Killer Cronicas: Bilingual Memories (Writing in Latinidad) by Susana Chávez-Silverman

By Susana Chávez-Silverman

A girl dwelling and speaking in a number of lands, Susana Ch?vez-Silverman conveys her cultural and linguistic displacement in funny, bittersweet, or even tangible methods during this actually bilingual literary paintings. those meditative and lyrical items mix poignant own confession, unique day-by-day commentary, and a memorializing force that shifts throughout time and between geocultural areas. The author’s creative and flamboyant use of Spanglish, a hybrid English-Spanish idiom, and her variation of the confessional "cr?nica" make this memoir compelling and robust. Killer Cr?nicas confirms that there's no Latina voice really like that of Susana Ch?vez-Silverman. incorporates a bankruptcy that was once provided first prize in El Andar magazine’s Chicano Literary Excellence Contest within the classification of non-public memoir.

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The offending letter era una carta de una ex-novia de papá, de hace décadas. Pues ahora se divorciaba del marido, y le había mandado a Daddy un let’s catch up, let’s meet for . . letter, con lujo de detalles wannabe seductores about sunbathing semi-desnuda en su Oregon backyard, con su miniature poodle correteando by her feet. Stuff like that. Daddy was a Libra. Guapo. Smooth. Urbane. Funny as hell. Con una voz rica, low, melodiosa. En primer lugar, tendría que haber sabido la mujer (Jean, me acuerdo que se llamaba) that Daddy was not fond of dogs.

That’s an oxymoron. And so you were. Un cool-warm Libra. Un dulce melancólico en tu study en casa, shaking your head back and forth en ese gesto milenario, casi rabínico, about some historical injustice, alguna tragedia you felt as keenly on your own skin cual si te la hubieran perpetrado—tatuado—a ti. Daddy, te reconozco en los versos de “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction,” de Wallace Stevens, que recité full- and lowvoiced, dry-eyed, en tu yahrzeit. Just days after my birthday. El 25 de marzo, 1990 fue.

Esto no es normal, coño. Ya pagamos la consumición y no vamos a pagar el show. Ve y pregúntaselo a El Chino si quieres. Eso es, pregúntaselo, anda. El mozo, tras consultar sotto voce con el dueño, retornó medio crestfallen, shaking his jet-black bucles, with the Chino-certified price: $40. Triunfantes, ignoring the dirty looks de demás comensales and the now frankly hostile spontaneous riffs about our premature exit del abueleril cantante, we were spewed, Jonah-like onto la vereda. S. Dos semanas después, after Pablo and Bahram had departed to their respective “patrias” (Pablo a su cátedra in an Andalusian university and Bahram to an important northernCalifornia law firm), apareció yet another article on tango, this time in the Sunday revista of the local diario, Clarín.

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