A stunning piece of investigative journalism and a lyrical meditation on memory, meaning, and the immigrant experience.
—San Francisco Chronicle
With compassionate storytelling, Hernandez humanizes the individuals who died in the crash, eulogizing them with anecdotes and stories that would have been theirs if they had not lost their lives so far from home.
—Los Angeles Review of Books
This book is an opportunity to cut through the immigration rhetoric we drown in every day. It's an opportunity to speak about the people behind the abstraction.
The book is more than just a biography of names. It's a history of the Mexican American experience. It's about how a former worker-immigrant program worked. It's about the lives of those who came to America.
Tim Z. Hernandez is the real thing. This epic, tragic story is finally being told, and it is in the best possible hands.
—Luis Alberto Urrea
An important and moving book, exploring the theme of identity and loss and disenfranchisement—topics that have never been more urgent than they are now. Hernandez has illuminated the present with this original and riveting examination of the past.
There's something miraculous about the storytelling feat Tim Z. Hernandez has pulled off in All They Will Call You
. With great compassion and patience, he has immersed himself in a long-forgotten episode of California history, and uncovered a multilayered epic of love, injustice, and family fortitude, stretching across generations and borders. This is an intelligent, empathic, and deeply moving work.
In his lyrics to 'Plane Wreck at Los Gatos,' my father, Woody Guthrie, asked a simple question, 'Who are these friends?' and finally someone has answered that question. It was unknown if their stories would ever come to light, or if they would simply remain ghosts without names, as if they had no lives at all—as if they didn't count. Through Hernandez's amazing work, I now know who these people were, their lives, their loves, and their journeys. All They Will Call You
is a heart-wrenching read for anyone who cares, and the names—now etched in stone in a far-off graveyard—have become friends who will travel with me as long as I am walking.