By: M. Escritora

With some free-time on my hands, I decided to join an “empathy-forward” book club hosted at my local Bed Bath and Beyond location. I was ecstatic that we would be discussing a book narrated in first-person by a second-generation immigrant like myself. I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter by Erika Sanchez showed the rift between how immigrant parents compose their new life and how their kids actually get to live. Novels that cast open the terrors of adjustment and alienation always spoke to me. Literature should be uncomfortable to be powerful, right? I really related to the protagonist in this one; the character’s struggle with extremely strict parents reminded me of how ostracized I felt growing up. She was locked away from the city her parents were wary of and vilified. 

Five minutes early is late, or so I thought. When I arrived, towers of militantly-folded bath towels obscured any signs of human life. Maybe I was just plain late and missed the book club? Venturing deeper into the carpeted alcove, I realized the book club participants were initially camouflaged as shoppers among the wheat and cream coloured linens. A lady, presumably the leader (because she had the freshest bleach-and-tone), pulled from her trendy purse the novel I’d been reading in slips. “Let’s get started. Did anyone else seriously crrrrrrrrave carrrrrrrne asada after reading this?” I cringe as she dramatically rrolls her Rrrrrs, a flash of embarrassment singing in my temples. I used to pray my parents wouldn’t give away their newness to English with those same R’s, and here, some white lady is acting like it’s appreciation?

I listened intently. It almost seemed like tears were welling up in some speakers’ eyes. “It must have been so hard to migrate to North America,” an effusive blonde gushes. “I am very lucky my family has been here for generations to what was previously ‘barren land.’ Migration sounds like a struggle — I just can’t imagine having to walk more than a few hundred meters to the grocery store —” here, she pauses for a shudder, “Let alone kilometers through a desert just to cross the border, like the protagonist’s parents.” 

Another participant chimes in about the unwelcome, harsh conditions depicted in the novel, citing how grateful the contrast to the fictionalized Mexican village made her remember “the little things, like magazines, return policies at the mall, and our hockey team.” Belonging goes so deep for some they can’t even imagine life without the complete Maslow’s hierarchy. Hello, self-actualization. 

I hear a lot of “the main character’s so brave,” and “she’s so strong,” pitter-pattering through the room. My personal favorite: “The imagery of the landlord berating the family for cooking traditional Latino food was devastating. I am a nice landlord, I only ask them to keep their window open.” I chew on the end of my pencil, thinking about how my P.E. teachers never accepted that I couldn’t participate in contact sports because I couldn’t see moving targets, not to mention didn’t grow up playing “pickleball” or “flag football.” The book club members seem so close to understanding that celebrating differences welds together a diverse society, but the point woozes right over their head like a dodgeball. Latino acceptance goes as deep as mall food court quesadillas. 

“I did not see that plot twist coming.” Because stereotypes make up your literary forecasts. 

This book club experience felt weirdly like gossip rather than criticism as we discussed marginalized realities from the periphery. A novel puts you at a safe distance from a life that isn’t your own, but grievance isn’t action. As I fumbled to exit that bland and liminal department store, I knocked loose a display of dish towels. Product of Guatemala. Go figure.