A glorious, powerful, heart-wrenching, and utterly spectacular memoir of youth and place from St. Cecilia, the Mother of Whores. May she rest in peace.
I loved that Cecilia wrote specifically the women in her shaped her childhood. The women who had the kind of soft power that could’ve saved her from CSA and other abuses at the hands of men, but they so often didn’t. (Except for her (good) grandmother and her best friend Juan Paulo, who was a young person himself.) Cecilia cracked open her soul and trauma to explore the breaking and building points of herself, while assuring her younger self that what she experienced was abuse and none of it was her fault. Over and over, she repeated to her younger self that she wasn’t at fault for her own abuse.
Cecilia’s vivid words painted the landscape of the Argentinian town as you got to know the various characters that populated it and how the community worked together and against itself. Some of it was funny and explored the ridiculous nature of a child making the best of what life dealt her.
While Cecilia and I have different stories, I cried multiple times reading this and resonated with her exploration of adult women failing her in childhood and about how you did everything you could to survive (even if was ill-advised, dangerous, over-the-top, or otherwise not your fault). I believe there is something specific that Cecilia describes about the abandonment of queer children to the wolves by adult cishet women, often family members,. Cecilia’s knowing this in herself is one the many reasons she connected and made such an incredible difference in many queer and trans people’s lives. She mothered so many trans people, especially women, in the most joyous moments of our lives as we broke away to become who we are. I wish she had lived to write a sequel about that joy and pain of her adult life.