They Call You Back

1. The Haunting Call of the Lost

Once I’m pinpricked by the unknown, I must go seeking answers.

Compulsive curiosity. The author describes his lifelong compulsion to seek answers, a "haunting" that drives him to scrutinize roads, both physical and psychological. This deep-seated curiosity is the genesis of his thirteen-year quest to uncover the lost histories of the 1948 Los Gatos Canyon plane crash victims.

Unjust erasure. The incident, dubbed "the worst airplane disaster in California’s history," involved thirty-two passengers, twenty-eight of whom were Mexican nationals—bracero workers being deported. Their names were omitted by the media, replaced by the dehumanizing label "deportees," and their bodies were dumped into an unmarked mass grave. This historical injustice became a powerful catalyst for the author's search.

Supernatural beckoning. The author recounts vivid experiences of being visited by spirits of the dead, sometimes as a ball of light, other times as fully formed apparitions in his bedroom. These encounters, which he initially dismissed as sleep paralysis or obsession, solidified his belief that the lost souls were actively seeking him, compelling him to find their families and restore their stories.

2. Personal Wounds Fuel the Search

This search is in every way tainted by my own self-centered need to make sense of where this inherent pain I carry comes from.

Inherited grief. The author's personal history is deeply intertwined with themes of loss and unresolved grief, beginning with his mother's baby brother, Betito, whose unmarked grave they searched for when the author was eleven. This early experience of searching for a lost family member planted a seed of purpose within him.

Familial trauma. The author's family endured profound losses: his grandparents buried three children and then his grandmother died of cancer, leaving his grandfather to raise six children alone. This led to his grandfather's descent into alcoholism and violence, forcing the children to flee their home. These experiences instilled in the author a deep understanding of intergenerational pain and the desperate need for connection.

Uncle Virgil's impact. The tragic death of his uncle Virgil, shot by police during a domestic dispute, left an indelible mark on the author. Virgil's life, marked by his own search for a lost son and struggles with addiction, mirrored the author's own battles with anxiety and a desire to understand the roots of his pain. The author's quest for justice and understanding for Virgil became a template for his broader search.

3. The Plague of Invisibility and Erasure

To be nameless is to be storyless. And to be storyless is to be disposable.

Dehumanizing labels. The media's decision to refer to the twenty-eight Mexican victims of the 1948 plane crash as "deportees" rather than by their names stripped them of their individuality and dignity. This act of erasure, coupled with their burial in an unmarked mass grave, rendered them invisible to history and their families.

Systemic injustice. The author draws parallels between the historical erasure of the bracero workers and contemporary acts of dehumanization against brown bodies in America. He connects the 1948 incident to:

• La Matanza (Hour of Blood) in Texas (1910-1920)
• The lynching of Laura and L.D. Nelson (1911)
• Modern police killings of unarmed men of color
• Mass shootings targeting "Hispanics" (e.g., El Paso Walmart)
• The Uvalde school massacre

Consequences of invisibility. This "plague of invisibility" makes it possible for society to remain indifferent to suffering and injustice. When people are not seen as fully human, their lives and deaths lose value, leading to a cycle of violence and unaddressed trauma that impacts generations.

4. A Methodology Guided by Ghosts and Intuition

My methodology? I gather the pages of my manuscript together. How to tell them that mine is in fact a 'methodology of ghosts'?

Unconventional research. The author's approach to finding the lost families defies traditional academic methodology. He describes a process akin to a séance, where he writes names on slips of paper, scatters them, and waits for one to "speak" to him through intuition or a strong pull.

Psychometry and presence. He practices "psychometry," touching objects like old letters, photographs, or even pieces of the plane wreckage to glean information and connect with the past. This involves being "wholly present" and allowing the objects and spaces to transmit their memories and energy directly.

Learning from witnesses. The author draws inspiration from other "Storykeepers" and "witnesses" who have documented hidden histories, such as:

• William Butler Yeats and his "automatic writing" with spirits
• Liao Yiwu, who memorized prisoner stories after his writing tools were confiscated
• John and Alan Lomax, who recorded unheard songs and stories
• Dorothea Lange, whose field notes provided unseen narratives

These influences reinforce his belief that writing is a "portal for the dead" and that listening deeply is a powerful form of research.

5. Stories and Names as Acts of Dignity

Our names are the most basic part of that worthiness. They prove our connections and our existence.

Restoring identity. The central act of the author's search is to restore the names of the twenty-eight Mexican nationals who died in the plane crash. By giving them back their names, he aims to reclaim their dignity and acknowledge their existence, which was denied by the official narrative.

Catalyst for closure. For the surviving families, learning the fate of their loved ones and seeing their names on a memorial headstone provides a crucial step toward closure. The act of remembering and sharing stories allows them to process decades of unresolved grief and integrate the loss into their family history.

Collective affirmation. The emotional climax of the book occurs in the California State Senate, where the names of all thirty-two victims are read aloud. The author's nine-year-old son, Salvador, spontaneously whispers "Presente!" after each Mexican name, prompting the entire chamber to join in. This collective affirmation transforms an act of historical recognition into a powerful invocation, declaring that the lost are "here with us now."

6. Intergenerational Trauma and the Path to Healing

This is something we all have in common. No one is exempt from suffering. And it’s an unfortunate truth that these traumas, these inheritances, which we did not ask for, are ours now to shed.

Cycles of pain. The author vividly illustrates how trauma, like a "generational curse," can be passed down. His mother's anger, stemming from her own childhood losses and battle with cancer, became a manifestation of her grief. The author, in turn, inherited this "fire" and struggled with his own anger and anxiety.

Confronting the wound. The search for the lost families becomes a personal journey for the author to confront his own inherited wounds. He realizes that his compulsion to find others is deeply connected to his need to understand and heal his own past, including his role in two abortions and the lingering guilt.

Finding medicine. Healing, for the author, involves:

• Acknowledging where pain resides in the body
• Paying close attention to emotional "tremors" before they escalate
• Choosing outcomes different from anger or violence
• Returning to his "truest self" through clarity and presence

He finds solace in the "medicine of open roads," the act of driving long distances, which offers a "parenthesis" from life's demands and a space for contemplation and healing.

7. The Storykeeper's Sacred Responsibility

The Storykeeper is the one who wants to know. Who needs to know.

Designated role. Within families, there is often a "Storykeeper"—a person who feels a unique compulsion to preserve and transmit the family's narrative, even if others are reluctant. This individual often possesses a "certain fascination" and an intuitive understanding of the signs and synchronicities related to their history.

Ethical considerations. The author grapples with the ethics of his work, recognizing that not all families desire their stories to be told, especially if they involve painful or sensitive details. He learns to respect boundaries, as exemplified by the family who asked him not to include their relative's story due to a past crime.

Reciprocal exchange. The author's role evolves from merely "giving voice to the voiceless" to understanding that the search is a reciprocal process. He realizes that his loyalty is to the living, and that stories must be offered willingly. He aims to leave families with "more than you take," providing documents, information, and a sense of connection.

8. The Caracol: A Spiral of Connection and Protection

The caracol stays open-ended because it’s an invitation.

Metaphor for community. The "caracol," or snail's spiral shell, serves as a powerful metaphor for the author's evolving understanding of community, protection, and connection. It represents a network of trusted people, important spaces, and recurring stories that provide support and guidance.

Open-ended journey. Unlike a closed system, the caracol is "open-ended," signifying an ongoing invitation for new connections and continued growth. This contrasts with the author's earlier tendency to "close himself off" through drinking, which compromised his ability to receive messages and connect.

Ancestral wisdom. The caracol symbolizes a return to origins and an embrace of ancestral wisdom. It suggests that true protection comes from within a connected community, both living and spiritual, and from being attuned to the subtle guidance that emerges from this interconnectedness.

9. Love, Loss, and the Quest for Redemption

Perhaps by finding these people you’re healing something inside of you?

Subconscious drive. The author's therapist suggests that his relentless search for anonymous souls might be a subconscious attempt to "redeem himself" for past abortions. This revelation links his personal guilt and desire for healing to his broader mission of giving faces to the nameless.

Redemption through connection. The author finds a profound sense of relief and "his soul can breathe again" each time he connects with a new family and puts a face to a name he has carried for years. This act of connection, he realizes, is a form of alleviating a deep-seated void within himself.

Transformative love. The author's understanding of love evolves from a "mad" and "angry" dynamic, shaped by his family's trauma, to a more compassionate and open approach. He learns that giving love away, as his mother did by helping a grieving family, can be a path to healing and finding peace in the "numbing silence" that follows.

10. The Power of Witnessing and Being Present

I am only now coming to understand something most crucial. If I’m to look at this work honestly, all these years of searching have produced very little. Read the stories again. In almost every case, the families have found me. They have admitted to seeking me out. All I have done is set the intention.

Reciprocal seeking. The author's journey leads him to a profound realization: he is not solely the seeker; the lost families are also seeking him. His role is less about actively "finding" and more about setting the intention and being ready to receive the stories when they present themselves.

The art of paying attention. This work demands a "heightened form of paying attention"—to subtle signs, to intuition, to the unspoken, and to the present moment. It's about being a "perfect witness," a "sensorial recording machine" that can discern what is being said and what is not.

Living history. The author strives to be an "active participant" and "the living history" of the story, rather than a passive chronicler. By immersing himself in the spaces, embracing the people, and touching the objects, he allows the past to inform his present and guide his future, transforming personal and collective grief into a continuous, evolving conversation.