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Las biuty queens
Una voz única en la literatura latinoamericana actual que sacude, con un mordaz talento narrativo, la escena trans de Nueva York.
Con una mirada descarada y honesta, Iván Monalisa Ojeda se sumerge en el universo travesti de las calles neoyorquinas. Los cuentos de este libro narran su vida y la de sus compañeras, transexuales latinoamericanas que hacen la calle, fuman crystal meth, participan en concursos de belleza, buscan clientes sobre altísimos tacones y son víctimas de las nuevas políticas de inmigración de Trump. Un mundo donde la risa, la supervivencia, la muerte y el amor se entreveran en una ciudad que fascina y acorrala a las protagonistas.
El talento narrativo de Iván Monalisa Ojeda, que juega con una lengua callejera llena de ritmo, libertad y frescura, lo sitúa como una voz sorprendente y particular en la literatura latinoamericana actual.
Con una mirada descarada y honesta, Iván Monalisa Ojeda se sumerge en el universo travesti de las calles neoyorquinas. Los cuentos de este libro narran su vida y la de sus compañeras, transexuales latinoamericanas que hacen la calle, fuman crystal meth, participan en concursos de belleza, buscan clientes sobre altísimos tacones y son víctimas de las nuevas políticas de inmigración de Trump. Un mundo donde la risa, la supervivencia, la muerte y el amor se entreveran en una ciudad que fascina y acorrala a las protagonistas.
El talento narrativo de Iván Monalisa Ojeda, que juega con una lengua callejera llena de ritmo, libertad y frescura, lo sitúa como una voz sorprendente y particular en la literatura latinoamericana actual.
128 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2019
24 people are currently reading
1395 people want to read
About the author
Iván Monalisa Ojeda
4 books25 followersIván Monalisa nació a fines de los sesenta en el sur de Chile y creció a orillas del lago Llanquihue. Estudió Teatro en la Universidad de Chile, en Santiago, y terminada su licenciatura se instaló en Nueva York, donde vive actualmente. Allí es donde vio nacer a la Monalisa, artista transgénero Two Spirit. Publicó, el libro de cuentos La misma nota, forever (2014) y ha escrito artículos para revistas y piezas teatrales. Hoy se encuentra escribiendo su primer texto en inglés, el drama Waiting for the Night. Además de escritor, es performer.
Iván Monalisa Ojeda was born in the late sixties in southern Chile and grew up on the shores of Lake Llanquihue. He/she studied theater at the University of Chile, in Santiago, and when he/she got his/her degree, Iván Monalisa settled in New York, where he/she currently lives. He/she published an essay collection, La Misma Nota, Forever (Sangria Publishers, 2014) and has written articles for magazines and plays. In addition to being a writer, he/she is a performer and is at work on a novel. Iván Monalisa's preferred pronouns are he/she, his/hers, him/her because he/she considers him/herself to be both genders.
Iván Monalisa Ojeda was born in the late sixties in southern Chile and grew up on the shores of Lake Llanquihue. He/she studied theater at the University of Chile, in Santiago, and when he/she got his/her degree, Iván Monalisa settled in New York, where he/she currently lives. He/she published an essay collection, La Misma Nota, Forever (Sangria Publishers, 2014) and has written articles for magazines and plays. In addition to being a writer, he/she is a performer and is at work on a novel. Iván Monalisa's preferred pronouns are he/she, his/hers, him/her because he/she considers him/herself to be both genders.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 119 reviews
December 21, 2021
Hermoso, hermoso, hermoso libro. Ahora que vivo en NYC conocí a Monalisa porque élla también vive acá. Vi su película. Mi compañera de casa es su amiga. Compré el libro en Madrid y al fin pude leerlo. Es tan hermoso. Supongo que la literatura se trata de historias de la vida, de lo que sucede a las personas por habitar la tierra en un determinado tiempo. Y ese habitar es diferente. Monalisa es travesti o drag queen, prostituta, vieja, chilena, migrante, gay, latina, artista. Y pese a que yo no calzo con exactitud con todas esas etiquetas, sí calzo en las emociones. Porque igual que Monalisa, me enamoro, tengo rabia, la vida me chutea, a veces lloro y siempre adoro a mis amigas. Este libro es sobre la sororidad entre locas. Y tiene algo de Lemebel, por el lenguaje que ensambla el binarismo. La Manuel, la Fernando, se llaman los personajes, como cuando Lemebel decía "eres mío niña". También porque está escrito desde el universo proleta, flaite, pobre, popular. La Monalisa vive en Manhattan, pero en un project. Usa anteojos de sol Versace, pero piratas. Y jala coca como quien toma agua. Me gusta de la prosa de Iván Monalisa Ojeda que usa ese binarismo lemebeliano, pero también que usa espanglish. Entonces dice "nos metimos al building" o "caminamos uptown". Mezcla el inglés contextual de la ciudad de Nueva York con su español, que además, me parece el español más original que he leído en el último tiempo. No habla en chileno aunque usa chilenismos. Lo que hace la Mona es construir un español a retazos de todos los españoles que se hablan acá, en NYC. Entonces es boricua, es español de España, es mexicano y es colombiano. Dice "cargando una bandeja de emparedados". Si en Chile alguien escribiera así sonaría cursi, ridículo, de traducción forzada de TV cable. Pero no suena feo con la Mona, porque ella es todas las lenguas de Latinoamérica a la vez. La estructura de las historias también me gustó. Historias redonditas, cerradas. Cada última escena de cada cuento o relato es una reflexión amorosa sobre el vínculo, sobre amar, sobre estar viva. Belleza. Totalmente recomendando. Conocerla a la Monalisa es de las cosas buenas que me han pasado estando acá. Frases lindas que destaqué:
"Los boricuas son ciudadanos".
"No sé cómo tan pocos pueden controlar a tantos".
"Nunca me ha gustado mirarle la cara a los muertos".
"Somos mariposas nocturnas en pleno Times Square".
"Cuando cae la noche ni las sombras son una compañía".
"Con esa luz que se parece a la del recuerdo".
"Ese maldito Trump me recordaba a Pinochet".
"El buen tiempo dura tan poco".
"Fue un silencio de esos que anteceden al recuerdo".
Y mi compañera de casa me dijo: ¿estás leyendo a la Mona? Me gusta su prosa, es como la tuya, simple, limpia, orgánica, directa. Sí, pensé yo, así es. Leer a Monalisa me recordó cuál es mi forma de escribir y que hay que evadir toda pretensión. Lo leí y pensé: yo puedo hacer esto. Y necesitaba mucho sentirme así, confiar en que el arte simplemente es sentir algo y expresarlo. Como salga. Ser lo que haya que ser. Como una loca Monalisa que se libera para ser lo que quiere ser.
"Los boricuas son ciudadanos".
"No sé cómo tan pocos pueden controlar a tantos".
"Nunca me ha gustado mirarle la cara a los muertos".
"Somos mariposas nocturnas en pleno Times Square".
"Cuando cae la noche ni las sombras son una compañía".
"Con esa luz que se parece a la del recuerdo".
"Ese maldito Trump me recordaba a Pinochet".
"El buen tiempo dura tan poco".
"Fue un silencio de esos que anteceden al recuerdo".
Y mi compañera de casa me dijo: ¿estás leyendo a la Mona? Me gusta su prosa, es como la tuya, simple, limpia, orgánica, directa. Sí, pensé yo, así es. Leer a Monalisa me recordó cuál es mi forma de escribir y que hay que evadir toda pretensión. Lo leí y pensé: yo puedo hacer esto. Y necesitaba mucho sentirme así, confiar en que el arte simplemente es sentir algo y expresarlo. Como salga. Ser lo que haya que ser. Como una loca Monalisa que se libera para ser lo que quiere ser.
May 1, 2021
This is a short book comprising brief slice-of-life sketches that feel more like lightly fictionalised memoir rather than stories as such. Ojeda offers up an enticing view of a close-knit Latinx trans community living in New York, and existing on the edge between bar/club jobs, sex work, decaying tenement buildings, being hauled in by the police and even brief stints in prison.
The writing is even and undramatic even when the narrator is in the throes of a drug-fuelled panic attack and there are flashes of wit: 'my make-up had worn off, with the exception of my waterproof mascara. I hadn't spent those ten dollars in vain' (um, brand, please?!)
There is darkness here ('Jennifer was a trans woman from Honduras and she was castrated. Some thought that's why she was murdered... those murders were part of what it means to be a trans woman in New York. I'd add that it was part of the life of a sex worker'), but there's also also support, friendship and acute resilience. The carnations that mark Jennifer's death stand out as markers of how beauty might co-exist with ugliness, fear and violence, and the book ends with a similar ebullience that might temporarily erase the sadness from which it springs: 'we laugh and we dance until the sun goes down. From a distance, we must look like a coven of multicoloured witches.'
Many thanks to W&N for an ARC via NetGalley
The writing is even and undramatic even when the narrator is in the throes of a drug-fuelled panic attack and there are flashes of wit: 'my make-up had worn off, with the exception of my waterproof mascara. I hadn't spent those ten dollars in vain' (um, brand, please?!)
There is darkness here ('Jennifer was a trans woman from Honduras and she was castrated. Some thought that's why she was murdered... those murders were part of what it means to be a trans woman in New York. I'd add that it was part of the life of a sex worker'), but there's also also support, friendship and acute resilience. The carnations that mark Jennifer's death stand out as markers of how beauty might co-exist with ugliness, fear and violence, and the book ends with a similar ebullience that might temporarily erase the sadness from which it springs: 'we laugh and we dance until the sun goes down. From a distance, we must look like a coven of multicoloured witches.'
Many thanks to W&N for an ARC via NetGalley
August 19, 2020
Iván Monalisa es performista, escritor y se define como transgénero two-spirit.
No la conocía hasta que un día llegué a su instagram y vi algunos videos. Meses después me topé con Las Biuty Queens y cuando la leí, su voz sonando en mi cabeza.
El libro es está compuesto por capítulos (o cuentos?) que relatan las anécdotas y vivencias de esta loca latina y sus compañeras que llegaron buscando mejores oportunidades a la gran Nueva York. Prostitución, transformismo, travestis, droga, cárcel, penurias, amores y muertes son parte de las vidas de este aquelarre dd "brujas multicolores".
Por el uso indistinto del pronombre masculino/femenino, al principio creí que su narración sería similar a la de Pedro Lemebel, pero no. Es todo lo contrario. Aquí no hay lenguaje barroco, descripciones extensas ni poesía. Iván Monalisa es directo, dice lo que tiene que decir con las palabras precisas, ni más ni menos. Su lenguaje es claro y ágil. Utiliza un spanglish-latino-neutro que me pareció original y me sacó varias sonrisas.
.
Hay un documental que cuenta su vida, llamado "El viaje de Monalisa". Aún no he podido verlo, pero me encantaría.
No la conocía hasta que un día llegué a su instagram y vi algunos videos. Meses después me topé con Las Biuty Queens y cuando la leí, su voz sonando en mi cabeza.
El libro es está compuesto por capítulos (o cuentos?) que relatan las anécdotas y vivencias de esta loca latina y sus compañeras que llegaron buscando mejores oportunidades a la gran Nueva York. Prostitución, transformismo, travestis, droga, cárcel, penurias, amores y muertes son parte de las vidas de este aquelarre dd "brujas multicolores".
Por el uso indistinto del pronombre masculino/femenino, al principio creí que su narración sería similar a la de Pedro Lemebel, pero no. Es todo lo contrario. Aquí no hay lenguaje barroco, descripciones extensas ni poesía. Iván Monalisa es directo, dice lo que tiene que decir con las palabras precisas, ni más ni menos. Su lenguaje es claro y ágil. Utiliza un spanglish-latino-neutro que me pareció original y me sacó varias sonrisas.
.
Hay un documental que cuenta su vida, llamado "El viaje de Monalisa". Aún no he podido verlo, pero me encantaría.
July 17, 2019
“Las biuty queens” recopila historias de la comunidad latina trans en el Nueva York del cambio de siglo. Están hiladas gracias a la voz de Monalisa, una trabajadora sexual chilena, que recorre las calles de Manhattan visitando a sus amigas y recordando con ellas anécdotas, peripecias y tragedias que les han convertido en quienes hoy son. El tono es, a priori, bastante sórdido, pero está contado desde una perspectiva tan respetuosa, tan cariñosa y tan tierna que te hace entender (y querer) a esta panda de supervivientes.
El libro está escrito con una mezcla de idiomas y acentos que solo puede darse en la gran manzana. Aunque a priori esto puede parece que dificulta la lectura, en realidad sirve para colorear las calles, los retratos y las conversaciones: es precioso ver como en un mismo párrafo Monalisa puede pasar del español al inglés aderezando esa mezcla con expresiones puertorriqueñas, dominicanas o mexicanas.
La melancolía del emigrante, la cocina como elemento de identidad, las identidad de cada barrio, los sueños de futuro de las personas trans y la capacidad de sobreponerse a unas condiciones difíciles de vida son varios de los temas esenciales de un libro que, bajo una apariencia frívola, cuenta cosas muy interesantes.
Monalisa es una gran contadora de historias. En su voz Nueva York y sus amigas son tu propia ciudad, tu propia familia. La autora tiene una gran capacidad para retratar a sus personajes y ha despertado en mí un gran interés por seguir su variadísima obra.
El libro está escrito con una mezcla de idiomas y acentos que solo puede darse en la gran manzana. Aunque a priori esto puede parece que dificulta la lectura, en realidad sirve para colorear las calles, los retratos y las conversaciones: es precioso ver como en un mismo párrafo Monalisa puede pasar del español al inglés aderezando esa mezcla con expresiones puertorriqueñas, dominicanas o mexicanas.
La melancolía del emigrante, la cocina como elemento de identidad, las identidad de cada barrio, los sueños de futuro de las personas trans y la capacidad de sobreponerse a unas condiciones difíciles de vida son varios de los temas esenciales de un libro que, bajo una apariencia frívola, cuenta cosas muy interesantes.
Monalisa es una gran contadora de historias. En su voz Nueva York y sus amigas son tu propia ciudad, tu propia familia. La autora tiene una gran capacidad para retratar a sus personajes y ha despertado en mí un gran interés por seguir su variadísima obra.
May 25, 2021
Here's the thing about Las Biuty Queens: if the community it represents matters to you, you'll want to read it; if you're looking for a "literary experience," it's going to let you down. The premise for this book grabbed me right away—and I'd been eagerly awaiting the approach of the publication date so I could read and review it. The pre-publication description describes Las Biuty Queens as "an irreverent, honest and full-throated love song to New York City from the perspective of a group of trans Latinx immigrant friends who walk the streets, smoke crystal meth, compete in beauty contests, look for clients on their impossibly high heels, and fall prey to increasingly cruel immigration policies." That much is true. If you're interested in the intersection of trans identity/sex work/immigration law, you'll find this book fascinating.
What I feel compelled to quibble about is the latter part of Las Biuty Queens' title: Stories. These pieces provide a rich look into the realities of a community that's very much underrepresented in current writing, but its contents aren't so much stories as vignettes or fictionalized excerpts from a memoir. They don't have the kind of arc one expects from stories. They start; they go on for a while; they stop. There weren't any moments when I found myself moving at increasing speed because I wanted to see how a plot would develop or how a character would transform over time.
If you want to begin getting to know to know the trans/Latinx/undocumented/sex worker population of New York City—or if you're part of that community looking to see your experiences reflected in print—this title is a great place to begin, but it won't work for those looking for a more carefully structured literary experience.
I received a free electronic review copy of this title from the publisher via EdelweissPlus; the opinions are my own.
What I feel compelled to quibble about is the latter part of Las Biuty Queens' title: Stories. These pieces provide a rich look into the realities of a community that's very much underrepresented in current writing, but its contents aren't so much stories as vignettes or fictionalized excerpts from a memoir. They don't have the kind of arc one expects from stories. They start; they go on for a while; they stop. There weren't any moments when I found myself moving at increasing speed because I wanted to see how a plot would develop or how a character would transform over time.
If you want to begin getting to know to know the trans/Latinx/undocumented/sex worker population of New York City—or if you're part of that community looking to see your experiences reflected in print—this title is a great place to begin, but it won't work for those looking for a more carefully structured literary experience.
I received a free electronic review copy of this title from the publisher via EdelweissPlus; the opinions are my own.
June 3, 2019
No es un libro muy relevante. El estilo narrativo no me convenció mucho pues lo encontré medio desabrido. La crítica me había levantado bastante las expectativas al respecto, pero este cuentario no dio la talla.
Por otro lado, los relatos son entretenidos e interesantes. Aprecio que sean lecturas fáciles sobre el imaginario travesti. El primer cuento es el más rico en términos narrativos, no sé quién lo puso en esa complicada posición.
Por otro lado, los relatos son entretenidos e interesantes. Aprecio que sean lecturas fáciles sobre el imaginario travesti. El primer cuento es el más rico en términos narrativos, no sé quién lo puso en esa complicada posición.
June 27, 2022
This kinda grew on me, but I'm not sure how I feel about it.
Las Biuty Queens is a book of short stories that may be personal narratives from the author (the book is listed as fiction, but with experiences of the author as the stories, so I'm not sure exactly what genre they would be classified as).
One of the things that I had trouble with at the beginning of this book was the way certain vocabulary was used without much explanation for the reader, if the reader is not a trans Latina woman. In particular, the terms "queens" and "locas" were never explained, but were used a lot. "Queens" was easy enough to get some of a grasp on, although I imagine there is more to the concept than just that of drag queens. "Locas," on the other hand, was not explained. Without context, I struggle to see how this title loosely translating to "crazy women" fits the women in these stories. As a cisgender and non Latina reader, I would have appreciated a little more context around these words and the general concepts.
I'm not sure if it was the language specifically, but I initially found the flow of the stories a bit hard to grasp. It has been a while since I've read any memoirs that are a series of interconnected short stories rather than surrounding a single event, but at first I felt a little lost in terms of what was actually going on in each story. It wasn't until I started noticing recurring characters other than the author's own character that the stories started making sense, and I was able to see a bigger picture. This is why I say the book grew on me.
As for the characters themselves, they were fairly flat and none of them had a distinct enough personality that I can remember much of it a week after reading, while writing this review.
Honestly I feel like this iteration of Las Biuty Queens is a good first draft of a book, but it needs a lot more work before it's actually at the point it wants to be, especially for readers who are not trans Latina woman.
Maybe it works better in its original Spanish?
Disclaimer:
Las Biuty Queens is a book of short stories that may be personal narratives from the author (the book is listed as fiction, but with experiences of the author as the stories, so I'm not sure exactly what genre they would be classified as).
One of the things that I had trouble with at the beginning of this book was the way certain vocabulary was used without much explanation for the reader, if the reader is not a trans Latina woman. In particular, the terms "queens" and "locas" were never explained, but were used a lot. "Queens" was easy enough to get some of a grasp on, although I imagine there is more to the concept than just that of drag queens. "Locas," on the other hand, was not explained. Without context, I struggle to see how this title loosely translating to "crazy women" fits the women in these stories. As a cisgender and non Latina reader, I would have appreciated a little more context around these words and the general concepts.
I'm not sure if it was the language specifically, but I initially found the flow of the stories a bit hard to grasp. It has been a while since I've read any memoirs that are a series of interconnected short stories rather than surrounding a single event, but at first I felt a little lost in terms of what was actually going on in each story. It wasn't until I started noticing recurring characters other than the author's own character that the stories started making sense, and I was able to see a bigger picture. This is why I say the book grew on me.
As for the characters themselves, they were fairly flat and none of them had a distinct enough personality that I can remember much of it a week after reading, while writing this review.
Honestly I feel like this iteration of Las Biuty Queens is a good first draft of a book, but it needs a lot more work before it's actually at the point it wants to be, especially for readers who are not trans Latina woman.
Maybe it works better in its original Spanish?
Disclaimer:
March 18, 2019
En general, los cuentos de Las biuty queens me parecieron bien armados, entretenidos, a pesar (a veces, debido a) de algunos de los temas que tocan, y variados en tono, algo difícil de lograr considerando que todos se cuentan desde el punto de vista del mismo personaje, Monalisa, un travesti chileno que vive en Nueva York, y describe sus vivencias y las de sus conocidas en el mundo de la prostitución, las drogas y la marginalidad adicional que implica para algunas de ellas ser inmigrantes ilegales.
Pero a mi juicio (y enfatizo que esta es una opinión personal) falta algo que haga de esta colección algo memorable. Quizás el haberse quedado en la superficie de varias historias que merecían más tiempo en pantalla. Ahondar poco en vidas quebradas. Una mirada muy ligera de la situación en la que vive la protagonista.
El volumen tiene varios puntos altos:
- El aprendizaje de la primera vez en la cárcel y la sorpresa de encontrar una mano amiga incluso en esas circunstancias ("En el bote")
- La muerte que siempre baila cerca de quienes viven en la marginalidad de la prostitución, y el recuerdo de los muertos, en "Los claveles de Jennifer".
- La salvación que no llega del todo en "Emergency room".
- Los recuerdos de vidas anteriores y la necesidad de no juzgar las vidas de los demás, porque nunca sabremos por todo lo que han pasado ("La gallina y sus pollitos").
- La soledad tanto mejor enfrentada cuando hay amigos cerca, en "El casamiento de Sabrina"
De todas formas recomendable, porque muestra una pluma fresca dentro de lo escrito por chilenos este último tiempo. Más que literatura queer, cuentos bien hechos y que me dejan esperando lo próximo que pueda presentar esta Monalisa criolla.
Pero a mi juicio (y enfatizo que esta es una opinión personal) falta algo que haga de esta colección algo memorable. Quizás el haberse quedado en la superficie de varias historias que merecían más tiempo en pantalla. Ahondar poco en vidas quebradas. Una mirada muy ligera de la situación en la que vive la protagonista.
El volumen tiene varios puntos altos:
- El aprendizaje de la primera vez en la cárcel y la sorpresa de encontrar una mano amiga incluso en esas circunstancias ("En el bote")
- La muerte que siempre baila cerca de quienes viven en la marginalidad de la prostitución, y el recuerdo de los muertos, en "Los claveles de Jennifer".
- La salvación que no llega del todo en "Emergency room".
- Los recuerdos de vidas anteriores y la necesidad de no juzgar las vidas de los demás, porque nunca sabremos por todo lo que han pasado ("La gallina y sus pollitos").
- La soledad tanto mejor enfrentada cuando hay amigos cerca, en "El casamiento de Sabrina"
De todas formas recomendable, porque muestra una pluma fresca dentro de lo escrito por chilenos este último tiempo. Más que literatura queer, cuentos bien hechos y que me dejan esperando lo próximo que pueda presentar esta Monalisa criolla.
October 16, 2024
Esperaba menos del libro. Algo que me gustara o que me interesara, pero no que me enterneciera, que se trata de cuestiones diferentes. Pero esta es la cuestión. Estas travestis se tratan de loca, nena, regia, amiga, loquis. Y es como si escuchara mi amigo Guille muy cerca de mi oído. Estas locas se quieren como nadie y no puedo evitar sentir envidia por su amistad. Estas nenas consumen demasiadas drogas y no puedo evitar preguntarme si tendrán algo de razón. Estas regias caminan por calles que una vez caminé y no puedo evitar preguntarme si lo desaproveché todo. Estas loquis se acuestan con hombres con los que honestamente me acostaría yo. Y existe una escena. Esa escena en donde dejan a una de estas locas nenas regias amigas loquis plantada justo antes de su matrimonio, una ceremonia en la playa, y la travesti en cuestión, abandonada por un hombre como todos, se tira un saque de cocaína, toma de una botella cara de tequila y se pone a bailar al son de una canción kitsh que sale de un celular con sus amigas, en la arena, mientras el velo de novia se lo lleva el viento. Entonces, ¿cómo no me va a enternecer este libro?
October 16, 2024
Una mezcla de Sosa Villada y Lemebel.
January 21, 2020
Leer las biuty queens es como ver POSE (gran serie), te lleva de la mano a Nueva York y a la vida de muchas mujeres trans y muchos travestis, mucho alcohol, drogas también, pero sobretodo a muchas lentejuelas y con mucho espanglish.
Es muy fácil de leer y a pesar de la tragedia te saca más de una sonrisa porque el estilo de Monalisa es ese, ver lo “biuty” a pesar de lo difícil que es ser chileno, ilegal, adicto, pobre y travesti.
“A pesar de tanta amenaza terrorista, yo me siento segura en Nueva York”.
Es muy fácil de leer y a pesar de la tragedia te saca más de una sonrisa porque el estilo de Monalisa es ese, ver lo “biuty” a pesar de lo difícil que es ser chileno, ilegal, adicto, pobre y travesti.
“A pesar de tanta amenaza terrorista, yo me siento segura en Nueva York”.
June 9, 2021
Thanks to partners, @bibliolifestyle and @astrahousebooks for the gifted copy.
Las Biuty Queens by Ivan Monalisa Ojeda is a book of short stories about Trans Latinx sex workers in NYC. I was immediately captivated by Ivan Monalisa's voice. The way he/she created such a strong, personal narrative with dark humor and NYC flair really gives this book a unique perspective and appeal. I was taken on an emotional roller coaster. I was really taken deep into Ojeda's mind and it showed me how his/her dark humor is what has been their survival mechanism.
Each story introduces one of Ojeda's friends or an event that has transpired of tragic proportions. My heart couldn't help but split open because of some of the things that transpired. This novel gave me more insight into the issues that trans people face, such as poverty, addiction, abuse, violence, homelessness, and discrimination. I see more clearly how the system continues to fail them when they are murdered, face mental health and substance abuse issues and are undocumented in some cases. When a trans person is also involved in sex work, the system is even more cruel and treats them as if their humanity does not have value.
I devoured this book in a day and a half because I was so invested in Ivan and his/her friends. I was taken on a journey through parts of NYC I thought I knew very well. Ivan makes you "see" his/her friends and you will be unable to look away. You are forced to reckon with how society deems people as others and judges their worth. The camaraderie that Ivan has made on the streets of NYC transcends gender, ethnicity and class. Ivan's heart is on display at all times and the way he/she fiercely advocates for his/herself is admirable. Ivan's unique style of storytelling leaves me not only excited to see what the future holds for Ivan but also motivated to continue to advocate for sustainable change for trans people, especially BIPOC ones.
Bookdragon rating 4.5 🔥
Las Biuty Queens by Ivan Monalisa Ojeda is a book of short stories about Trans Latinx sex workers in NYC. I was immediately captivated by Ivan Monalisa's voice. The way he/she created such a strong, personal narrative with dark humor and NYC flair really gives this book a unique perspective and appeal. I was taken on an emotional roller coaster. I was really taken deep into Ojeda's mind and it showed me how his/her dark humor is what has been their survival mechanism.
Each story introduces one of Ojeda's friends or an event that has transpired of tragic proportions. My heart couldn't help but split open because of some of the things that transpired. This novel gave me more insight into the issues that trans people face, such as poverty, addiction, abuse, violence, homelessness, and discrimination. I see more clearly how the system continues to fail them when they are murdered, face mental health and substance abuse issues and are undocumented in some cases. When a trans person is also involved in sex work, the system is even more cruel and treats them as if their humanity does not have value.
I devoured this book in a day and a half because I was so invested in Ivan and his/her friends. I was taken on a journey through parts of NYC I thought I knew very well. Ivan makes you "see" his/her friends and you will be unable to look away. You are forced to reckon with how society deems people as others and judges their worth. The camaraderie that Ivan has made on the streets of NYC transcends gender, ethnicity and class. Ivan's heart is on display at all times and the way he/she fiercely advocates for his/herself is admirable. Ivan's unique style of storytelling leaves me not only excited to see what the future holds for Ivan but also motivated to continue to advocate for sustainable change for trans people, especially BIPOC ones.
Bookdragon rating 4.5 🔥
October 17, 2024
Entretenido, liviano, positivo, una buena mirada a la inmigración latina en Estados Unidos.
October 3, 2019
Me ha parecido agradable de leer, aunque tiene una estructura que no suele gustarme demasiado, y es la de capítulos independientes, donde no hay una trama general, ni un crecimiento de los personajes, sino diferentes momentos e historias que van sucediéndose para ilustrar una realidad, en este caso, la vida de las prostitutas transexuales y travestís en Nueva York.
A pesar del contexto, no es un libro sórdido, sino que se narra en un tono positivo, simpático, especialmente en sus diálogos, en los que, además, el autor hace constantemente una mezcla muy cómica del inglés y el español (un rasgo muy propio de la comunidad latina en NY).
Esperaba un poco más, pero no está mal. Además es muy cortito, se lee en dos días.
3 y 1/5
A pesar del contexto, no es un libro sórdido, sino que se narra en un tono positivo, simpático, especialmente en sus diálogos, en los que, además, el autor hace constantemente una mezcla muy cómica del inglés y el español (un rasgo muy propio de la comunidad latina en NY).
Esperaba un poco más, pero no está mal. Además es muy cortito, se lee en dos días.
3 y 1/5
April 17, 2020
Es un libro que da cuenta de una realidad interesantísima, sin embargo, el estilo no me convenció del todo.
September 4, 2021
"As Angie Xtravaganza, the mother of Xtravaganza House, said, those murders were part of what it meant to be a transsexual woman in New York. I'd add that it was part of the life of a sex worker right before the turn of the millennium and the fall of the Twin Towers. It didn't matter to anyone what happened to people like us."
This is a short but impactful collection of stories from Iván Monalisa Ojeda, documenting his/her experiences as an undocumented Latinx trans sex worker living in New York. It's his/her second collection of short stories, focusing on his/her experiences in prison after being arrested for prostitution, losing friends, the sense of community and family among the queer immigrant community, and the hopes and dreams of the group of friends.
It's really impactful, I just wish it were longer.
Graciously received via Netgalley.
This is a short but impactful collection of stories from Iván Monalisa Ojeda, documenting his/her experiences as an undocumented Latinx trans sex worker living in New York. It's his/her second collection of short stories, focusing on his/her experiences in prison after being arrested for prostitution, losing friends, the sense of community and family among the queer immigrant community, and the hopes and dreams of the group of friends.
It's really impactful, I just wish it were longer.
Graciously received via Netgalley.
April 5, 2024
I feel that calling this a short story collection is a little misleading. The book read more like a memoir that Ojeda wrote while taking some creative liberties. I really appreciated that Ojeda gave the reader a close look into the Latine trans community in NYC and all the joys and perils that they have faced. Unfortunately, though, I didn't feel particularly engaged by the writing, in part because the stories just flew by without giving the reader much chance to sit with them.
September 12, 2021
Just a charming rollercoaster of emotions, hop on for a ride, it's less than 200 pages, you'll probably enjoy it.
January 16, 2025
This had a nice balance of showing some hard realities of sex work, drugs, being trans etc but also showing some funny moments and strong friendship!
April 21, 2024
This was an interesting story collection of the queer, trans, immigrant, and Latinx communities. Great snapshot of being human.
Read
July 6, 2023Beautiful, fabulous, grave, and profound.
June 23, 2021
"A lo lejos debemos parecer un aquelarre de brujas multicolores" así termina este libro. Entre recuerdos, plumas, noches, barras y pases desfilan personajes coloridos y otros no tanto. Hay momentos en los que sientes compasión y otros en los que te partes de la risa, pero sin duda es una lectura de la que no sales invicta.
November 2, 2021
Gorgeous and tragic and poetic and moving, all at the same time. I loved this peek into the lives of queens, trans folx, and minority queers in NYC.
May 16, 2021
Muy entretenido de leer. Muy lindo ver el acompañamiento y familiaridad que genera la comunidad trans, cómo se cuidan, cómo se quieren, cómo se tienen!
June 8, 2021
I received this ARC from NetGalley in return for an honest review:
Raw and unfiltered, this beautifully-written short story collection gives voice and value to an often overlooked population: trans Latinx sexworkers.
And there is so much joy to be found in these interwoven stories, especially in the friendships between each of the girls, filled with unabashed generosity, and often transcending time and distance.
But it also brings to light the reality that discrimination towards this community is still a massive problem.
Reading about how abuse and even murder of trans sexworkers is the expectation rather than the exception is more than unsettling. And that needs to change.
I would highly suggest reading this work for yourself, and donating to a charity like Butterfly: Asian and Migrant Sex Workers Support Network if you are in a position to do so.
Raw and unfiltered, this beautifully-written short story collection gives voice and value to an often overlooked population: trans Latinx sexworkers.
And there is so much joy to be found in these interwoven stories, especially in the friendships between each of the girls, filled with unabashed generosity, and often transcending time and distance.
But it also brings to light the reality that discrimination towards this community is still a massive problem.
Reading about how abuse and even murder of trans sexworkers is the expectation rather than the exception is more than unsettling. And that needs to change.
I would highly suggest reading this work for yourself, and donating to a charity like Butterfly: Asian and Migrant Sex Workers Support Network if you are in a position to do so.
December 7, 2021
There is a narrative that pervades the New York City mythos: that, through the late 90s and into the 2000s, Rudolph Giuliani had either cleaned the city of its grime (according to those of a more tough-on-crime persuasion) or sanitized it of its vibrancy. Both perspectives espouse a sort of inevitability, a message of revisionism that envisages a New York permanently transformed. Where porno theatres once stood: now an Olive Garden—a Times Square Red, a Times Square Blue. Gone are the prostitutes walking the streets, the crude sex shops inescapable from the images of even a banal, consumer-friendly mass culture (turn on Seinfeld or Harry Met Sally, and they’re there). Such was the ubiquity of the sex culture of New York. And now it’s gone: that dirtier, seedier image reduced to a nostalgium, an “isn’t it crazy?” how the city had so thoroughly completed its metamorphosis into a playground of the haut-bourgeois. Both these narratives, of progress or of erasure, bottle this culture of sex work, violence and joy into a diorama of the past, ignoring its ongoing existence into an ongoing present shared with the visible culture. And indeed this perception, the historicizing of sex work, can and often does pose many problems for its participants—sex workers, almost always gay, transgender, black, or latinx—who must fight against a dual perception that they are simultaneously objects of litter, pollution to be sanitized, and somehow already disappeared.
Ivàn Monalisa Ojeda, in his/her (Ojeda uses both pronouns) debut short story collection Las Biuty Queens aims to challenge this presentist revisionism. Through 13 vignettes of the lives of New York City sex workers, all trans or Latinx or immigrants, Ojeda reminds us that his/her New York, some place darker and grimier and more joyous and vibrant, still, survives. Las Biuty Queens, spanning the course of over 20 years, is not a historical fiction but a decisively present one. Much of the collection’s chronology draws from Ojeda’s personal history, having immigrated (undocumented) to New York City from his/her native Chile. The stories of incarceration, lost loved ones, addictions, and bad boyfriends all circulate around a fictional “Monalisa,” who takes after Ojeda’s own experiences as a transgender sex worker living on the fringes (Monalisa, ungendered in the collection, will hereafter be referred to with he/she pronouns). The geography of the city should feel familiar—from Washington Heights down to 14th Street; but Ojeda’s cast of characters (many recurring throughout the stories) carry a very spectral quality: ghostly, as if floating in a parallel existence invisible to those unable or unwilling to see.
Temporally, Ojeda tends to contain Monalisa’s exploits to the late-night hours between 10pm and 4am—somewhat unsurprising for stories of sex workers. But he/she largely avoids the sordid nightlife generally ascribed to the prostitutes and street walkers of mainstream depictions. There’s an almost banal quality to Monalisa’s work life; he/she posts ads then waits, orders fried chicken, and watches some DVDs borrowed from the library: an Oliver Twist musical, the first two seasons of Will and Grace. The seedy “street walker” goes for a stroll not just for sex and drugs (they’re there, for sure) but also avocados and whole bread (“for the munchies later”). Monalisa get the same treatment, the same respect, as that of the literary flâneur, the traditionally male pedestrian walking the streets of Paris, experiencing slices of lives across the hoi polloi—male because very rarely are women granted the freedom to walk the streets: invisible and unopposed. Even less often do the gender non-conforming get this same privilege, the promise of objectivity in the spaces between private and public life.
Of course, there remain constant reminders that Monalisa does not get to live in such a fantasy, un-harassed. One of the standout shorts “In the Bote” depicts Monalisa’s arrest by a cop posing as a john and his/her subsequent imprisonment at Rikers Island for previous infractions. The latent horrors of being a transgender person in a men’s prison sets up a lingering tension in the background on top of the systemic failures endemic to incarceration: confusing bureaucratic nonsense as a non-native English speaker, the shocking conditions of the prison, itself. But Ojeda forgoes the cliché tropes of sexual violence, the easy narrative bait—trans-trauma—to which a cis author for a cis audience might give in. In lieu of the facile male menaces, Monalisa meets fellow Chilean Vladimir and forges a tender bond; he ensures that he/she makes it through his/her (illegal) sentence unharmed and, in fact, respected by fellow inmates. The real tragedy in the story is two-fold: the unjust incarceration, and the fact that he/she wakes up one day to discover he/she has finally been tracked down and bailed out—and is forced to leave without the chance to say goodbye.
The weaker entries appear toward the end of the collection, when Ojeda indulges in the repetitious motifs: walking the streets of Manhattan in search of more food, clients, and drugs—scenes that could hold up in a novel but feel tedious in a short story collection. “Little Miss Lightning Bolt” or “Lorena the Chilena” also suffer from the habit of dropping a series of names ad nauseum—but not excessively so. Indeed, these missteps are a reminder of Ojeda at his/her best: when an entire universe swirls through Monalisa’s breath, the words from his/her mouth bringing life to the unending tableau of boyfriends, girlfriends, their mothers and the sisters down the street. Rarely are they well defined. This cosmos of nebulous characters renders the tired identity markers—of gender and sexuality—into something prosaic, a waste of words.
Those unfamiliar with the vocabulary of a queer literature might struggle initially with the incoherence of identity. Monalisa and his/her community of transgender Latinx immigrants almost all refer to each other in the feminine, whether explicitly “women” or not; this is a community home to transsexual women, crossdressing travestis with straight boyfriends. Many have girlfriends who identify as crossdressing men. Ojeda doesn’t bother with any of this, not an eschewal but sheer apathy for the limitations that delineate rather than unify disparate people with a tenuous bond. The function of this does not exclude a cis-heteronormative readership—rather the opposite. In the myopic scrutiny of Monalisa’s peripheral community universalities emerge quite freely, and space opens for those who can ever relate to the loss of a loved one, to hijinks with the girls, addiction and heartbreak to a beautiful Boricuan boy. There is even a sense of economic liberalism at play, probably ironic, as far as the sex worker is concerned: a client is a client, after all.
This is not a collection about “otherness.” Readers hoping for an enlightening take on transphobia or homophobia or racism or sexism might be disappointed by Ojeda’s largely isolationist portrait of a community and his/her disinterest in the conventional narratives of traumas. He/she rarely utilizes gender and sexuality as a point of difference, only the grounds for communicating the need for a shared geography, where questions of sex in public, the private in the public sphere are allowed to exist in the open. Crucially, these publics have not yet died.
Ojeda’s strongest stories evoke a funereal tone, literally as in the case of “Ortiz Funeral Home” or more subtly in “Jennifer’s Carnations,” which features the anniversary of one. The former illustrates a community’s outpouring of grief for an old friend: “José Buchillon also known as Amalia, la cubana, room four.” Note the names throughout the collection: sobriquets, aliases, epithets—all important as they offer rare glimpses of an external gaze (“In the Bote” sees Monalisa’s aliases coming back to bite him/her: “Juan Cruz also known as Luis Rivera.” Something about the bureaucratic nonchalance to misgendering and deadnaming, paired with the characters’ casual acceptance feels heartbreaking). There in that funeral home, however, the community knows only their friend Amalia, lost to a presumed overdose in the arms of her loving boyfriend. But her friends don’t mourn, instead espousing a macabre sense of joy for the chance at a reunion of sorts; the loss of one becomes a means of bringing old friends together. They squabble, accuse each other of stealing a baggie of coke left for Amalia to take to the afterlife. An author without Ojeda’s total cultural grasp might very well caricaturize such voices into catty queer stereotypes. Instead, the cacophonic quality seeping through Ojeda’s ensemble pieces manage to infuse a sense of camaraderie into a group of often troubled personalities: addicts and locas, yes, but sisters nevertheless.
“Jennifer’s Carnations” allows Ojeda to flex his/her command over great scales of time once again, this time over the passage of decades rather than hours of the day. One subtle thematic thread throughout the collection observes how its characters, many recurring, all age; a new wrinkle appears one morning, the effects of experimental estrogen tablets start to wane, and the veneer of the Biuty Queen comes into question as youth and its beauty—the interminable companions—wear away into the decades. Only the dead remain untouched, immortalized in images and memories of loved ones increasingly fading away, themselves. The titular Jennifer isn’t someone Monalisa had known, but some acquaintance-of-an-acquaintance found dead strangled in 1997. The distance here feels crucial, offering one of the most sobering reflections in all the collection: “No one told us to be careful or to remember what had happened to Jennifer, as though it had been something normal, almost quotidian. As Angie Xtravaganza, the mother of Xtravaganza House, said, those murders were part of what it meant to be a transsexual woman in New York.” People like Jennifer, like Monalisa, live on the razor’s edge on this side of New York City. The “street walkers” they are, their lives ultimately fall at the mercy of public space; there are no medians in this identity that grants no privacy from neighbors, legislators and the cops. It follows that the disappearance of the sex shops on Christopher Street, the pornographic theaters in Times Square, would wipe those like Jennifer and Monalisa, an entire community, off the map—lost to the annals of celluloid. There would be no place to go, nothing to recover: a people effectively disappeared, should we accept this narrative of transience. But 20 years on, encroaching on our own present, the memory of Jennifer strikes Monalisa: the injustice of the cold case against the image of her angelic beauty, fixed in her coffin. One day, Monalisa and his/her best friend La Manuel—a familiar face at this point in the collection—compare the transsexual experience then and now, lamenting the ease with which the youth have it today. Monalisa, too, is guilty of harboring revisionist tendencies, a nostalgia for the great and terrible past. The old friends are sharing their admiration for the great beauties across their years in New York when, unprompted, La Manuel leaves the room:
Ivàn Monalisa Ojeda, in his/her (Ojeda uses both pronouns) debut short story collection Las Biuty Queens aims to challenge this presentist revisionism. Through 13 vignettes of the lives of New York City sex workers, all trans or Latinx or immigrants, Ojeda reminds us that his/her New York, some place darker and grimier and more joyous and vibrant, still, survives. Las Biuty Queens, spanning the course of over 20 years, is not a historical fiction but a decisively present one. Much of the collection’s chronology draws from Ojeda’s personal history, having immigrated (undocumented) to New York City from his/her native Chile. The stories of incarceration, lost loved ones, addictions, and bad boyfriends all circulate around a fictional “Monalisa,” who takes after Ojeda’s own experiences as a transgender sex worker living on the fringes (Monalisa, ungendered in the collection, will hereafter be referred to with he/she pronouns). The geography of the city should feel familiar—from Washington Heights down to 14th Street; but Ojeda’s cast of characters (many recurring throughout the stories) carry a very spectral quality: ghostly, as if floating in a parallel existence invisible to those unable or unwilling to see.
Temporally, Ojeda tends to contain Monalisa’s exploits to the late-night hours between 10pm and 4am—somewhat unsurprising for stories of sex workers. But he/she largely avoids the sordid nightlife generally ascribed to the prostitutes and street walkers of mainstream depictions. There’s an almost banal quality to Monalisa’s work life; he/she posts ads then waits, orders fried chicken, and watches some DVDs borrowed from the library: an Oliver Twist musical, the first two seasons of Will and Grace. The seedy “street walker” goes for a stroll not just for sex and drugs (they’re there, for sure) but also avocados and whole bread (“for the munchies later”). Monalisa get the same treatment, the same respect, as that of the literary flâneur, the traditionally male pedestrian walking the streets of Paris, experiencing slices of lives across the hoi polloi—male because very rarely are women granted the freedom to walk the streets: invisible and unopposed. Even less often do the gender non-conforming get this same privilege, the promise of objectivity in the spaces between private and public life.
Of course, there remain constant reminders that Monalisa does not get to live in such a fantasy, un-harassed. One of the standout shorts “In the Bote” depicts Monalisa’s arrest by a cop posing as a john and his/her subsequent imprisonment at Rikers Island for previous infractions. The latent horrors of being a transgender person in a men’s prison sets up a lingering tension in the background on top of the systemic failures endemic to incarceration: confusing bureaucratic nonsense as a non-native English speaker, the shocking conditions of the prison, itself. But Ojeda forgoes the cliché tropes of sexual violence, the easy narrative bait—trans-trauma—to which a cis author for a cis audience might give in. In lieu of the facile male menaces, Monalisa meets fellow Chilean Vladimir and forges a tender bond; he ensures that he/she makes it through his/her (illegal) sentence unharmed and, in fact, respected by fellow inmates. The real tragedy in the story is two-fold: the unjust incarceration, and the fact that he/she wakes up one day to discover he/she has finally been tracked down and bailed out—and is forced to leave without the chance to say goodbye.
The weaker entries appear toward the end of the collection, when Ojeda indulges in the repetitious motifs: walking the streets of Manhattan in search of more food, clients, and drugs—scenes that could hold up in a novel but feel tedious in a short story collection. “Little Miss Lightning Bolt” or “Lorena the Chilena” also suffer from the habit of dropping a series of names ad nauseum—but not excessively so. Indeed, these missteps are a reminder of Ojeda at his/her best: when an entire universe swirls through Monalisa’s breath, the words from his/her mouth bringing life to the unending tableau of boyfriends, girlfriends, their mothers and the sisters down the street. Rarely are they well defined. This cosmos of nebulous characters renders the tired identity markers—of gender and sexuality—into something prosaic, a waste of words.
Those unfamiliar with the vocabulary of a queer literature might struggle initially with the incoherence of identity. Monalisa and his/her community of transgender Latinx immigrants almost all refer to each other in the feminine, whether explicitly “women” or not; this is a community home to transsexual women, crossdressing travestis with straight boyfriends. Many have girlfriends who identify as crossdressing men. Ojeda doesn’t bother with any of this, not an eschewal but sheer apathy for the limitations that delineate rather than unify disparate people with a tenuous bond. The function of this does not exclude a cis-heteronormative readership—rather the opposite. In the myopic scrutiny of Monalisa’s peripheral community universalities emerge quite freely, and space opens for those who can ever relate to the loss of a loved one, to hijinks with the girls, addiction and heartbreak to a beautiful Boricuan boy. There is even a sense of economic liberalism at play, probably ironic, as far as the sex worker is concerned: a client is a client, after all.
This is not a collection about “otherness.” Readers hoping for an enlightening take on transphobia or homophobia or racism or sexism might be disappointed by Ojeda’s largely isolationist portrait of a community and his/her disinterest in the conventional narratives of traumas. He/she rarely utilizes gender and sexuality as a point of difference, only the grounds for communicating the need for a shared geography, where questions of sex in public, the private in the public sphere are allowed to exist in the open. Crucially, these publics have not yet died.
Ojeda’s strongest stories evoke a funereal tone, literally as in the case of “Ortiz Funeral Home” or more subtly in “Jennifer’s Carnations,” which features the anniversary of one. The former illustrates a community’s outpouring of grief for an old friend: “José Buchillon also known as Amalia, la cubana, room four.” Note the names throughout the collection: sobriquets, aliases, epithets—all important as they offer rare glimpses of an external gaze (“In the Bote” sees Monalisa’s aliases coming back to bite him/her: “Juan Cruz also known as Luis Rivera.” Something about the bureaucratic nonchalance to misgendering and deadnaming, paired with the characters’ casual acceptance feels heartbreaking). There in that funeral home, however, the community knows only their friend Amalia, lost to a presumed overdose in the arms of her loving boyfriend. But her friends don’t mourn, instead espousing a macabre sense of joy for the chance at a reunion of sorts; the loss of one becomes a means of bringing old friends together. They squabble, accuse each other of stealing a baggie of coke left for Amalia to take to the afterlife. An author without Ojeda’s total cultural grasp might very well caricaturize such voices into catty queer stereotypes. Instead, the cacophonic quality seeping through Ojeda’s ensemble pieces manage to infuse a sense of camaraderie into a group of often troubled personalities: addicts and locas, yes, but sisters nevertheless.
“Jennifer’s Carnations” allows Ojeda to flex his/her command over great scales of time once again, this time over the passage of decades rather than hours of the day. One subtle thematic thread throughout the collection observes how its characters, many recurring, all age; a new wrinkle appears one morning, the effects of experimental estrogen tablets start to wane, and the veneer of the Biuty Queen comes into question as youth and its beauty—the interminable companions—wear away into the decades. Only the dead remain untouched, immortalized in images and memories of loved ones increasingly fading away, themselves. The titular Jennifer isn’t someone Monalisa had known, but some acquaintance-of-an-acquaintance found dead strangled in 1997. The distance here feels crucial, offering one of the most sobering reflections in all the collection: “No one told us to be careful or to remember what had happened to Jennifer, as though it had been something normal, almost quotidian. As Angie Xtravaganza, the mother of Xtravaganza House, said, those murders were part of what it meant to be a transsexual woman in New York.” People like Jennifer, like Monalisa, live on the razor’s edge on this side of New York City. The “street walkers” they are, their lives ultimately fall at the mercy of public space; there are no medians in this identity that grants no privacy from neighbors, legislators and the cops. It follows that the disappearance of the sex shops on Christopher Street, the pornographic theaters in Times Square, would wipe those like Jennifer and Monalisa, an entire community, off the map—lost to the annals of celluloid. There would be no place to go, nothing to recover: a people effectively disappeared, should we accept this narrative of transience. But 20 years on, encroaching on our own present, the memory of Jennifer strikes Monalisa: the injustice of the cold case against the image of her angelic beauty, fixed in her coffin. One day, Monalisa and his/her best friend La Manuel—a familiar face at this point in the collection—compare the transsexual experience then and now, lamenting the ease with which the youth have it today. Monalisa, too, is guilty of harboring revisionist tendencies, a nostalgia for the great and terrible past. The old friends are sharing their admiration for the great beauties across their years in New York when, unprompted, La Manuel leaves the room:
She came back with a big white envelope. She took out a photo the size of the envelope. It was of a trans girl posing nude, covering her breasts with her hands and gazing into the camera as though looking you straight in the eye.
“You won’t believe it,” said La Manuel, “but she was my girlfriend for a few months. She was murdered in a hotel back in ‘97. Her name was Jennifer.”
Without saying a word, I took the photo into my hands and thought of all my dead friends.
August 19, 2019
En muchos momentos me pregunté por qué no era una novela. Eso sí, me gustó leer los cuentos desde una experiencia newyorquina actual (o al menos propia), la de una ciudad en el fondo bien higienizada y en la onda orgánica, y pensar en una Nueva York de otra calaña.
December 31, 2020
Jubilant, frank, full of saudade, and well structured. It plays with the passage of time beautifully, painting its ephemeral and cyclical nature. Ojeda weaves the lives of the book's characters together in an ebb and flow of relationships that feels profoundly true.
January 25, 2021
A must read for those who follow or are interested in LGBT + history. It is a hard read but true nonetheless for trans people and sex workers. It is tough, gripping, sad, and beautifully told all at once. I am grateful that I was able to read it and will praise it and encourage everyone to read it.
April 8, 2021
Nunca me ha llamado mucho la atención EE.UU. pero conocer el país con estas historias me ha parecido entretenidísimo, las personajes, la narración, las historias y los pequeños detalles hacen querer mucho aquel lugar.
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