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320 pages, Paperback
First published August 1, 2006
"Someone had named the barrio we lived in Hollywood. Maybe it was a joke, maybe it was a prayer."
“What’s worse, Dad, losing a leg or losing a son?”
“Losing a son,” he said.
“You still have a son, Dad.” That’s what I said. I waited, watched him nod, and then I said, “What’s worse, Dad, losing a kidney or losing a daughter?”
“Losing a daughter.”
“You still have a daughter, Dad.” That’s what I said.
"I grew up watching that sort of thing. Normal stuff. Blood was normal. People exploding like boxes of ammunition—that was normal. The grotesque, twisted faces of men and women shouting, being hit. The reflex of an arm going up to protect a face. Faces were sacred. The Aztecs knew that. Not there, don’t hit me there. I grew up like a lot of people—being a witness to all that from the safe distance of my own home. Television did that. Made you far from things. Made you a watcher. Made you believe you were safe. We watched the footage, my father and I, on the news. He was addicted to the news, needed to watch like I had come to need cigarettes. Never missed, not if he could help it. He pointed at the screen. “Look, hijo. Mira. Cabrones. This is not democracy.” My father didn’t cuss much. But he cussed when he watched the news. There was always something on to make him mad. He could get pretty fierce about things. His children. His politics. He looked at me, “Do you think this is democracy?”
"It’s funny, everyone had always told us love was another word for belonging.
No one, no one had ever told me that love was another name for exile."