By Daisy Hernandez
A coming-of-age memoir by means of a Colombian-Cuban lady approximately shaping classes from domestic right into a new, queer life
In this lyrical, coming-of-age memoir, Daisy Hernández chronicles what the ladies in her Cuban-Colombian kin taught her approximately love, funds, and race. Her mom warns her approximately envidia and males who seduce you with pastries, whereas one tía bemoans that her niece is popping out to be “una india” rather than an American. one other auntie instructs that once individuals are shut, they're certain to develop into like uña y mugre, fingernails and grime, and that no, Daisy’s father isn't godless. He’s easily praying to a sweet dish that may be traced again to Africa.
These lessons—rooted in women’s stories of migration, colonization, y cariño—define in evocative element what it ability to develop up lady in an immigrant domestic. in a single tale, Daisy units out to defy the dictates of race and sophistication that preoccupy her mom and tías, yet courting ladies and transmen, and coming to spot as bisexual, leads her to unforeseen questions. In one other piece, NAFTA shuts neighborhood factories in her homeland at the outskirts of latest York urban, and he or she starts translating unemployment varieties for her mom and dad, relocating among English and Spanish, in addition to deepest and collective fears. In prose that's either memoir and statement, Daisy displays on reporting for the recent York occasions because the paper is rocked via the most important plagiarism scandal in its historical past and plunged into debates concerning the position of race within the newsroom.
A heartfelt exploration of family members, id, and language, A Cup of Water less than My mattress is eventually a daughter’s tale of discovering herself and her group, and of constructing a brand new, queer life.
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Candid, provocative, and disarming, this can be the widely-praised memoir of the co-discoverer of the double helix of DNA.
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Extra resources for A Cup of Water Under My Bed
That’s the way I kept score. As for the great book, who knows? It sure is a good story. ONE E arly on the morning of August 19, 1946, I was born under a clear sky after a violent summer storm to a widowed mother in the Julia Chester Hospital in Hope, a town of about six thousand in southwest Arkansas, thirty-three miles east of the Texas border at Texarkana. , one of nine children of a poor farmer in Sherman, Texas, who died when my father was seventeen. According to his sisters, my father always tried to take care of them, and he grew up to be a handsome, hardworking, fun-loving man.
She took it all out in raging tirades against my grandfather and my mother, both before and after I was born, though I was shielded from most of them. She had been a good student and ambitious, so after high school she took a correspondence course in nursing from the Chicago School of Nursing. By the time I was a toddler she was a private-duty nurse for a man not far from our house on Hervey Street. I can still remember running down the sidewalk to meet her when she came home from work. Mammaw’s main goals for me were that I would eat a lot, learn a lot, and always be neat and clean.
I don’t remember hearing about his letter, and considering all the other bullets we were dodging then, it’s possible that my staff kept it from me. Or maybe the letter was just misplaced in the mountains of mail we were receiving. Anyway, when I read about Leon, I got in touch with him and later met him and his wife, Judy, during one of my stops in northern California. We had a happy visit and since then we’ve corresponded in holiday seasons. He and I look alike, his birth certificate says his father was mine, and I wish I’d known about him a long time ago.