By John Rechy
Gore Vidal has hailed John Rechy as one of the few unique American writers of the final century,” and Michael Cunningham has referred to as him an writer whose lifestyles is sort of as fascinating, and significant, as his work.” Rechy’s long-awaited memoir,About My existence and the stored Woman, is the author’s first open remedy of his lifeand a testomony to the facility of delight and self-acceptance. Raised Mexican-American in El Paso, Texas, at a time while Latino youngsters have been oftentimes segregated, Rechy was once frequently assumed to be Anglo as a result of his gentle epidermis, and had his identify changed” for him by way of a instructor, from Juan to John. As he grew olderand as his fascination with the reminiscence of a infamous stored girl in his adolescence deepenedRechy turned conscious that his modifications lay not only in his historical past, yet in his sexuality. A relocating, robust tale of a lifestyles that bears witness to a couple of the main riotous adjustments of the past...
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Extra info for About My Life and the Kept Woman. A Memoir
He smiled at her and she smiled back as he took the food. I saw this as I stood near the remains of a garage filled with debris. When he was through, he stood and extended one hand toward my mother. He waited. Slowly she extended her hand to him. He brought it to his lips and kissed it. The memory of that man kissing my mother’s hand lingered with its hint of kind romance. There had been another hinted possibility to explain my mother’s defense of Marisa Guzman. During those same years, a nun who might have been a spry eighty years old officiated over her own chapel, actually a small house she had converted into a chapel a block away from where we lived, another one in a row of desolate houses occupied by Mexicans.
Those included a staunch belief in the Catholic church and in the sacred virginity of the Holy Mother, considered the Mother of God, not only of Christ. They held an equally staunch belief in the virginity of unwed women. Señor’s initial threat to stop the marriage of my sister Olga and his son Luis soon escalated into an overt declaration of war conveyed by his tiny wife in a second visit to my family—the first visit had announced his fierce opposition. Señor’s wife was a woman so small, so like a buzzing hummingbird, that it was difficult to believe what was generally known, that she daily dressed Señor in suit, tie, and shoes, and then carried him, coaxing, pushing him a little, and finally shoving him—gently—to a reclining couch, where, propped up, he glowered through a window and denounced the modern world’s immorality.
In a hint of elegant decorum, her breasts did not peek out of the top of her dress; they were only outlined as if hands were molding them and then sliding down along the curves of her body. She wore the hat she had worn in church, wide-brimmed, a paler shade of gray, slanting to the right so that a portion of her face was shaded. Even under the breath of a veil, sprinkled with velvet dots, her lips were a bold slash of crimson, stark on her creamy skin—no, her skin was the color of cream into which only a touch of chocolate had been blended.
About My Life and the Kept Woman. A Memoir by John Rechy