 Okay. Hello. Buenas tardes. My name is Sandra Garcia Rivera. I am sincerely humbled to be here among such wonderful writers and community. And I was really touched. I am in a crossroads in my own life, just turned 50, and in some ways I've never felt more endangered as a woman, as a Puerto Rican in particular, challenging and questioning everything that I've ever thought in so many ways. So it's very destabilizing. I think back on my mentors, like B.D. Thomas, who I met here in San Francisco. I became a poet in the mission through his influence. And I was adopted by Mission Girls and by the mission many years ago because I'm born and raised in New York City in case you can't tell. But that said, I have loved the mission. I have been loved in the mission. I have had lovers from the mission. I hope to have more lovers from the mission. No, just kidding. Just kidding. Okay. I'm going to read. This is inspired by one of those moments in the mission. It's called La Tequería. Please stand leaning, lining the interior of La Tequería. Coil around the inside perimeter, spill out onto Mission Street, cast shadows down 25th, contemplating bigante, no bigante. Corn, torta tortilla, taco quesadilla, crema carnitas, tamarindo, pintos negros, chile verde, al pastor. We, he and me, turn the corner, approach hand in hand. Giants boast boldly from his black hoodie. SF stretched broadly across his chest. He stops, surveys the scene, scowls under his breath. What the f... Can't even get a burrito in my own damn neighborhood. Techies, buses, burn his throat like acid reflux. He sizzles by my side. I tug on his arm, continue our stride, coax him towards 24th, rolling, train rumbling under our feet, headed east, say, come on, baby. Let's hit up the taco truck by the lake. O pupusas a platanos on university, no weight. His shoulders slump under the shade of his hood. We make our way. It's an odd year in the bay. Thank you.