Marisabel

“All these literary patriarchs paraded their woe like it was some main event. Hamlet brooded, Romeo beat his chest, Willy went mad. Why didn’t they dance like the Perez women? Were they so above the fray? No billboards or sitcoms had declared my Perez cousins queen, and I now saw freedom in this. No false thrones, just the shitstorm of life. Grab a shovel and sing a work song. Build a throne that’s real.”
― Quiara Alegría Hudes, My Broken Language

“Zipping my lips meant swallowing my contradictions and confusions, guarding the flavor for only myself.”
― Quiara Alegría Hudes, My Broken Language

“I feared that not crying meant I hadn’t loved them enough. Perhaps weeping and dancing live in the same place within us, and I had shuttered that part of me away. The part that touches grief, euphoria, and god. Without tears, I could never legitimately call them my losses, only ours.”
― Quiara Alegría Hudes, My Broken Language

“Your Spanish is broken?” Paula said. “Then write your broken Spanish.”
― Quiara Alegría Hudes, My Broken Language