Poderosa y conmovedora colecci n de cuentos que abordan el feminismo, la violencia y las experiencias nicas de las mujeres caribe as en Estados Unidos.La historia de ellas, las bichotas... Y toditas ellas, unas malditas ind mitas. Desde la m s bajita hasta la m s alta, desde la m s joven hasta la anciana de p mulos altos y postura r gida que caminaba en c rculos, su cabello enrollado --as mismo, enredado y todo-- en un mo o enorme que luc a en lo alto de su corona, como una reina venida a menos, harapienta, su negr sima piel empapada de la sangre de sus hijos. Y todas ten an historias que contaban en aullidos, algunas con los dientes rechinando antes de y despu s de cada uno, otras con aquellos alaridos monstruosos escapando de entre labios escondiendo bocas vac as ya de aquellos, sus dientes de leche. Sus dientes de antes. Te lo juro. Que as eran todas. Las modernas y las prehist ricas, las capitalistas y las comunistas, las madres y las maestras con sus sacrificios eternos, todas contando el mismo cuento, aquellas bestias hermosas como las que ya no se encuentran, llam ranse Annia, Carmen, Adelaida, Natacha, Las Evas, Karen, Mayra, Teresa, Do a Minerva, o simplemente "Ella". Las mismas escenas, las mismas heridas de Pakist n a Jalisco y desde Santurce hasta la Franja de Gaza. Todas aquellas que llamaban mujeres, presas de una historia que se repet a con distintas protagonistas, como telenovela de Delia Fiallo, un patr n de costura construyendo por partes el mismo edred n hist rico. Hasta que se hartaron. Hasta que se cansaron de que les hincharan los labios y hicieran caldo callejero con los huesos de sus caderas. Hasta que se les acab la paciencia biol gica y comenz la transformaci n, por ah por el 2030 m s o menos, los colmillos convirti ndoseles en cuchillos afilados, las piernas en tijeras asesinas sujetas por un eje mortal, sus hermosos cuerpos lacerados mutando para dar paso al terrible desenlace de un mundo repleto de mujeres vueltas salvajes por hombres. ENGLISH DESCRIPTIONPowerful and moving collection of short stories that address feminism, violence, and the unique experiences of Caribbean women in the United States.
Their story, the bichotas... And all of them, every last one, damn untamed women. From the shortest to the tallest, from the youngest to the old woman with high cheekbones and a rigid posture who walked in circles, her hair coiled--tangled, just so--into an enormous bun perched atop her crown, like a fallen queen, ragged, her jet-black skin soaked in the blood of her children. And they all had stories they told in howls, some grinding their teeth before and after each one, others letting those monstrous screams escape from between lips hiding mouths already emptied of them, of their baby teeth. Their former teeth. I swear it. That's how they all were. The modern and the prehistoric, the capitalists and the communists, the mothers and the teachers with their eternal sacrifices, all telling the same tale--those beautiful beasts no longer found--whether they were called Annia, Carmen, Adelaida, Natacha, the Evas, Karen, Mayra, Teresa, Do a Minerva, or simply "She." The same scenes, the same wounds from Pakistan to Jalisco and from Santurce to the Gaza Strip. All those called women, prisoners of a history that repeated itself with different protagonists, like a Delia Fiallo soap opera, a sewing pattern piecing together the same historical quilt. Until they had had enough. Until they grew tired of having their lips swollen and their hip bones turned into street broth. Until their biological patience ran out and the transformation began--around 2030 or so--their fangs turning into sharpened knives, their legs into murderous scissors held together by a lethal axis, their beautiful, lacerated bodies mutating to give way to the terrible outcome of a world full of women made savage by men.
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