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 ability of delight and self-acceptance. Raised Mexican-American in El Paso, Texas, at a time whilst Latino young children have been mostly segregated, Rechy used to be usually assumed to be Anglo as a result of his mild dermis, and had his identify changed” for him by means of a instructor, from Juan to John. As he grew olderand as his fascination with the reminiscence of a infamous saved lady in his formative years deepenedRechy grew to become conscious that his modifications lay not only in his background, yet in his sexuality. A relocating, robust tale of a lifestyles that bears witness to a few of the main riotous adjustments of the past...
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Extra info for About My Life and the Kept Woman. A Memoir
Nothing more was needed, because the kept woman challenged the drabness of the room, splashed it with a grandeur it had never possessed, not even when new. The ragged couch she sat on was her throne. She wore a gray dress that caressed her body. The few creases that dared to appear on it when she moved, breathing, were instantly transformed into silvery-gray streaks, the exact color of her shoes. 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.
How they had hauled it there was a puzzle. I saw a run-down car nearby, propped up on bricks, but it seemed incapable of lugging the trailer. Three or four children roamed in and out, never straying from the area of the wagon or from a swarthy older man and woman. These two—she with a headband, he with a pipe whose embers gleamed on and off like disturbed spirits—sat on makeshift steps in the late evening when the Texas sun turned bloody on the desert horizon. Pondering what, plotting what? Behind a barricade of giant tumbleweeds abandoned by a recent windstorm, I studied them, fascinated, for what seemed like hours.
My mother demanded. The quivering messenger wrung her hands; tears streaked her face. ” My mother’s indignation turned her face livid. She was not often enraged, not even at my father after his violent rants. She had already grabbed her purse and was rushing out of the house. I ran along with her. When we reached the nun’s chapel, others had gathered. Perhaps seven women—the men would be away at whatever jobs were available—were kneeling on the imported grass, and they were taking turns kissing the hand of a heavy man in a cassock, his starched white collar so stark and ringed with gray perspiration that it seemed to be holding his head up.
About My Life and the Kept Woman. A Memoir by John Rechy