correctly. Your real father could own his mistakes. Your real father could apologize. At 17, you wrote the play about 2 boys waiting for their father.

What if he doesn't show?

He will.

And if he doesn't?

I'll be okay.

Your dad was sitting in the audience for this performance, but you never bothered to ask him what it meant to him. Or how it made him feel, and he never brought it up. Around this time, you stopped responding to your dad's texts inviting you to your weekly dinners, and when you did come, you kept conversation minimal. By the time you were 20, your dad began to disappear completely from your life and the story you told about it. In November, I turned 20. That's 20 years of not knowing my dad. I've gone through zits, college applications, and boyfriends without his help. I've learned to take care of myself, to be responsible, to be kind. All in all, I think I've turned out okay. Maybe even better than okay. In your early 20s, you rarely reached out unless you needed to borrow money, a guarantor signature, a winter coat. When you did acknowledge his existence to friends, you called him my dad who isn't my dad, remembering and forgetting at once. By your late 20s, it was mostly forgetting. The most egregious instance is in the record, at an awards ceremony a few months after your conversation on the beach.

There are 2 parts to this speech, and I was gonna keep it short, but what the hell, I got gold, so—

You're thanking your mentor, who is sitting in the audience during your acceptance speech.

Um, so somehow, even though I bully you relentlessly, uh, you still look after me. You give me advice, you listen to my work, you give me feedback. Um, and I think I told you this before, but you're probably like the closest thing I've ever had to a father figure at all in my life.

Do you think your dad can ever forgive you for all the ways you pushed him to the margins of your life? And what if it's too late to undo any of it?

So Dad sent me a text that was pretty funny. What did he send you? He said, hey, how you doing? I'm doing great. Hope to hear from you soon. We should hang out sometime. I never responded.

You don't know where Connor's distance began. You've never spoken about it. If for some years of your childhood you two shared the dad who built go-karts made of plywood, who sang to you by the campfire and taught you the name and geometry of constellations, who drove you to the ocean and to school, the story of who he became to you later has always been a story You told only yourselves, and what you told others was of being part of the sect of boys without fathers.

Why?

Perhaps because you needed to. Otherwise, how else to explain this sense of being alone in the world, of being apart from others? And so it was never your dad's story, and maybe it is exactly because he has stayed that any story is inadequate. How to conclude what still endures? How to sum up a lifetime of loving each other imperfectly?

When your dad did the things that he did, he didn't do them to you or because of you. He did them because of him, his limitations. It wasn't about how much he loved you or didn't love you.

And maybe this is what you know needs to be confronted. Maybe this is why you make that call on Father's Day. Maybe this is why you make sure to put it in the record. Maybe this is why you have told this story at all, because you knew it would inevitably lead you here, to what remains still unresolved between you and your dad. Perhaps you want to change it, even though nothing of the past can be undone. Perhaps you tell this story Because there's still time to make it different.

The thing that shifts and makes it more possible is that when you're a child, there's only one direction that can go, and that's the parent making it happen. When you become an adult, both of you can make it happen. And that's the change.

But this conversation with your mom is years in the future, As you write this story, not in 2018, driving back from the beach. Here in 2018, you are still trying to convince him to delete his friend's email.

You have this thing, you like read so far into things. Like—

Yeah.

I don't know.

I think you—

True.

You need to maybe, I don't know. I don't know. I mean, I think it's good. Your brain is, you know, active and you're imagining, but like also at the same time, You can't know these things unless they're said to you.

It's a story.

Yeah, it's a story. Like, but I also think that like you're taking like— and I imagine it's funny because it's like I feel like you do the same exact shit that I do sometimes where it's like you, because there's a lack of an answer, you just make up all the answers in your head. So I'm sure the times that you emailed this guy were because you were like, oh, what it was doing— you were like, oh, maybe it's got less.

I said that in the letter to him, was that, you know, there's this beautiful history. And I'm filling it up, the vacuum.

It occurs to you now that your distance may simply be your inability to square the difference between the dad you got from the dad you thought you deserved, the man who was there your whole life from the one you created in your head. And in this way, you are not unlike most children, haunted by the parents they have and the parents they don't.

I don't know, like, I do think, like, you need to get out of, um, you're in a place of I feel like you're in a place of still sort of hating yourself, because if you thought that you deserved something more than that, if you thought you deserved more than, like, this random straight dude who won't even return your emails, then, you know, then I think that you would pursue that.

Yeah.

What are you afraid of exactly?

What am I afraid of? Um, I think a big fear of it is people finding out. I think it's, you know, and then changing their opinions of you. I had, you know, my dad, I think, uh, just, you know, after puberty, he told me, you know, don't be a faggot. That kind of makes an impression.

You have avoided returning to this recording for nearly a decade, and if it weren't for the phone call that Father's Day in 2022, you're sure you would've continued to avoid it. Because when you listen now, you hear something in this conversation that you couldn't hear then when you recorded it, and it pains you. Your dad is lonely too, and he is trying, despite your resistance, To give you the exact thing you've always wanted from him, an honest conversation. And you cannot accept it.

You should probably get a therapist because I don't want to do this all the time. I mean, I like talking, but this is probably much more in-depth than I'll ever get for a while.

It's only because we're recording it.

Yeah, partly.

I feel more comfortable talking Oh, we should record all our conversations.

Oh, I don't know about that. A lot of our conversations are pretty quiet, so...

So true.

A familiar silence passes over both of you, and you stare out the window. The air is bright despite the fires, the biggest ones on record so far. They've been burning for days.

All right. There's smoke still. We need some rain.

After that trip to the beach in 2018—

Yeah, I'm turning this off.

Yeah.

And after the phone call to your dad on Father's Day 4 years later in 2022, you will not reach out. You will not record. Not because you do not love your dad, but because you do not yet know how to tell a story That is not about absence. Because this is, after all, a story, and you are the one telling it. Because if you have to assess this absence you've created, you might have to assess all of them. That for every night spent looking at the door, there was a stranger who wanted to speak to you. For every received silence, someone who wanted to love you. For every father who did not pick up—

Happy Father's Day. Uh, this might be kind of weird, but I figured I would do it anyway since technically you are my father. I would love to get together sometime and, and talk and, you know, kind of have some of the conversations that— ask you some of the questions we started to ask you, um, when we met a few months ago. So anyways, I hope the day is treating you well, and, um, to talk to you soon. There was a father Okay, I'll talk to you soon. Thank you. Bye.

And, uh, love you.

But you cannot love them back yet because you are still waiting. And in waiting, you have made your absences mythological. What you are waiting for is to be made happy. What you do not know yet is that it is a happiness that you deny yourself, convinced that it will be found in whatever is just out of reach. And so it should not surprise you that when you finally do receive a text from your birth father, 4 months after that phone call on Father's Day, this text, this message, does nothing to change the waiting feeling that has calcified inside you.

Hello?

Hello? Hi, can you hear me? Yeah, hey.

You are getting ready to return to New York City. It's a temporary teaching gig. You tell yourself you'll be back in the spring. Connor is in Washington when you call him about the message.

Did he get a hold of you or you got a hold of him? Um, I reached out on Father's Day to just be like, what up? Um, let's have a conversation because we haven't talked in such a funny time to reach out. Did you send the other dad a Happy Father's Day? Yeah, I called. I called John. I didn't text him at all. I called John. I had a, I had a quick conversation with him.

Your birth father has asked to meet you at his house to talk. It's been 8 months since your first meeting with him. Connor has just started carpentry school. He's not sure he can make it down.

Yeah, I don't know. I guess I don't really mind right now. Yeah, I can't make up my mind, but I probably can't make it down to LA for sure. I don't mind if you do that on your own. I don't even know what I want from it. I don't know what kind of relationship I want. I don't know if I want a relationship. I don't know. There's like this thing that my friend Mondo wrote. My friend Mondo passed away, but he wrote this thing on a fridge and it said something along the lines of mourning for loss, but not loss from death, but loss from the things you can no longer have. Like he never was around. Like, who is he? Why did he leave? Why don't I know anything about this dude? And just that being like, like a really pretty, pretty big focus when I was younger. I don't know, that's almost feels like It feels like describing a loss that's not death.

A week from now, you will meet your birth father again. You will drive to his house. You will ask the questions you need to ask, say what needs to be said. Nearly 3 years ago, Connor called and asked for your help in looking for him, and it has led you here. You wonder if you're any better for it.

I love you, brother. I love you too. Thanks for doing this. Yeah, no problem. Yeah. Um, are you recording? Yeah, I'm always recording. I recorded all our phone calls. That's funny.

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 Rettei 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 produce 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. Special thanks to John for the videos and the films and the recordings and the rides and for everything. I love you.

I love you.