Ironworker and housing activist.
Patriarch of the Sorro clan
Loving husband of Huli,
Proud father of Giulio, Joachin, Desu,
Daphne, Django, two stepchildren and ten grandchildren.
A father’s tawny love and mellow wonder
You felt for all living working and everyday people.
Your family extended far beyond the limits of your blood-line.
Bill wasn’t simple, wasn’t complex
But real, solid and RIGHT THERE.
He wasn’t “in your face”—
And yet he WAS “in your face”.
Always expressive and appreciative
Of the life around you.
At the Tule Lake Pilgrimage
I remember Bill and Al Robles sitting side by side
Brown faces bent over piano keys of ivory and ebony
Banging out duets—
Your fingers and voices lost in a maelstrom of fun, smiles and laughter.
Jazz standards, soul hits….and the blues.
Brown, black and yellow sprays of
Erupting radiating patterns of music, art and culture.
A glint in your eye laughing WITH the rest of the world.
All of us grieve for you but
As the songs says of Che Guevara—
“Con plomo lloraran”……
The struggle will continue in your memory,
In truth we will try to “live like Bill”—like you.
Your many small reflex acts of friendship and love were like
Sweet spring water for our collective parched thirsts.
An alcoholic of the peoples love
Your words rise in deep river currents of wise time, teaching and respect.
A golden brown summer of union struggle,
And you better believe it of cold ironworker winters too.
I remember your visits to Japantown,
At the National Japanese American Historical Society where I volunteered---
Your personal touch,
Your brotherly love,
Asking:
“How Yamamoto was.”
Our trips to Manzanar
With Al, Bob, Tony and Shirley.
Listening to CD’s in the rented car during our journey
Along the American River and down highway 395.
Your eye now jaundiced against the idiot George Bush.
You were yet another strong broad-shouldered Phillippine carabao
On whose back the people rode.
Bill had a hot red indignation
Towards U.S. neo-colonialism in the Phillippines.
Your fist shaking at the bi-plane of capitalism
Crop-dusting toxic pesticides on the laboring farmworkers of the world below.
A strong clear consistent voice now stilled in the dry chest cough of death.
You loved chicken adobo, lasagne and companionship
When you met people you connected—immediately
With a Neruda-like genuine feeling.
Bill Sorro.
MAKIBAKA!!!!
