Forward

Jose's formal invitation to write a foreword arrived in my inbox on July 2, 2008. It had attached a word document of the book you now hold in your hands, more or less. The invitation itself was a glowing beam of friendship. In fact, to quote directly from this email, it was "quite the lovefest."

Actually, it may do to quote some parts of that invitation verbatim.

"Credit is given when it is due, and, as you have often done since we've been friends, you managed to give me a great idea."

"This whole foreword idea is something that I think could go very well, due greatly to the fact that you will be one of the individuals contributing. I may not appreciate your throwing things at me, but I sure as heck appreciate your opinions and friendship. Even as I've proven to be an incredibly ridiculous individual over the years, you've stuck with me (and I with you). You, as well as anybody else, have great knowledge of just who I am as an individual and what many qualities, tendencies, and obnoxious habits make up the person I've turned in to. You actually go beyond that, in being basically my best friend during the oh so important developmentally high school years - very influential position to be in. And so, the invitation."

"Your contribution to it would certainly cement this project as an important and worthy one, and I would love if you could grant me your words of wisdom. I hope that you will treat this seriously and not falter in the direction of ego-stroking, as I know you are far more than capable of writing an honest and incredible assessment of both what makes me who I am and what has gone into all of this nonsense that I've written in the past couple of years. It would be an honor to have you contribute to this project of mine."

Appreciative words, aren't they?

And so, as with any personal project which I like the idea of, I am excited to do and will require significant effort on my part... I sat on it. I told Jose I would have it done by the end of Summer. Summer ended. I told Jose I would have it done within the first few weeks of school. Midterms rolled around. I told Jose I would have it done shortly after the winter break began. Christmas is over. I return to school in a few days and Jose's book goes to the press at the end of January. The glowing has turned to glowering and the lovefest is over.

Now I've gotta write a foreword. But before I make any mention of Jose's work, I will begin by discussing the man himself and my relation to him. I don't know how many people can claim they have friends they've known effectively their whole lives. I've got a handful of them and Jose can lay a good claim to being primus inter pares. When you've known someone for your entire life your relationship is different from those people who have not watched you grow up and known you in all the awkward unfitting stages of adolescence. After a certain point the relationship will reach a stability level not often known in other relationships. Months can pass with no contact and no damage is done to the relationship. Our behaviors and interactions can sometimes seem ritualized, and indeed it is. It is a script that has been written, revised and rewritten thousands of times over the course of our lives. All the perceivable complications that can arise between two individuals have come, gone and come again. These relationships are second only to close family in their complexity. Our friendships are ones where the stillness of the waters bespeaks a depth rivaled only by the most long lived marriages. And other crap.

This is not to say that these life-long friendships are in danger of withering under boredom or sameness. The dance of friendship is one that tells the whole lives of the participants. To participate in it is not to see two individuals whose mutual interest in each other has been completely sapped, but instead two individuals relishing the story of their lives in microcosm, every nuance and act echoing across the years, building a rich biographical tapestry. I cannot claim that our friendships will last forever, but they have come a long way. From the bright-eyed childish play of near-toddlers, to the struggling awkwardness of teenagerdom and now the new-found swagger and cocky independence of young adulthood, my friendships have travelled across a span of time that often pre-dates my memories. I can say with a fair degree of certainty and more than a modicum of hope that these friendships will continue into the winding-down complacency and gentle conformity of middle age. After that, who knows? Never trust anybody over 30.

In any case, I am glad to share a relationship of this caliber with Jose, and I was looking forward to spilling the beans on his more fumblingly awkward and stumblingly stubborn moments in this introduction, where I was promised complete editorial freedom. However, in reading over much of the manuscript you hold now in your hands I discovered Mr. Mondragon has willingly offered up some of his weakest moments voluntarily. This not only speaks to the sincerity of his writing, it also saves me the breath.

Instead, I am free to wax poetic about some of Jose's more admirable traits which he has soooooooo humbly hidden in the subtext or put into the mouth of a skeptical narrator. Jose Mondragon is the most loyal person I know. He will stick to you like Thanksgiving stuffing sticks to your ribs. I can say this with certainty because I've thrown a lot of heavy or sharp objects at this man, and I've still been asked to write an introduction to his book. I can't say the same for Thanksgiving stuffing's new book, Profiles in Bread.

Jose Mondragon is a good lover. Or at least he tells me so. I don't know if his photograph will be on the dust jacket for this work, but try to remember that this is no honky you're dealing with. He is a latin lover; a real Casanova. More importantly, Jose Mondragon knows how to love. He knows how to give his heart up, reading the novella contained in this volume should convince you of that. A writer needs a few things if he is ever going to get anywhere in his work. First among those things is a readiness and enthusiasm for bearing the weaker parts of your soul. A writer must be honest with himself, and he must be honest with his readers about who he is. Jose is the most honest of men.

I have some criticisms of the work you hold in your hands. Primarily, Jose stubbornly refuses to revise or edit his work. Yeah, that might be one technique for writing, but I hold to the Bob Dylan principle; you've got to know the rules before you break them. The protagonist of the story is hopelessly self-conscious and the narrator is a flimsy (albeit amusing) foil of the main character- equally self-conscious but instead of big hearted he is a jerk. This sounds like the formula for an interesting and engaging contrast, and indeed when the narrator isn't chastising the reader for even reading the work it provides for a neat juxtaposition. I must be honest, however, when I say that I think the concept could have been handled much more deftly- the kind of improvement that comes with repeat revisions and extensive, self-critical reworking. Writing does not make one a writer. Rewriting does.

The flip side to that is the spontaneous and heartfelt descriptions of love (nay, Love!) that a peppered across Mr. Mondragon's works. Here is a man who genuinely believes in Love, and believes in in because he has experienced it. He is not afraid to say exactly what that is like to him. In these passages the first-draft quality of writing works completely in Jose's favor. He sounds like a love-mad fool who is talking faster than he can think, trying to express an emotion greater than him which is merely being channeled through his all to often abused heart. This is the meat of Jose's writing, and if he continues his philosophy of writing without looking back, I would hope he plumbs the depths of these feelings more, because it is where his true muse lives.

So, dear reader, go forth into this work not expecting a Keroac or a Shakespeare. Chances are if you are reading this you are already familiar with Jose, the Man. Although some of what you encounter in this may be myth, what you are reading is 100% Mondragon. It is Jose, warts, schnozz and all. Good and bad, light and dark. It isn't polished and it's by no means perfect. But it is real and authentic and genuine, and that may be the most important thing of all.