In Memoriam: Tributes to José Esteban Muñoz, 1967–2013

On December 4, 2013, our dean of the brown commons, our unruly compass, our institutional ally, our comrade in chismis, our companion species, our friend, José Esteban Muñoz, died unexpectedly at the age of forty-six.

This space in American Quarterly is usually devoted to documenting events—to reviewing and rendering them for readers, audiences, and scholars who often can’t be there themselves. The “eventness” of this profound and searing loss, like most traumas, is one that cannot possibly be rendered. It cannot be reviewed, surveyed, or assessed. It can only resurface in sharp, fragmentary bursts of crippling sorrow or in the perpetual, steady struggle with realizing something we never wished to fathom. Thus what fills these pages, previously designated for “the event,” is a collection of impressions, poetry, and memories that we never wished to cohere in the wake of such “eventness”: one so catastrophic as to have been felt by everyone who knew José or his work. In effect, we were all there. We are all still in it.

A little over a week before he died, I saw José at the ASA convention in Washington, DC, where we were all dreaming big about the fun and fury we would bring to Los Angeles together this November. On the last night we would ever spend in each other’s company, we caught up over dinner with loved ones and several friends, cackling, gossiping, and plotting to set up a couple of queer lady pals on a date, while crafting new nicknames for our adversaries. After dinner, we meandered over to the Latina/o Studies Caucus soiree for some drinks, dancing, and more festivity. José was happy. Right before I left, I snapped a photo of him smiling ear-to-ear and standing side by side with our mutual pal from Georgetown University, the ever-so-dashing Ricardo Ortiz, a.k.a. “Ricky O.” Though some folks are deeply annoyed by my compulsion to document our various excursions, I’m glad I took the time to do it that night. He made me retake it several time so I could capture his visage at the most flattering angle, which prolonged our good-bye.

If only such reminiscences remained quotidian and uneventful. If only such random details and complaints about the extra seconds it takes to try and capture a moment could be stored away for more bitchy dinner conversations, dancing, and drinks with José himself. For those of us who felt close to José, the everyday will never resume in the wake of his loss. Bereft as we are, I want to thank the scholars, poets, performers, and friends of José who were willing to share their words with us on such short notice, as well as for granting American Quarterly permission to reprint some material that was posted elsewhere on blogs or social networking sites, or shared at a memorial in Los Angeles on January 7, 2014.

It is my hope that these loving contributions will offer a faint glimmer of some other horizon, impressionistically refracted; a tribute to the utopias and unruly commons cruised by our friend, who didn’t sing very often himself (“Refugee” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers was the one karaoke track he would occasionally duet with Jasbir Puar), but who loved to watch others sing as he swayed along to the beat with a huge grin on his face.

Here, once more, we sing for you, José.