“Alligator Tears,” the new memoir from Edgar Gomez, refuses that silence. Instead, it turns the pain of growing up isolated as a queer, Latinx kid in Central Florida into a fearless, funny, and deeply personal battlecry.
During a time when being a Floridian can feel dismal for anyone outside the far-right conservative mainstream, Gomez’s work is a much-needed literary rainbow of hope. His previous book, “High-Risk Homosexual,” won the American Book Award in 2023. “Alligator Tears” builds on that momentum, trading the usual “weird Florida” clichés for something richer—an unforgiving but tender glimpse into survival, community, and the insanity of chasing the American Dream.
Already named a “Most Anticipated Book of 2025” by Paste, The Millions, and Today, “Alligator Tears” is making waves as Gomez embarks on his Florida book tour. As part of that tour, he’ll appear at Tombolo Books in St. Petersburg this week, Feb. 12 where he’ll converse with local author Tyler Gillespie. The event is free to attend.
Ahead of that visit, Creative Loafing Tampa Bay spoke with Gomez about escaping poverty, finding hope in the community, and writing his story so other queer and Latinx readers might find themselves reflected on the page.
There’s no cover to see “Alligator Tears” author Edgar Gomez in conversation with author Tyler Gillespie on Wednesday, Feb. 12 at St. Pete’s Tombolo Books. What role does Florida play in your writing? How important was it to grow up here as a writer and queer person in terms of the stories you gleaned and how you want the world to know this place? The state is no angel, especially in how it treated your story, but I also sense that you love the deeper truths about this place.
I love Florida. I can’t help it, when I think of home, I think of orange groves and Spanish moss and Pub subs and cafecitos and lovebug season and flinching before touching the steering wheel on hot summer days. I would never let the fact that there are racists and homophobes take away from my right to take up space here, too.
Growing up in Miami and Orlando, one of the things that felt most alienating to me as a child was that I never, and I mean not once, saw queer or Latinx people in my textbooks or in the books at my school library. So when I write about here, whether it’s about nights at Pulse nightclub or working at the Flip Flop Shop at the mall, I’m trying to remind queer kids that they are not alone. I want them to see themselves reflected on the page like I never was because when you don’t see yourself, you can start to feel like a freak or to believe you shouldn’t exist.
I’m honest about Florida because I don’t want to mislead people into thinking it’s perfect and has no flaws, but part of being honest for me also means writing about all the joy and beauty and community I’ve found here, too.
How did writing “Alligator Tears” compare to “High-Risk Homosexual”?
One of the biggest differences is that when I wrote my first book, “High-Risk Homosexual,” I genuinely didn’t believe it’d get published, and if by some miracle it did, that no one would read it. This time around, I knew I had an audience and felt more confident being true to myself. I wasn’t going to let anyone tell me, “Your voice isn’t literary enough, or there’s no market for stories like yours,” because the success of “High-Risk Homosexual” proved that there is.
What do you like about memoir-in-essays rather than traditional linear memoirs?
I like the essay format because I can be a little scatterbrained, so I would rather write 10 chapters that feel like mini stand-alone episodes than tell one long, drawn-out story. They also give me the ability to jump around in time and place and switch up the tone so that I can quickly go from being 12 and working at the flea market to being in my 20s and falling in love or set a whole chapter in Puerto Rico.
One of the things I love about your work is how transparent you are about what it takes to survive as a Floridian, Latinx person, and writer. I love that you show how painful and hilarious “hustling” is when you have no choice. How do you balance humor and vulnerability in your work, especially with your family, so much at the center of your stories?
I think it’s just a coping mechanism I’ve always had, something that I probably got from my mom. No matter how rough of a time we might be having, our instinct is to laugh our way through it. It’s not avoidance. It’s hard and takes a tremendous amount of work to stay hopeful. But I suppose that whenever I write a dark scene, I try to channel her. What would she say to make me laugh right now? How would she make me feel better?
I was thinking about Raven Leilani being asked about her definition of success. She said something about getting her teeth fixed. [She was actually asked about pressures she experienced while writing Luster and said, “Part of the reason I think Luster has such frantic energy is because I was writing feeling like: Please God, let this work, let this book help me be able to go to the dentist.”] What is your definition of success?
That’s funny. Me and my friends talk about our “dreams for the future,” and it’s always kind of wild how simple the things we want are: an apartment with a balcony to grow flowers, a rocking chair to sit on the balcony on, and yell at the neighborhood kids. We’re not out here fantasizing about mansions, just basic necessities and a comfort or two. Success to me is being comfortable wherever I am, not stressing about money, and having enough to share. Success to me is being comfortable wherever I am, not stressing about money, and having enough to share.
It was incredible seeing so many people show up for her. My mom has suffered a lot. She’s been very sick and had to raise me and my brother on her own, making around $20,000 a year at Starbucks. In the pandemic, when she was laid off, she’d been supporting herself (and relatives in Nicaragua) with credit cards. Those quickly added up…She’s doing a little better now. She’s on disability, and we’re figuring out how to make her living situation more sustainable. The truth is that she sacrificed so much to raise me, and it’s my turn now to figure out how to show up for her like she did for me.
One thing I wish people talked about more is how hard it is to come out of poverty when you don’t have generational wealth or a financial support system. It isn’t only about me “making it”; I need my whole family to make it. When I took the risk of being a writer, which pays hardly anything, I had to make that decision knowing that it was a little bit selfish because the more responsible thing to do was to get a stable job that would allow me to help my family. There’s pressure coming at me from all sides. I’m hoping what they say about pressure making diamonds is true.
Your work often contrasts working-class life and the empty chase of the American Dream with this deep sense of community. Does your community give you hope?
Of course. My community is everything. They’re the ones who remind me that, as overwhelming as the problems of the world feel, I’m not in this fight alone.
Does Florida deserve its absurd and surreal depictions in literature and media?
Florida is an easy punchline for a lot of people. We get so much negative attention, and I don’t totally understand why. Yes, of course, Florida has its imperfections, but so does every other state. I do believe it deserves to be interrogated and that we can’t just pretend everything is amazing here, but treating it as a complete joke is a little unoriginal for my taste.
Who are some of the writers that have influenced your voice and work?
T Kira Madden, Brontez Purnell, Janet Mock, Zora Neale Hurston, Saeed Jones. I love any writer who is uncompromising when it comes to being themselves on the page, who isn’t afraid of looking messy or sexual or vulnerable or to tell the whole honest truth.
“Alligator Tears” is named one of the most anticipated books of this year. How does that feel? What do you want readers to walk away with after reading it?
It’s a dream and feels totally surreal! I’m really grateful for all the positive attention it’s been getting, especially while queer books in Florida continue to be banned.
If you could give Baby Edgar, who works at the Flip Flop Shop, one piece of advice, what would it be?
Remember that giving service doesn’t mean you are anyone’s servant. And please, God, stop tweezing your eyebrows. You do not know what you’re doing, babe!
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This article appears in Feb 6-12, 2025.
