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A Cup of Water Under My Bed: A Memoir
A Cup of Water Under My Bed( A Memoir) Hardcover DaisyHernandez BeaconPress(MA)
185 pages, Hardcover
First published September 9, 2014
About the author
Daisy Hernández
21 books102 followersDe padre cubano y madre colombiana, creció en Nueva Jersey, Estados Unidos. Ha escrito y editado libros de ensayos sobre feminismo, descolonización, raza e identidad queer en Norte y Latino América. También ha colaborado en importantes medios como The Atlantic, The New York Times y la National Public Radio de Estados Unidos. Actualmente es profesora de Escrituras creativas en la Universidad de Miami en Ohio.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 261 reviews
November 29, 2014
I always was (and remain) deeply envious of kids who grew up bilingual, who had parents at home who spoke something more interesting than English. Those kids always seemed so lucky, getting two languages -- and two cultures! -- for the price of one.
A Cup of Water Under My Bed is about that experience -- of being bilingual, and bicultural -- and about the complexity of what's anything but a simple two-for-one deal. Growing up in Union City, NJ in a working-class Colombian and Cuban family, Daisy learns English in kindergarten at the expense of the Spanish her parents exclusively speak. She writes movingly of serving as translator between her parents and the English-speaking world, and of the pressure she felt as the high-performing child of immigrants who expected her to "make it" in America. In my favorite passage she recalls her community's pride in her and their conviction that she'd succeed as a writer, then concludes:
No one ever says where I am going, but they are sure that a place is waiting for me. By the time I am nine years old and translating my report card for my father, I know he is not going with me.
For Daisy, becoming an English speaker -- and going on to college, white-collar work, graduate degrees, and dating women -- meant to some extent abandoning her family, even as she remained so close that she lived with them until she was twenty-seven. Her book is characterized by a twinned sense of dislocation and alienation: while Hernández lovingly describes and identifies with aspects of her family's home and culture, her English, education, and sexuality have removed her in many ways from them. At the same time, in the richer, whiter, English-speaking world -- epitomized by her internship at the New York Times -- she remains set apart by her own identity and history. In some respects, Daisy does reap the glorious code-switching fruits of my best-of-both-worlds fantasy; yet she conveys a painful sense of statelessness and loss.
Despite a real sadness, this memoir is an optimistic story that suggests a more complex and expansive American dream than the familiar one Daisy's parents expected for her. Rejecting conspicuous consumption as a sign of success after her spiral into credit card debt, she also rejects the expectation that she become "one of those people who say they are of Hispanic heritage, who say they grew up in difficult circumstances, who see the assimilation of one person as the progress of a community." Throughout the book, Daisy recognizes and creates spaces where she does fully belong and can clearly express and value herself, usually through identification with the struggles of other people. Instead of trying to "keep up with the Joneses," she decides to use writing as a means towards social justice, repeatedly tying her story to those of her neighbors, literal and metaphoric.
There are few stories more classically American than the one about the child of immigrants, and Hernández revisits that timeless theme while representing the moment we're in and imagining where we could go in the future. In the end, A Cup of Water is more than a memoir of one woman's interesting but largely unremarkable life. Rather, it's a quiet but convincing call to imagine a different kind of American dream: one that is not about the "me" but about the "us."
A Cup of Water Under My Bed is about that experience -- of being bilingual, and bicultural -- and about the complexity of what's anything but a simple two-for-one deal. Growing up in Union City, NJ in a working-class Colombian and Cuban family, Daisy learns English in kindergarten at the expense of the Spanish her parents exclusively speak. She writes movingly of serving as translator between her parents and the English-speaking world, and of the pressure she felt as the high-performing child of immigrants who expected her to "make it" in America. In my favorite passage she recalls her community's pride in her and their conviction that she'd succeed as a writer, then concludes:
No one ever says where I am going, but they are sure that a place is waiting for me. By the time I am nine years old and translating my report card for my father, I know he is not going with me.
For Daisy, becoming an English speaker -- and going on to college, white-collar work, graduate degrees, and dating women -- meant to some extent abandoning her family, even as she remained so close that she lived with them until she was twenty-seven. Her book is characterized by a twinned sense of dislocation and alienation: while Hernández lovingly describes and identifies with aspects of her family's home and culture, her English, education, and sexuality have removed her in many ways from them. At the same time, in the richer, whiter, English-speaking world -- epitomized by her internship at the New York Times -- she remains set apart by her own identity and history. In some respects, Daisy does reap the glorious code-switching fruits of my best-of-both-worlds fantasy; yet she conveys a painful sense of statelessness and loss.
Despite a real sadness, this memoir is an optimistic story that suggests a more complex and expansive American dream than the familiar one Daisy's parents expected for her. Rejecting conspicuous consumption as a sign of success after her spiral into credit card debt, she also rejects the expectation that she become "one of those people who say they are of Hispanic heritage, who say they grew up in difficult circumstances, who see the assimilation of one person as the progress of a community." Throughout the book, Daisy recognizes and creates spaces where she does fully belong and can clearly express and value herself, usually through identification with the struggles of other people. Instead of trying to "keep up with the Joneses," she decides to use writing as a means towards social justice, repeatedly tying her story to those of her neighbors, literal and metaphoric.
There are few stories more classically American than the one about the child of immigrants, and Hernández revisits that timeless theme while representing the moment we're in and imagining where we could go in the future. In the end, A Cup of Water is more than a memoir of one woman's interesting but largely unremarkable life. Rather, it's a quiet but convincing call to imagine a different kind of American dream: one that is not about the "me" but about the "us."
September 10, 2015
2014: what a year for bisexual memoirs by people of colour! Among the fabulous Lambda award nominees fitting this category—including Fire Shut Up in My by Charles M. Blow, which I also highly recommend—is A Cup of Water Under My Bed by Daisy Hernández. Don’t both of those have amazing, intriguing titles? I simply loved Hernández’s book, on so many levels, for both its form and content.
It’s a memoir, but, interestingly, not structured linearly. Instead, Hernández arranges the material of her life in three thematic sections, divided into chapters that are self-contained essays. This structure allows you to see different facets of her life as they exist at different stages of her life, making links between events in childhood and adulthood that you might not otherwise. Although it feels a bit jarring to move ahead and back again at first, after a while I really enjoyed the way she organized the memoir; it felt tangential in the same way that a conversation does. One result of the organization, interestingly, is that you don’t actually hear anything about Hernández’s queerness until the second section, although the jacket refreshingly makes her bisexuality explicit. That shouldn’t be notable, but unfortunately it is, and I was super pumped to see the ‘b’ word right there on the inside flap of the cover.
One other thing that is unique about this book’s format is that the entire thing is peppered with Spanish, always in italics, now and then whole sentences, often just a single word. Like, there isn’t a page of the book that doesn’t have at least one Spanish word on it. Sometimes you can guess the meaning of the word from the context, or a translation or paraphrase is fitted seamlessly into the text. Other times, though, Hernández just lets the Spanish word sit in the English sentence, sin explanation. Given that she devotes a lot of the memoir to discussing the role of language in her family and her sense of self, I found her decision to include a fair amount of Spanish in a predominantly English book fascinating. This insistence on her mother tongue seemed to me a distinctly feminist Latina strategy, and a really cool way to illustrate the powerful and sometimes alienating effect language can have. Anglophones aren’t used to having their easy understanding thwarted, and I thought the Spanish in A Cup of Water was a thoughtful way to draw attention to that privilege. Also, if you’re learning español like I am, it’s really cool and helpful.
So what does Hernández write about? In a nutshell: everything. The first section is devoted to her family and cultural/spiritual background. Growing up in New Jersey with a working class Colombian mother and Cuban father and a smattering of aunties constantly coming and going certainly gives her a lot to discuss. Some of my favourite parts were about the intrusion of English in her life as her parents send her to English Catholic elementary school, despite her growing up speaking Spanish at home. Having only ever heard English in cartoons on TV, she describes her first day of school like this:
Later she realizes devastating effect of this linguistic erasure:
There’s a stark honesty in Hernández’s writing, which is especially striking when she’s talking about the complicated stuff of life, like discovering and naming her bisexuality in the second section:
Hernández also addresses racism in all its ugly complexity: for example, her Latin American family’s use of the word india (meaning an Indigenous person) as a threat when she’s misbehaving as a child, their fixation on light skin, prejudice against Black Americans, and the slipperiness of racial categories. Like how her aunt’s dark-skinned Peruvian husband isn’t “indio” because he drives a nice car and has a good job. How the white Southern editor at the New York Times where Hernández is working admits to giving a young African American journalist who turned out to be plagiarizing one chance too many. How her aunt said she was so dark as a child, “as if the colour of [her] skin had been an illness.”
One unexpected thing Hernández writes about in a startlingly candid way in the last section is money, as well as the related topic of class. An especially poignant story called “Only Ricos Have Credit” (ricos means rich people) examines her relationship with credit cards, chasing the kind of white middle class lifestyle she dreams of but can’t actually afford. In “My Father’s Hands,” she writes powerfully about the economic impact of NAFTA, her father beginning a job as a janitor at age 63 after doing factory work his entire life and her mother continuing to work, but sometimes without a paycheque at all, at her factory.
I’m pretty sure I’d have a hard time wrapping up such a gorgeous, far-reaching book, but Hernández does it eloquently in a short, final story in which a new chapter of her life on the west coast is beginning. No mistaking it, she is a talented queer writer whose first book is, I think, only the dawn of the rosy career to come. Don’t miss A Cup of Water Under My Bed.
It’s a memoir, but, interestingly, not structured linearly. Instead, Hernández arranges the material of her life in three thematic sections, divided into chapters that are self-contained essays. This structure allows you to see different facets of her life as they exist at different stages of her life, making links between events in childhood and adulthood that you might not otherwise. Although it feels a bit jarring to move ahead and back again at first, after a while I really enjoyed the way she organized the memoir; it felt tangential in the same way that a conversation does. One result of the organization, interestingly, is that you don’t actually hear anything about Hernández’s queerness until the second section, although the jacket refreshingly makes her bisexuality explicit. That shouldn’t be notable, but unfortunately it is, and I was super pumped to see the ‘b’ word right there on the inside flap of the cover.
One other thing that is unique about this book’s format is that the entire thing is peppered with Spanish, always in italics, now and then whole sentences, often just a single word. Like, there isn’t a page of the book that doesn’t have at least one Spanish word on it. Sometimes you can guess the meaning of the word from the context, or a translation or paraphrase is fitted seamlessly into the text. Other times, though, Hernández just lets the Spanish word sit in the English sentence, sin explanation. Given that she devotes a lot of the memoir to discussing the role of language in her family and her sense of self, I found her decision to include a fair amount of Spanish in a predominantly English book fascinating. This insistence on her mother tongue seemed to me a distinctly feminist Latina strategy, and a really cool way to illustrate the powerful and sometimes alienating effect language can have. Anglophones aren’t used to having their easy understanding thwarted, and I thought the Spanish in A Cup of Water was a thoughtful way to draw attention to that privilege. Also, if you’re learning español like I am, it’s really cool and helpful.
So what does Hernández write about? In a nutshell: everything. The first section is devoted to her family and cultural/spiritual background. Growing up in New Jersey with a working class Colombian mother and Cuban father and a smattering of aunties constantly coming and going certainly gives her a lot to discuss. Some of my favourite parts were about the intrusion of English in her life as her parents send her to English Catholic elementary school, despite her growing up speaking Spanish at home. Having only ever heard English in cartoons on TV, she describes her first day of school like this:
Sitting in my classroom, I wait for Mrs. Reynolds to start talking like my mother. In Spanish. Surely it won’t be long now. An hour passes. Two hours. An entire day it feels, and still it is all Mighty Mouse… It’s like being forced to watch the same cartoon all day long.
Later she realizes devastating effect of this linguistic erasure:
I am not to go the way of the two people I long for in the thick terror of the night. The first man I love and the first woman I adore, my father and my mother with their Spanish words, are not in these cards. The road before me is English and the next part is too awful to ask aloud or even silently: What is so wrong with my parents that I am not to mimic their hands, their needs, not even their words?
There’s a stark honesty in Hernández’s writing, which is especially striking when she’s talking about the complicated stuff of life, like discovering and naming her bisexuality in the second section:
There isn’t a good verb for what begins happening to me in college. Yes, I am meeting lesbians, but I am not one of them. I still find men attractive; it is that I am thinking of women in a new way. It is as if I am learning that I can shift my weight from one leg to the other, that I have a second leg. Kissing women is like discovering a new limb.
Hernández also addresses racism in all its ugly complexity: for example, her Latin American family’s use of the word india (meaning an Indigenous person) as a threat when she’s misbehaving as a child, their fixation on light skin, prejudice against Black Americans, and the slipperiness of racial categories. Like how her aunt’s dark-skinned Peruvian husband isn’t “indio” because he drives a nice car and has a good job. How the white Southern editor at the New York Times where Hernández is working admits to giving a young African American journalist who turned out to be plagiarizing one chance too many. How her aunt said she was so dark as a child, “as if the colour of [her] skin had been an illness.”
One unexpected thing Hernández writes about in a startlingly candid way in the last section is money, as well as the related topic of class. An especially poignant story called “Only Ricos Have Credit” (ricos means rich people) examines her relationship with credit cards, chasing the kind of white middle class lifestyle she dreams of but can’t actually afford. In “My Father’s Hands,” she writes powerfully about the economic impact of NAFTA, her father beginning a job as a janitor at age 63 after doing factory work his entire life and her mother continuing to work, but sometimes without a paycheque at all, at her factory.
I’m pretty sure I’d have a hard time wrapping up such a gorgeous, far-reaching book, but Hernández does it eloquently in a short, final story in which a new chapter of her life on the west coast is beginning. No mistaking it, she is a talented queer writer whose first book is, I think, only the dawn of the rosy career to come. Don’t miss A Cup of Water Under My Bed.
November 16, 2014
There are so many things I want to say about this book, but much of it is too close to my heart to attempt to express. Daisy Hernandez has written something I wish I'd had about 20 years ago. She looks honestly at the many aspects of her life that have influenced who she is, and who she wants to be. I wish we had more narratives like this complex one.
Although the quote below will not encompass the whole of the book in any way, I particularly loved this passage (even if I identify more with bell hooks than the author):
"I wish I could be like bell hooks. She has written that because she was never accepted in white or black middle-class circles as a young woman, she didn't try to belong. She didn't try to dress like she had money she didn't have; she didn't enjoy the illusion that material goods would make her feel better. She found that she liked to live simply, and she hated the hedonistic consumer culture that is American life. I wish I could be like that, but I'm not."
She then deftly describes the inner conflict that many social justice advocates can related to: the idea of who we think we're supposed to be, who we actual are, and how we deal with the disparities between the two (usually by being way too hard on ourselves). I love her honesty and vulnerability and strength.
Although the quote below will not encompass the whole of the book in any way, I particularly loved this passage (even if I identify more with bell hooks than the author):
"I wish I could be like bell hooks. She has written that because she was never accepted in white or black middle-class circles as a young woman, she didn't try to belong. She didn't try to dress like she had money she didn't have; she didn't enjoy the illusion that material goods would make her feel better. She found that she liked to live simply, and she hated the hedonistic consumer culture that is American life. I wish I could be like that, but I'm not."
She then deftly describes the inner conflict that many social justice advocates can related to: the idea of who we think we're supposed to be, who we actual are, and how we deal with the disparities between the two (usually by being way too hard on ourselves). I love her honesty and vulnerability and strength.
January 27, 2015
Found a lot to relate to in this lyrical and poignant collection of stories by Daisy Hernandez. Hernandez weaves multiple narrative strands together: stories of her parents' and their siblings emigration from Colombia and Cuba; of the ravages of colonialism on language, culture, and community; of compromise, negotiation, and syncretism between the faith and culture of the colonizers and the beliefs and traditions slaves brought with them to the Americas and transformed (often by necessity); of being caught between Spanish and English, between her native cultures and "American" culture, between ethnic pride and shame and pressure to assimilate to mainstream American culture; of loving a family and a culture that do not always love queer women like her back, or unconditionally; and tying all these together, of the importance of telling her and her family's stories on her own terms and in her own words. The only weakness is occasionally florid prose; otherwise, a moving and contemplative read.
November 9, 2019
And it is hard, I imagine, for people who have not experienced this to understand the weight of that silence and how the absence of language can feel like a death.There's just something about reading a memoir that reaffirms who you are and where you come from.. Like yes, we are from different places and have different upbringings but there are so many similarities.
There are different threads within her beautifully lyrical story that connects to her past and to her present & I thought it was a unique way of letting us into her mind as she reflects on her life. I enjoyed so much reading about Daisy and her family, her growing up, her discovering herself. It definitely was like reading about home; it's a familiar kind of hurt where try as you might, words cannot fully explain your deep and profound emotions.
September 11, 2015
I feel blessed to read a novel that compells me to set it down, take a deep breath and just absorb the profound way it has hit to the core of ME, and my experiences but this memoir made me do this half a dozen times. Beautiful writing. Amazing truth. I too refuse be undone.
February 11, 2020
In lieu of an articulate review of this amazing memoir, here is part of a very long, crappy, semi-autobiographical poem I wrote about it when I was an undergrad.
Belt freezes tag, roasts bones.
Loves girl flesh best.
His banquets are epic
When propelled by men
Who ain’t ya damn daddy!
Lithe ,sleek, he nips at knees, feet, calves, shoulder blades.
Bites the deepest where people don’t see.
Gorges, slurps, licks his plate clean.
Making studies of tiles and toes,
I Shamble from one moment, one room, one night to the next,
Grow up and up and up
To read of a girl like me,
who learned the hard way,
her world had sharp edges.
Little Daisy, small and brown,
Legs a playground for Belt’s bites,
Whose real father turned into a crow,
Peers up at me
from the pages of her memoir,
apple cheeks blazing bright
under a deluge of rage and pain.
I take her little hand,
Pull her up and up and up.
Out comes a woman
Anger dwarfing mine.
Perching crossways on my bed,
We pull up our shorts,
Compare and contrast,
Our bloodstained tables.
Tucking hers underneath, she speaks to me.
The cuts on my legs are still open.
” At least Mine are scabs”
Lazing on my porch,
Dregs of Russia’s best drying in a beveled pitcher,
I am assailed
By that dusty old lividity.
Depictions of Merdstone, supine, ruddy,
Congregations of Red Stripe and spent spliffs supplicating,
their Bodies bent toward his leonine frame.
Barbies out windows,
Helpless on lawns.
Guess I couldn’t eat fast enough.
Another plunders me,
Siphons my lungs,
Drops me where I lean.
Pulled from the hiding place
Under the sink,
Beaten with a backscratcher
For hiding.
Tremors rack my grownup’s body,
Send my punch-drunk psyche sprawling.
I dissolve
Into a pastiche of dark thoughts
And darker intentions.
My rational world spins, rocks, frays
At the edges:
Battalions of furious hues encroach,
Storming and leveling
A fortress of years.
Bruise like spectrums prance and recede, ebb and flow,
Until all my adulthood is wiped away, decimated.
Only the past survives.
Crystalline images, repressed moments,
Kick holes in walls
Of bricks of age,
Erected by defiance.
More nights, more beatings, more recoveries,
Struggle for dominance,
Shriek in my belly,
Scramble over my heart,
Claw the chords loose,
Escape through my throat.
These recollections and worse ones jump out
Swinging, others dance jigs on the edges
Of my compromised consciousness.
The part of me, no longer a girl,
Turns each one to glass.
I ransack my unconscious
For peroxide bubbles,
pink tinged water,
crying contusions,
involuntary sobs,
snatch them out Out OUT!
Now daisy’s beside me,
doing the same!
Grinning like fruitcakes we hear our bells rolling
Into pieces on the concrete;
We stomped the largest to trillions,
More visible than we ever were.
The welts on our minds dissipate,
Pull us off the man-hater’s jungle gym.
We dig our heals in ,
Push them through the concrete,
Halt the swing
From strange thighs to random sheets
And back again.
By inches, we loosen our shoulders
As the bitter weeping welts subside.
On the porch, we catch our breath,
Wrest control of ourselves
From days long dead.
Daisy straightens, takes my hand,
Talks me down.
"Forgiveness and faith are like writing a story.
They take time, effort, revisions."
“My favorite stories end with dead villains.
Faith didn’t protect me,
Bitch stood back and watched.”
“My mother?
put his ass UNDER the jail.
If she’d known, if she’d seen,
if she’d let it go,
I could never forgive her.”
"She stops talking to my father. My mother..." that is.
“She should have taken you and left!”
My Russian pacifier looms and lunges,
Cuts me off,
Wipes the embers right off my coast.
Passive mammas, hop drenched daddies,
Dim dingy uniforms, smiling deities,
embittered girlchildren raking forgivers over coals,
rewriters of history sink too,
their tabulas raasas capsizing.
There went my judgment
Of Alicia Hernandez.
All are Flailing desperately,
clinging to teeth, tip, and buds.
All submerged in my highball,
Stiffs in tangy sticky sweet
Daisy tries again.
"She is angry and afraid,
not so much of my father perhaps,
but of knowing that there is no other place for us to go."
I keep my mouth shut
because I know God damn well
Nothing
Chafes
Worse
Than
Reliance
On
Resentment.
We contemplate in silence
The power in forgiveness.
I wonder how she forgave her father.,
She wonders when I forgave my mother.
Belt freezes tag, roasts bones.
Loves girl flesh best.
His banquets are epic
When propelled by men
Who ain’t ya damn daddy!
Lithe ,sleek, he nips at knees, feet, calves, shoulder blades.
Bites the deepest where people don’t see.
Gorges, slurps, licks his plate clean.
Making studies of tiles and toes,
I Shamble from one moment, one room, one night to the next,
Grow up and up and up
To read of a girl like me,
who learned the hard way,
her world had sharp edges.
Little Daisy, small and brown,
Legs a playground for Belt’s bites,
Whose real father turned into a crow,
Peers up at me
from the pages of her memoir,
apple cheeks blazing bright
under a deluge of rage and pain.
I take her little hand,
Pull her up and up and up.
Out comes a woman
Anger dwarfing mine.
Perching crossways on my bed,
We pull up our shorts,
Compare and contrast,
Our bloodstained tables.
Tucking hers underneath, she speaks to me.
The cuts on my legs are still open.
” At least Mine are scabs”
Lazing on my porch,
Dregs of Russia’s best drying in a beveled pitcher,
I am assailed
By that dusty old lividity.
Depictions of Merdstone, supine, ruddy,
Congregations of Red Stripe and spent spliffs supplicating,
their Bodies bent toward his leonine frame.
Barbies out windows,
Helpless on lawns.
Guess I couldn’t eat fast enough.
Another plunders me,
Siphons my lungs,
Drops me where I lean.
Pulled from the hiding place
Under the sink,
Beaten with a backscratcher
For hiding.
Tremors rack my grownup’s body,
Send my punch-drunk psyche sprawling.
I dissolve
Into a pastiche of dark thoughts
And darker intentions.
My rational world spins, rocks, frays
At the edges:
Battalions of furious hues encroach,
Storming and leveling
A fortress of years.
Bruise like spectrums prance and recede, ebb and flow,
Until all my adulthood is wiped away, decimated.
Only the past survives.
Crystalline images, repressed moments,
Kick holes in walls
Of bricks of age,
Erected by defiance.
More nights, more beatings, more recoveries,
Struggle for dominance,
Shriek in my belly,
Scramble over my heart,
Claw the chords loose,
Escape through my throat.
These recollections and worse ones jump out
Swinging, others dance jigs on the edges
Of my compromised consciousness.
The part of me, no longer a girl,
Turns each one to glass.
I ransack my unconscious
For peroxide bubbles,
pink tinged water,
crying contusions,
involuntary sobs,
snatch them out Out OUT!
Now daisy’s beside me,
doing the same!
Grinning like fruitcakes we hear our bells rolling
Into pieces on the concrete;
We stomped the largest to trillions,
More visible than we ever were.
The welts on our minds dissipate,
Pull us off the man-hater’s jungle gym.
We dig our heals in ,
Push them through the concrete,
Halt the swing
From strange thighs to random sheets
And back again.
By inches, we loosen our shoulders
As the bitter weeping welts subside.
On the porch, we catch our breath,
Wrest control of ourselves
From days long dead.
Daisy straightens, takes my hand,
Talks me down.
"Forgiveness and faith are like writing a story.
They take time, effort, revisions."
“My favorite stories end with dead villains.
Faith didn’t protect me,
Bitch stood back and watched.”
“My mother?
put his ass UNDER the jail.
If she’d known, if she’d seen,
if she’d let it go,
I could never forgive her.”
"She stops talking to my father. My mother..." that is.
“She should have taken you and left!”
My Russian pacifier looms and lunges,
Cuts me off,
Wipes the embers right off my coast.
Passive mammas, hop drenched daddies,
Dim dingy uniforms, smiling deities,
embittered girlchildren raking forgivers over coals,
rewriters of history sink too,
their tabulas raasas capsizing.
There went my judgment
Of Alicia Hernandez.
All are Flailing desperately,
clinging to teeth, tip, and buds.
All submerged in my highball,
Stiffs in tangy sticky sweet
Daisy tries again.
"She is angry and afraid,
not so much of my father perhaps,
but of knowing that there is no other place for us to go."
I keep my mouth shut
because I know God damn well
Nothing
Chafes
Worse
Than
Reliance
On
Resentment.
We contemplate in silence
The power in forgiveness.
I wonder how she forgave her father.,
She wonders when I forgave my mother.
January 20, 2021
This book is everything and I'll come back one day with a better review but for now I strongly urge everyone to read it.
November 24, 2014
The American culture richly combines with Colombian/Latino culture "Spanglish", in this expressive "A Cup of Water Under MY Bed: A Memoir" authored by Daisy Hernandez- (DH).
With her mother immigrating from Colombia, DH father left Cuba in 1961, and (1982) settled in Union City, N.Y. where she was raised. Working in the textile manufacturing plants for decades, DH relates the hardship and difficulty of her parents/laborers who had to transition from manufacturing to a service economy, when the plants closed. DH writes of the poverty, downplaying her fathers dependence on alcohol, and frustration of her parents to advance to better paying jobs due to inability to speak better English.
The stories of the Latino customs, expressions, and superstitions were fascinating! DH grew up influenced and surrounded by her Tia's (aunts): Tia Chuchi, Tia Gorda, Tia Rosa, Tia Dora, played an important part in her upbringing. DH writes of women "gorditas" and "flacas" who operate "botanicas" selling potions, religious candles, and read cards in back rooms. They cleanse rooms of bad energy with cigar smoke and holy water. Tia Rosa would insist a "witch" put a curse on her. A black piece of cloth was found sewn to the underside of a garment, the person a victim of a curse or hex, was having an unusual string of bad luck/unfortunate circumstances. One of her aunts placed a cup of water under the head of her bed to capture the negative energy/bad spirits. These things were of particular importance after DH was hospitalized, seriously injured in a car accident as a teen, the other 6 people escaped with minor injuries.
After attending college on a full scholarship DH entered the book publishing industry in the 1990's. After she and her steady boyfriend broke-up, she discovered her love for women, and experienced many lesbian relationships. DH avoids going into any details/names (pseudonyms would have been nice), this part of the story is harder to follow. DH was largely shunned by her aunts for her LGBT orientation. When she entered a relationship with a transgender man, her aunt began talking to her, after several years of estrangement. Being shunned by family is difficult, and perhaps this is the reason many details were omitted, or skimmed over. This was an interesting memoir.
With her mother immigrating from Colombia, DH father left Cuba in 1961, and (1982) settled in Union City, N.Y. where she was raised. Working in the textile manufacturing plants for decades, DH relates the hardship and difficulty of her parents/laborers who had to transition from manufacturing to a service economy, when the plants closed. DH writes of the poverty, downplaying her fathers dependence on alcohol, and frustration of her parents to advance to better paying jobs due to inability to speak better English.
The stories of the Latino customs, expressions, and superstitions were fascinating! DH grew up influenced and surrounded by her Tia's (aunts): Tia Chuchi, Tia Gorda, Tia Rosa, Tia Dora, played an important part in her upbringing. DH writes of women "gorditas" and "flacas" who operate "botanicas" selling potions, religious candles, and read cards in back rooms. They cleanse rooms of bad energy with cigar smoke and holy water. Tia Rosa would insist a "witch" put a curse on her. A black piece of cloth was found sewn to the underside of a garment, the person a victim of a curse or hex, was having an unusual string of bad luck/unfortunate circumstances. One of her aunts placed a cup of water under the head of her bed to capture the negative energy/bad spirits. These things were of particular importance after DH was hospitalized, seriously injured in a car accident as a teen, the other 6 people escaped with minor injuries.
After attending college on a full scholarship DH entered the book publishing industry in the 1990's. After she and her steady boyfriend broke-up, she discovered her love for women, and experienced many lesbian relationships. DH avoids going into any details/names (pseudonyms would have been nice), this part of the story is harder to follow. DH was largely shunned by her aunts for her LGBT orientation. When she entered a relationship with a transgender man, her aunt began talking to her, after several years of estrangement. Being shunned by family is difficult, and perhaps this is the reason many details were omitted, or skimmed over. This was an interesting memoir.
January 19, 2021
"Over and over again, this truth: Writing is how I leave my family and how I take them with me."
I have been sitting with this one for over a week because I just didn't have the words for the emotions I felt during and after reading this one. A Cup of Water Under the Bed by Daisy Hernandez had masterful prose, descriptive and emotional writing that speaks to your soul and makes you contemplate and reconcile your feelings about language, being tethered to a homeland and how to navigate your own identity. It is an ode to the power of language and how it shapes our interactions with people, places and things. It explored this idea that not every word has a literal translation, that some have context and experience that do not translate and how it is okay to allow such language to just exist and belong to its intended group.
The one word that comes to mind to describe this book's main theme is "reckoning":
☆ reckoning with being bilingual, one language feels like pebbles on the tongue while the other feels like home
☆ reckoning with the bittersweetness of American Dream and who reaps the benefits
☆ reckoning with the humanity and imperfections of parents
☆ reckoning with learning to love family despite the hurt and forgiveness
☆ reckoning with sexuality and identity within the rigidity of Latinx culture
☆ reckoning with feminism in a world dominated by machismo and patriarchy
☆ reckoning with the disparities in income, education, financial literacy and access to social capital as a Latinx person
☆ reckoning with faith and spiritual practices and colonialism
☆ reckoning with what healing looks like
☆ reckoning with assimilation vs. tradition
☆ reckoning with gender based violence and the social inequalities women face
☆ reckoning with the guilt of being a child of immigrants and not living up to expectations
Alot of the author's experiences resonated with me on a personal level. There were times when I felt like she was describing my own parents' experiences. This book helped me to see how our imperfections can also be beautiful and tell a story rich in history and resilience.
Bookdragon Rating: 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
I have been sitting with this one for over a week because I just didn't have the words for the emotions I felt during and after reading this one. A Cup of Water Under the Bed by Daisy Hernandez had masterful prose, descriptive and emotional writing that speaks to your soul and makes you contemplate and reconcile your feelings about language, being tethered to a homeland and how to navigate your own identity. It is an ode to the power of language and how it shapes our interactions with people, places and things. It explored this idea that not every word has a literal translation, that some have context and experience that do not translate and how it is okay to allow such language to just exist and belong to its intended group.
The one word that comes to mind to describe this book's main theme is "reckoning":
☆ reckoning with being bilingual, one language feels like pebbles on the tongue while the other feels like home
☆ reckoning with the bittersweetness of American Dream and who reaps the benefits
☆ reckoning with the humanity and imperfections of parents
☆ reckoning with learning to love family despite the hurt and forgiveness
☆ reckoning with sexuality and identity within the rigidity of Latinx culture
☆ reckoning with feminism in a world dominated by machismo and patriarchy
☆ reckoning with the disparities in income, education, financial literacy and access to social capital as a Latinx person
☆ reckoning with faith and spiritual practices and colonialism
☆ reckoning with what healing looks like
☆ reckoning with assimilation vs. tradition
☆ reckoning with gender based violence and the social inequalities women face
☆ reckoning with the guilt of being a child of immigrants and not living up to expectations
Alot of the author's experiences resonated with me on a personal level. There were times when I felt like she was describing my own parents' experiences. This book helped me to see how our imperfections can also be beautiful and tell a story rich in history and resilience.
Bookdragon Rating: 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
February 2, 2015
At first I told my friend this is a warrior writer. Her words are potent, fatal, each one is studied and delicately placed in that spot between engaged writer-who-cares and distanced, honest recorder. She succeeds to both ends. This book is a strong case for the feminist as every woman, and very expert in the personal-as-political style. It's a very raw and very matter of fact set of tales that make beautiful truths in the wake of the complicated and disturbing.
Every story consists of concrete allusions, blending intensely flavored human moments with a radical (yet straightforward) social critique.
Hernandez perfectly captures the contradictions and conflicted emotions of being involved in a religion. She also describes what good can come of writing, and what good cant'. The book is very grounded, sometimes to a fault. The struggles are so real and so ongoing that by the end I felt almost depressed that these real people were still facing such difficulty. But that's the point, and that's why I love the book.
I assume most readers will arrive here, perhaps unfairly so, because it is labled "ethnic fiction." Without extrapolating on the weakness of that genre as it exists, I will say that the book doesn't really have "something for everyone." I think for some, there won't be many directly relatable stories, but that's the key to the book's power- Daisy writes so beautifully and earnestly there is an endless amount of learning to have. It probably will not present much new information to LGBTQ/PoC, but the way she makes her arguments is very compassionate- it's almost impossible to disagree with her stances because she is so open about them and because she has experienced so many obvious forms of oppression.
This book will engage, challenge, totally engross your mind and your spirit.
Every story consists of concrete allusions, blending intensely flavored human moments with a radical (yet straightforward) social critique.
Hernandez perfectly captures the contradictions and conflicted emotions of being involved in a religion. She also describes what good can come of writing, and what good cant'. The book is very grounded, sometimes to a fault. The struggles are so real and so ongoing that by the end I felt almost depressed that these real people were still facing such difficulty. But that's the point, and that's why I love the book.
I assume most readers will arrive here, perhaps unfairly so, because it is labled "ethnic fiction." Without extrapolating on the weakness of that genre as it exists, I will say that the book doesn't really have "something for everyone." I think for some, there won't be many directly relatable stories, but that's the key to the book's power- Daisy writes so beautifully and earnestly there is an endless amount of learning to have. It probably will not present much new information to LGBTQ/PoC, but the way she makes her arguments is very compassionate- it's almost impossible to disagree with her stances because she is so open about them and because she has experienced so many obvious forms of oppression.
This book will engage, challenge, totally engross your mind and your spirit.
March 8, 2019
A great memoir of Daisy Hernández growing up as a first generation Cuban immigrant in America. An effortlessly enjoyable read where you can feel and see the Santeria mysticism, hear the language, and smell the food. I loved the family dynamic, and the way Daisy writes about her experiences, told in concurrent stories and essays.
July 23, 2017
Beautifully written memoir. I wish everyone would read it to expand their heart and understanding just a bit.
August 9, 2020
If you didn't grow up in a bilingual home, you must read this book. If you've never experienced being the only [woman, person of color, immigrant] in the room, you must read this book.
Hernandez is simultaneously tender, heartbreaking, and powerful in this structurally interesting memoir of her life as a first generation queer Cuban-Colombian-American who moves from a childhood under the quiet tyranny of her father to the vaunted, yet racist and sexist, staff of the New York Times.
"Sitting in the classroom, I wait for Miss Reynolds to start talking like my mother. In Spanish. Surely it won't be long now. An hour passes. Two hours." (3)
Boom. The first heartbreak. There will be others.
Told thematically, not chronologically, Hernandez immerses the reader in her journey and that of her family. The time shifts work beautifully to show how Hernandez came into the particular circumstance or change; each aspect of her life and her habits getting their own section.
The chapter on her experience at the New York Times (149-172) made me physically angry, then prompted me to go back through all my experiences, often as the only woman in the room, and try to remember if I treated my team members and employees well enough. Any book that prompts such thoughtfulness should be required reading.
Hernandez is simultaneously tender, heartbreaking, and powerful in this structurally interesting memoir of her life as a first generation queer Cuban-Colombian-American who moves from a childhood under the quiet tyranny of her father to the vaunted, yet racist and sexist, staff of the New York Times.
"Sitting in the classroom, I wait for Miss Reynolds to start talking like my mother. In Spanish. Surely it won't be long now. An hour passes. Two hours." (3)
Boom. The first heartbreak. There will be others.
Told thematically, not chronologically, Hernandez immerses the reader in her journey and that of her family. The time shifts work beautifully to show how Hernandez came into the particular circumstance or change; each aspect of her life and her habits getting their own section.
The chapter on her experience at the New York Times (149-172) made me physically angry, then prompted me to go back through all my experiences, often as the only woman in the room, and try to remember if I treated my team members and employees well enough. Any book that prompts such thoughtfulness should be required reading.
Read
January 11, 2015An awesome memoir about growing up a bisexual Colombian-Cuban American. The exploration of navigating borders and borderlands, about making choices that understand/respect and reflect on the past while also allowing for the freedom of newness and challenge, and the insights about people and the lives they live externally and internally are all really great. Even though they were the toughest to read, I thought the chapters about Hernandez's father and his secret life, the depths of who he is, were the most interesting and offered the most of what Hernandez was trying to do with her story. The chapter about spirituality was especially great.
June 15, 2017
"Memories are like thread. They can be tugged and loosened and stitched in different directions." I LOVED THIS BOOK! I'm so glad I own it. I bought it on a whim on a Goodreads daily deal and I'm glad I took the chance. Her writing is so lyrical. The way she compares her experiences or thoughts to other things is so beautiful! She jumps back and forth in time but it works really well. I enjoyed hearing about her life growing up and how she saw/sees the world. Her life was very interesting to me, she adds a lot of humor but also serious things to consider. This is a fairly short memoir but really awesome writing. Highly recommend!!
April 18, 2017
I enjoyed the way Hernandez compared her two cultures and contrasted them against this upper class educated -mostly white culture she begins to work and live around while feeling somewhat as being undercover, thinking deep to herself that she did not belong, that they would find her out as if her family and her had not worked hard enough to earn her place in society. This memoir was so entertaining and insightful about an individual's intersectionalities.
November 27, 2014
Fluid writing that navigates the space between Spanish and English, queer and straight, woman and man ... the list goes on.
March 14, 2023
Me ha gustado muchísimo. No tengo mucho que reseñar de este relato tan noble de una vida invisible. Me han encantado especialmente las reflexiones de la autora sobre cómo utilizamos el lenguaje, la dimensión identitaria de este y la manera que tiene nuestra lengua de hacernos libres. También destaco el pasaje en el que menciona la ansiedad que le produce hablar con los hombres blancos, por la inseguridad que esto genera, la necesidad de validación, la subordinación automática y aprendida frente a ellos, especialmente siendo una mujer racializada queer. Mantengo lo de siempre: leer a mujeres fantasma lanzando sus historias a la deriva como mensajes en botellas esperando a ser leídos es de mis cosas favoritas en el mundo.
February 16, 2023
Hernandez explores so many different aspects her identity, such as queerness, the importance of family, culture, being Colombian, being an immigrant, understanding social status, etc. all of which, I found fascinating. However, I was not the largest fan of the writing style which made for a difficult read.
February 25, 2019
More like a 3.9 but I'm rounding up out of respect. Review to come!
February 22, 2020
“‘If only I knew English. . .’ my mother starts, and then her voice trails because none of us, not her, not even La Tía Chuchi, who knows everything about everyone, knows what would happen if only my mother knew English. I am the one who is supposed to find out.
But to make that leap, to be the first in a family to leave for another language hurts. It’s not a broken arm kind of hurt. It’s not abrupt like that. It’s gradual. It is like a parasite, a bug crawling in your stomach that no one else can see but that gives you a fever and makes you nauseous.
Because I have to leave Spanish, I have to hate it. That makes the department bearable.”
—
Absolutely stunning. Daisy Hernández captures a pain that is somehow both intimate as well as present in the bones of every child of immigrant parents who has the ghosts of generations upon generations of a different language and culture weighing down on their shoulders. There’s this sense of union and community even in the parts that highlight the loneliness of existing as an LGBT person of color—because those experiences are, at their core, universal. That, and there’s something so comforting about reading words in both Spanish and English, especially when Hernández details the complicated relationship many immigrant or first-generation Latinx children have with the language in such a poignant way.
It’s such a special memoir in how it refuses to make itself palatable or small or more consumable for white people—it’s for US. It goes into detail about the discomfort Hernández feels with white men and how she had to ‘study’ white women for nineteen years in order to simulate conversation with them. It also is critical of our Hispanic elders, of the prejudice in our community, both internalized and externalized, of the difficulty of existing in a class of your own: a child, and then, later, a teenager and an adult, who is not fully American and is not fully Colombian, or Cuban, or Puerto Rican, or Mexican, and so on. How your family constantly highlights the fact that you’re “una Americana” without bothering to correct your Spanish, while white people stumble over your language for fun and think it’s so cool that your background is ‘exotic.’ Again, it’s a loneliness that we feel together. Daisy Hernández infuses her book with it and she does so with care and grace and empathy and the knowledge that she is speaking to people who understand. It’s for us. I’m so grateful for it. I loved every single page.
(Sabes, que aunque no había escuchado esa costumbre antes, sobre los vasos de agua debajo de la cama. . . creo que voy a empezar a usarla. Creo que me ayudaría a dormir y a soñar con mas paz.)
But to make that leap, to be the first in a family to leave for another language hurts. It’s not a broken arm kind of hurt. It’s not abrupt like that. It’s gradual. It is like a parasite, a bug crawling in your stomach that no one else can see but that gives you a fever and makes you nauseous.
Because I have to leave Spanish, I have to hate it. That makes the department bearable.”
—
Absolutely stunning. Daisy Hernández captures a pain that is somehow both intimate as well as present in the bones of every child of immigrant parents who has the ghosts of generations upon generations of a different language and culture weighing down on their shoulders. There’s this sense of union and community even in the parts that highlight the loneliness of existing as an LGBT person of color—because those experiences are, at their core, universal. That, and there’s something so comforting about reading words in both Spanish and English, especially when Hernández details the complicated relationship many immigrant or first-generation Latinx children have with the language in such a poignant way.
It’s such a special memoir in how it refuses to make itself palatable or small or more consumable for white people—it’s for US. It goes into detail about the discomfort Hernández feels with white men and how she had to ‘study’ white women for nineteen years in order to simulate conversation with them. It also is critical of our Hispanic elders, of the prejudice in our community, both internalized and externalized, of the difficulty of existing in a class of your own: a child, and then, later, a teenager and an adult, who is not fully American and is not fully Colombian, or Cuban, or Puerto Rican, or Mexican, and so on. How your family constantly highlights the fact that you’re “una Americana” without bothering to correct your Spanish, while white people stumble over your language for fun and think it’s so cool that your background is ‘exotic.’ Again, it’s a loneliness that we feel together. Daisy Hernández infuses her book with it and she does so with care and grace and empathy and the knowledge that she is speaking to people who understand. It’s for us. I’m so grateful for it. I loved every single page.
(Sabes, que aunque no había escuchado esa costumbre antes, sobre los vasos de agua debajo de la cama. . . creo que voy a empezar a usarla. Creo que me ayudaría a dormir y a soñar con mas paz.)
June 11, 2018
One of the very effective ways I have developed for keeping up with working writers is to buy the books of faculty of the writers' conferences I attend and to read the books of the judges of this and that competition. I have found some interesting writers this way. My latest is Daisy Hernandez, a Columbian-Cuba woman.
Hernandez was educated in the Catholic schools in her New Jersey neighborhood and everyone knows how technically excellent that mode of schooling can be. Then she went on to become an intern of the New York Times, which, even though I was a career journalist, I didn't know was how NYT staff writers were hired. Now she is doing something else, that this memoir indicates was a direct outgrowth of the NYT experience, a culture clash.
I enjoyed her memoir. Though it was written non-chronological, it was fairly easy to follow in time and space because she was good about giving reader signposts for where the story was.I loved hearing about her life as a seven-year-old English to Spanish, Spanish to English translator for her parents and the authorities whoever they happen to be. One reads about the children who perform that necessary function for adults but this is the first narrative detailing the process.
So much of her journalism career parallels my own and we are separated by about 20 years. It goes to show how slowly opportunities came to people of color. I am African American.
Hernandez writing style caused me to gasp. Her use of images seems so facile. One can easily see what she is talking about and easily know from the images she uses what the incident she is describing means to her and her family. The images help to convey her story and in only one instance was hit frustrating as she gave an artistic spin to a story. I was so frustrated that I tossed the book down and muttered, "tell the story already."
As awesome as her social story is, I cannot help but to think that at least part of the reason this memoir was published was because she is a proclaimed bi-sexaual. Of course, this is outside of the pale for her Columbian tias, under whose influence she had grown up. One tia constantly reminds her that the admission of "dating girls" is killing her mother. It reflects on the state of denial that people of color preferred when it comes to matters of sexuality. True to the optimistic nature of this book, Hernandez is not daunted by reactions and she stays true to herself and keeps on rolling with HER life.
Hernandez was educated in the Catholic schools in her New Jersey neighborhood and everyone knows how technically excellent that mode of schooling can be. Then she went on to become an intern of the New York Times, which, even though I was a career journalist, I didn't know was how NYT staff writers were hired. Now she is doing something else, that this memoir indicates was a direct outgrowth of the NYT experience, a culture clash.
I enjoyed her memoir. Though it was written non-chronological, it was fairly easy to follow in time and space because she was good about giving reader signposts for where the story was.I loved hearing about her life as a seven-year-old English to Spanish, Spanish to English translator for her parents and the authorities whoever they happen to be. One reads about the children who perform that necessary function for adults but this is the first narrative detailing the process.
So much of her journalism career parallels my own and we are separated by about 20 years. It goes to show how slowly opportunities came to people of color. I am African American.
Hernandez writing style caused me to gasp. Her use of images seems so facile. One can easily see what she is talking about and easily know from the images she uses what the incident she is describing means to her and her family. The images help to convey her story and in only one instance was hit frustrating as she gave an artistic spin to a story. I was so frustrated that I tossed the book down and muttered, "tell the story already."
As awesome as her social story is, I cannot help but to think that at least part of the reason this memoir was published was because she is a proclaimed bi-sexaual. Of course, this is outside of the pale for her Columbian tias, under whose influence she had grown up. One tia constantly reminds her that the admission of "dating girls" is killing her mother. It reflects on the state of denial that people of color preferred when it comes to matters of sexuality. True to the optimistic nature of this book, Hernandez is not daunted by reactions and she stays true to herself and keeps on rolling with HER life.
March 7, 2021
“...You betray your parents if you don’t become like them... and you betray them if you do.”
Nothing I say can capture the experience of reading Cuban-Colombian journalist Daisy Hernández’s memoir, A CUP OF WATER UNDER MY BED. In just under 200 pages, she covers a variety of issues, including:
- bilingualism/second-language learning, how the kids of immigrants become language brokers for their parents, the Spanish language itself (¿por qué a todos los viejitos les gusta decir que están ~en la lucha~?), untranslateable words & phrases in Spanish that mean so much to us
- ivory tower jargon & theories vs. the wisdom & lived experiences for people in the margins (o en la lucha, if we wanna keep up with that theme), women leaning on each other
- el machismo/chauvinism/the patriarchy, but also how many of us Latinas turn our back on our own men (~esos no sirven~ was a common refrain throughout a chapter, and TBH, it was like looking in the mirror & made me rethink me running my mouth😬)
- the prevalence of anti-Indigeneity & anti-Blackness in Latin American cultures (calling an ~uneducated~ woman an ~india,~ for example) & how we gotta do better
- santería & faith/spirituality (the cups of water that carry our wishes and fears reminded me of a time when a family member of mine put a cup of water with sugar under her husband’s bed para ~endulzarlo~ - to sweeten him up)
- coming out as queer & dealing with homophobia & dismissal/rejection of certain family members
- how we love our family members, even after recognizing their flaws & the harms they have caused us. She has some messy family relationships, but still manages to write about people with compassion & nuance: “Over and over again, this truth: Writing is how I leave my family and how I take them with me.”
Nothing I say can capture the experience of reading Cuban-Colombian journalist Daisy Hernández’s memoir, A CUP OF WATER UNDER MY BED. In just under 200 pages, she covers a variety of issues, including:
- bilingualism/second-language learning, how the kids of immigrants become language brokers for their parents, the Spanish language itself (¿por qué a todos los viejitos les gusta decir que están ~en la lucha~?), untranslateable words & phrases in Spanish that mean so much to us
- ivory tower jargon & theories vs. the wisdom & lived experiences for people in the margins (o en la lucha, if we wanna keep up with that theme), women leaning on each other
- el machismo/chauvinism/the patriarchy, but also how many of us Latinas turn our back on our own men (~esos no sirven~ was a common refrain throughout a chapter, and TBH, it was like looking in the mirror & made me rethink me running my mouth😬)
- the prevalence of anti-Indigeneity & anti-Blackness in Latin American cultures (calling an ~uneducated~ woman an ~india,~ for example) & how we gotta do better
- santería & faith/spirituality (the cups of water that carry our wishes and fears reminded me of a time when a family member of mine put a cup of water with sugar under her husband’s bed para ~endulzarlo~ - to sweeten him up)
- coming out as queer & dealing with homophobia & dismissal/rejection of certain family members
- how we love our family members, even after recognizing their flaws & the harms they have caused us. She has some messy family relationships, but still manages to write about people with compassion & nuance: “Over and over again, this truth: Writing is how I leave my family and how I take them with me.”
December 21, 2020
Este libro contiene historias cortas sobre la vida de la autora, nacida en Estados Unidos e hija de padre cubano y madre colombiana; sus recuerdos son una mezcla de costumbres, tradiciones, lenguajes, estilos de vida, prejuicios y sentimientos que marcaron su vida y la hicieron la mujer que es. Me gustó mucho.
March 9, 2019
Rhythmic Prose
Beautifully written, like one long love letter. Really powerful metaphors - pulls you in like she's telling you a secret and you read promising to keep these secrets safe. This is sacred ground and you are a guest. Honor this memoir - be a witness.
Beautifully written, like one long love letter. Really powerful metaphors - pulls you in like she's telling you a secret and you read promising to keep these secrets safe. This is sacred ground and you are a guest. Honor this memoir - be a witness.
February 21, 2021
Oh! I really enjoyed this read. I'm not from Colombia, but I do easily get where Daisy Hernandez is coming from when she writes of her family. Her feminism, her openness to sexuality and being Latina speaks to me.
April 17, 2016
Beautiful writing!
February 19, 2023
una lectura preciosa, de esas a las que se quiere volver una y otra vez. hernández narra con detalles la experiencia chicana, su experiencia chicana. vi en su familia rasgos de la mía y sentí de cerca a la autora. la leí y entendí aspectos de mi propia persona que sin su lectura, no podría haber explicado con mis palabras. especialmente su historia con la academia, el periodismo y ser bisexual con una familia que no sabe afrontar esa orientación. además, encontré hermoso cada vez que explicaba sus barreras con el idioma y descubría el amuleto de su papá, parte de las raíces de su país de origen.
quiero que tods lean lo que tiene que decir acerca de los idiomas, aquí los fragmentos que guardo como un tesoro:
''En el salón de clases, espero a que la señorita Reynolds comience a hablar como mi mamá. En español. Seguro no habrá que esperar mucho. Pasa una hora. Dos. Parece como si hubiera transcurrido un día, y sigue hablando como El Super Ratón. Este idioma me es familiar. Incluso puedo hablar algunas palabras. Pero nunca lo he escuchado tan seguido y de una sola vez. Es como si me obligaran a ver el mismo dibujo animado todo el día.''
''El camino que tengo ante mí está en inglés, y la que sigue es una pregunta demasiado horrible como para hacerla en voz alta o incluso en silencio: ¿Qué tienen de malo mis padres que no debo imitar sus manos, sus necesidades, ni siquiera sus palabras?''
''Antes del idioma, está el amor. Antes del amor, la memoria.''
''Mi mamá busca las únicas palabras en inglés que conoce en la libreta de calificaciones: firma de los padres, y allí, con la mejor caligrafía aprendida en Colombia, firma su nombre: Alicia Hernández. Ambas estamos orgullosas de su firma. La pobreza en Latinoamérica significa que muchas personas no pueden firmar su propio nombre, mucho menos leer o escribir.''
''Pero dar ese paso, ser la primera persona en la familia que se pasa a otro idioma, duele. No es algo que duela como partirse un brazo. No es abrupto de esa manera. Es gradual. Es como un parásito, un bicho que se cuela en tu estómago y nadie puede verlo, y te contagia una fiebre que te deja con naúseas. ''
''Así es como se siente leer español ahora. Es como abrazar a alguien que te ama y que al mismo tiempo es un extraño.''
''Los idiomas son bandas elásticas. Se doblan y se estiran y tratan de mantener en su lugar a nuestras madres y a las plazas de Bogotá y a los niños que piden dinero para comprar leche.''
''Es algo común en el español, particularmente en Colombia, agregarle «ita» o «ito» a una palabra, incluso a una palabra hostil, y creer que se la hace más entrañable. Una mujer delgada se convierte en la flaquita, una mujer pequeña en la chiquita, y una mujer negra en la negrita. Una casa demasiado pequeña para una familia de seis miembros pasa a ser la casita, y un carro que tiene problemas de motor pero sigue llevando el peso de tus necesidades es el carrito. Es esto lo que admiro de mi gente, de mi idioma. Creemos que hay una manera de amar lo que nos magulla.''
mis frases favoritas sobre la familia:
''Una y otra vez, esta verdad: al escribir dejo a mi familia, y también los llevo conmigo.''
''Dios. En ese hogar, rodeada de vasos de agua, la tía Chuchi comenzó a escribir sus memorias en una libreta. Primero hizo un esbozo, y cuando comenzó a escribir, se dio cuenta de que un recuerdo la llevaba a otro y que tenía que llamar a Colombia a preguntar detalles, porque los recuerdos son como el hilo. Pueden ser estirados y aflojados y cosidos en distintas direcciones.''
''Es una historia tan vieja como el tiempo: siempre descubrimos que lo que hemos necesitado estaba justo en casa. Y hay en ello una adivinanza: una hija tiene que irse para poder volver. Mi mamá tuvo que hacerlo. Lo dice a menudo. Únicamente valoró a su mamá, pudo entenderla, después de que se fue de casa. Yo también me tuve que ir. Era yo, no mi mamá, quien necesitaba el inglés, las historias y las teorías feministas. Sin estas, nunca hubiera podido regresar a ella.''
''La miro y pienso: ¿Quién diablos es esta mujer? Y entonces siento que el hilo que nos une se revienta y mi mamá es una mujer separada de mí, una que tiene su propia vida, hasta un país distinto, si se quiere. Su brazo se alza en el cielo como el signo que abre una exclamación. Su mano derecha no llama a nadie; en vez de eso, es un anuncio de sí misma.''
''Un hombre que bebe demasiado es un secreto a voces. Nadie habla al respecto porque todos beben. Todo el mundo tiene un padre o un tío o un primo así. No hay nada que esconder. Pero mucho para ver.''
''Mi papá odia los hospitales. Eso lo sé. Después, aprenderé que odia todo lo que teme: jeringas, huesos rotos, médicos. Gritarnos, quejarse gritando sobre nosotros, sobre el mundo, es la única manera que sabe hablar sobre el miedo. (...) La parte más dulce de mi papá es su plato de dulces.''
''A mi papá, hasta donde yo sé, nunca le han pedido que hable de sus sentimientos. Comienza arrastrando sus botas negras, mira hacia el piso. Le doy un vistazo. Parece un niño pequeño, tímido e incómodo enfrente de su profesora; aprieta sus manos en la espalda. Hace sus peticiones, y el sonido de su voz es algo que nunca he escuchado. Este es el hombre que rutinariamente le grita a mi mamá que apague el televisor; su voz es ronca de tanto fumar cigarrillos y cigarros, pero ahora es el hijo de alguien. Su voz es tierna, suave, incluso solemne.''
''Entonces, procede a contarle acerca de su salud, y el hecho de que Papi escuche es más extraordinario que un coco y una piedra sean los portadores de las noticias. Cuando llevamos a mi papá al médico, pasa más tiempo quejándose que siendo examinado. Pero aquí, ante los orishas, se muestra tranquilo y atento.''
''Algunas partes de las manos de mi papá están muertas. La piel se ha protegido endureciéndose y ha convertido sus manos en un terreno de callos y cicatrices; las profundas líneas de sus palmas semejan caminos de tierra que nunca se encuentran. Es un paisaje hermoso e implacable, el mismo que queda después del paso de un huracán, cuando los árboles han sido arrancados y el suelo está cubierto de ruinas de techos y mesas de cocina destruidas, y las personas caminan por las ruinas buscando una fotografía que les resulte familiar, una falda negra, un edredón, un pedazo de sus vidas que haya sobrevivido la tormenta. No sé por qué volvemos, qué nos lleva a buscar significado en lugares definidos por la pérdida, pero el impulso está allí, como el aire tibio después de un huracán.''
''Me llevará años entender que escribir hace que todo lo demás sea posible. Escribir hace que aprenda a amar a mi papá y el lugar de donde vengo. Escribir es la manera en que lo dejo y también como lo llevo conmigo.''
mis fragmentos favoritos sobre la academia:
''Si pudiera resumir las vidas de personas como yo -personas cuyos padres no escriben libros, cuyas tías y primos no pisan campus universitarios a menos que sea para asistir a nuestras ceremonias de grado-, explicaría nuestras vidas con aquella frase: y después, paso la página. Paso la página de un libro y veo escritas las palabras que usamos en casa. O paso la página y llego a un fragmento detallado sobre los bananos y las rosas y el café que van del sur al norte de América, lo cual comienza a explicar lo que mi mamá y tía Chuchi quieren decir cuando dicen que vinieron aquí a trabajar. O paso la página y encuentro la fotografía del plato de dulces.''
''Lo difícil de los secretos abiertos es que no puedes colarte en ellos. Puedes leer todos los libros que encuentres en la biblioteca y descargar todas las tesis no publicadas. Puedes visitar botánicas, comprar velas y tener preguntas, pero para que te dejen entrar, dependes de las personas. Debes aprender cuándo hacer una pregunta y cuándo callarte. Es como lidiar con el corazón de alguien. No puedes simplemente golpear la puerta. No puedes llegar y decir «Quiero vivir aquí». Tienes que probar tu valía. Tienes que quedarte. Tienes que esperar hasta que la persona esté lista. Al final, te das cuenta de que eres tú quien tiene que esperar. Era tu propio corazón donde no podías colarte.''
mis partes favoritas sobre el amor a las mujeres y la bisexualidad:
''Dos mujeres enamoradas me confirman que existe un amor que te puede llevar más allá de lo que todos dicen que es posible.''
''¿Cómo acabé haciéndoles caso a las advertencias de mi mamá? ¿Estaban equivocadas todas las novelas rosa? ¿Sigue el amor las líneas de la raza y la clase?''
''A medida que Fanny y su novia se dan besos suaves en los labios, me siento tan avergonzada y cautivada que miro frenéticamente alrededor, buscando un lugar para posar mis ojos.''
''Me siento tentada a decirle que un hombre biológico no haría esto. Los hombres no se dan cuenta del trabajo de las mujeres, y si lo hacen, no se sienten culpables por ello. En general. Estoy hablando en términos generales. En vez de eso, le doy un beso y flotamos por el vestíbulo del hotel sin que nadie nos mire más de dos veces. Un niño, una niña.''
y sobre el racismo:
''Según esta colombiana, la verdadera india es mi tía. Pero tía Dora siempre ha insistido que una india se porta mal y lo hace a todo volumen. Y sigue de la misma manera, de ida y vuelta, ninguna de nosotras tiene coherencia, ninguna de nosotras habla de las verdaderas mujeres indígenas, pero traficamos con el espectro racial que está destinado a mantener a todas las mujeres de color en su lugar.''
''El odio requiere intimidad. Una persona tiene que conocer algo bien para poder odiarlo. Tiene que estar familiarizado con el olor, con la forma de caminar, con la risa. Tiene que conocerlo de la misma manera que conoce sus propias manos, finas y pálidas, agarrando las sábanas temprano en la mañana.''
''Hay una jerarquía del dolor, y ya no se reduce a las páginas de mis libros de universidad, aquellos que hablaban sobre teoría política. Está aquí bajo la forma del señor Flaco. El dolor por sí mismo no es suficiente. Importa cuántos han muerto, cuántos han quedado heridos y en qué periodo de tiempo, qué tanta indignación pública hay en Occidente. El dolor tiene que ser significativo en relación con aquellos que están en el poder. Por contraste, nosotros (mi familia, los hombres de la parada del bus y yo) somos libres de tomar decisiones, compartir la indignación, conocer la solidaridad.''
''No tiene que ver con el señor Flaco, el racista. Ni con Uribe, el asesino. No sé lo que es. Las calles vibran con demasiadas personas, y los carteles se elevan sobre nosotros con caras blancas, dientes blancos, algodón blanco de verano, y me doy cuenta de que no tengo las palabras. Por mucho que quiera irme, no puedo hacerlo. Esta es mi gran oportunidad, el momento para el que me he estado preparando toda mi vida. La gente como yo, de la comunidad de la que vengo, no trabaja en el New York Times. Rosa Parks se sentó en una silla, Martin Luther King Jr. se puso de pie, y mis padres me pagaron el colegio católico para que pudiera estar acá. Lo que sea que haga, no puedo decir que no. Tengo que decir sí, sí y, una vez más, sí.''
quiero que tods lean lo que tiene que decir acerca de los idiomas, aquí los fragmentos que guardo como un tesoro:
''En el salón de clases, espero a que la señorita Reynolds comience a hablar como mi mamá. En español. Seguro no habrá que esperar mucho. Pasa una hora. Dos. Parece como si hubiera transcurrido un día, y sigue hablando como El Super Ratón. Este idioma me es familiar. Incluso puedo hablar algunas palabras. Pero nunca lo he escuchado tan seguido y de una sola vez. Es como si me obligaran a ver el mismo dibujo animado todo el día.''
''El camino que tengo ante mí está en inglés, y la que sigue es una pregunta demasiado horrible como para hacerla en voz alta o incluso en silencio: ¿Qué tienen de malo mis padres que no debo imitar sus manos, sus necesidades, ni siquiera sus palabras?''
''Antes del idioma, está el amor. Antes del amor, la memoria.''
''Mi mamá busca las únicas palabras en inglés que conoce en la libreta de calificaciones: firma de los padres, y allí, con la mejor caligrafía aprendida en Colombia, firma su nombre: Alicia Hernández. Ambas estamos orgullosas de su firma. La pobreza en Latinoamérica significa que muchas personas no pueden firmar su propio nombre, mucho menos leer o escribir.''
''Pero dar ese paso, ser la primera persona en la familia que se pasa a otro idioma, duele. No es algo que duela como partirse un brazo. No es abrupto de esa manera. Es gradual. Es como un parásito, un bicho que se cuela en tu estómago y nadie puede verlo, y te contagia una fiebre que te deja con naúseas. ''
''Así es como se siente leer español ahora. Es como abrazar a alguien que te ama y que al mismo tiempo es un extraño.''
''Los idiomas son bandas elásticas. Se doblan y se estiran y tratan de mantener en su lugar a nuestras madres y a las plazas de Bogotá y a los niños que piden dinero para comprar leche.''
''Es algo común en el español, particularmente en Colombia, agregarle «ita» o «ito» a una palabra, incluso a una palabra hostil, y creer que se la hace más entrañable. Una mujer delgada se convierte en la flaquita, una mujer pequeña en la chiquita, y una mujer negra en la negrita. Una casa demasiado pequeña para una familia de seis miembros pasa a ser la casita, y un carro que tiene problemas de motor pero sigue llevando el peso de tus necesidades es el carrito. Es esto lo que admiro de mi gente, de mi idioma. Creemos que hay una manera de amar lo que nos magulla.''
mis frases favoritas sobre la familia:
''Una y otra vez, esta verdad: al escribir dejo a mi familia, y también los llevo conmigo.''
''Dios. En ese hogar, rodeada de vasos de agua, la tía Chuchi comenzó a escribir sus memorias en una libreta. Primero hizo un esbozo, y cuando comenzó a escribir, se dio cuenta de que un recuerdo la llevaba a otro y que tenía que llamar a Colombia a preguntar detalles, porque los recuerdos son como el hilo. Pueden ser estirados y aflojados y cosidos en distintas direcciones.''
''Es una historia tan vieja como el tiempo: siempre descubrimos que lo que hemos necesitado estaba justo en casa. Y hay en ello una adivinanza: una hija tiene que irse para poder volver. Mi mamá tuvo que hacerlo. Lo dice a menudo. Únicamente valoró a su mamá, pudo entenderla, después de que se fue de casa. Yo también me tuve que ir. Era yo, no mi mamá, quien necesitaba el inglés, las historias y las teorías feministas. Sin estas, nunca hubiera podido regresar a ella.''
''La miro y pienso: ¿Quién diablos es esta mujer? Y entonces siento que el hilo que nos une se revienta y mi mamá es una mujer separada de mí, una que tiene su propia vida, hasta un país distinto, si se quiere. Su brazo se alza en el cielo como el signo que abre una exclamación. Su mano derecha no llama a nadie; en vez de eso, es un anuncio de sí misma.''
''Un hombre que bebe demasiado es un secreto a voces. Nadie habla al respecto porque todos beben. Todo el mundo tiene un padre o un tío o un primo así. No hay nada que esconder. Pero mucho para ver.''
''Mi papá odia los hospitales. Eso lo sé. Después, aprenderé que odia todo lo que teme: jeringas, huesos rotos, médicos. Gritarnos, quejarse gritando sobre nosotros, sobre el mundo, es la única manera que sabe hablar sobre el miedo. (...) La parte más dulce de mi papá es su plato de dulces.''
''A mi papá, hasta donde yo sé, nunca le han pedido que hable de sus sentimientos. Comienza arrastrando sus botas negras, mira hacia el piso. Le doy un vistazo. Parece un niño pequeño, tímido e incómodo enfrente de su profesora; aprieta sus manos en la espalda. Hace sus peticiones, y el sonido de su voz es algo que nunca he escuchado. Este es el hombre que rutinariamente le grita a mi mamá que apague el televisor; su voz es ronca de tanto fumar cigarrillos y cigarros, pero ahora es el hijo de alguien. Su voz es tierna, suave, incluso solemne.''
''Entonces, procede a contarle acerca de su salud, y el hecho de que Papi escuche es más extraordinario que un coco y una piedra sean los portadores de las noticias. Cuando llevamos a mi papá al médico, pasa más tiempo quejándose que siendo examinado. Pero aquí, ante los orishas, se muestra tranquilo y atento.''
''Algunas partes de las manos de mi papá están muertas. La piel se ha protegido endureciéndose y ha convertido sus manos en un terreno de callos y cicatrices; las profundas líneas de sus palmas semejan caminos de tierra que nunca se encuentran. Es un paisaje hermoso e implacable, el mismo que queda después del paso de un huracán, cuando los árboles han sido arrancados y el suelo está cubierto de ruinas de techos y mesas de cocina destruidas, y las personas caminan por las ruinas buscando una fotografía que les resulte familiar, una falda negra, un edredón, un pedazo de sus vidas que haya sobrevivido la tormenta. No sé por qué volvemos, qué nos lleva a buscar significado en lugares definidos por la pérdida, pero el impulso está allí, como el aire tibio después de un huracán.''
''Me llevará años entender que escribir hace que todo lo demás sea posible. Escribir hace que aprenda a amar a mi papá y el lugar de donde vengo. Escribir es la manera en que lo dejo y también como lo llevo conmigo.''
mis fragmentos favoritos sobre la academia:
''Si pudiera resumir las vidas de personas como yo -personas cuyos padres no escriben libros, cuyas tías y primos no pisan campus universitarios a menos que sea para asistir a nuestras ceremonias de grado-, explicaría nuestras vidas con aquella frase: y después, paso la página. Paso la página de un libro y veo escritas las palabras que usamos en casa. O paso la página y llego a un fragmento detallado sobre los bananos y las rosas y el café que van del sur al norte de América, lo cual comienza a explicar lo que mi mamá y tía Chuchi quieren decir cuando dicen que vinieron aquí a trabajar. O paso la página y encuentro la fotografía del plato de dulces.''
''Lo difícil de los secretos abiertos es que no puedes colarte en ellos. Puedes leer todos los libros que encuentres en la biblioteca y descargar todas las tesis no publicadas. Puedes visitar botánicas, comprar velas y tener preguntas, pero para que te dejen entrar, dependes de las personas. Debes aprender cuándo hacer una pregunta y cuándo callarte. Es como lidiar con el corazón de alguien. No puedes simplemente golpear la puerta. No puedes llegar y decir «Quiero vivir aquí». Tienes que probar tu valía. Tienes que quedarte. Tienes que esperar hasta que la persona esté lista. Al final, te das cuenta de que eres tú quien tiene que esperar. Era tu propio corazón donde no podías colarte.''
mis partes favoritas sobre el amor a las mujeres y la bisexualidad:
''Dos mujeres enamoradas me confirman que existe un amor que te puede llevar más allá de lo que todos dicen que es posible.''
''¿Cómo acabé haciéndoles caso a las advertencias de mi mamá? ¿Estaban equivocadas todas las novelas rosa? ¿Sigue el amor las líneas de la raza y la clase?''
''A medida que Fanny y su novia se dan besos suaves en los labios, me siento tan avergonzada y cautivada que miro frenéticamente alrededor, buscando un lugar para posar mis ojos.''
''Me siento tentada a decirle que un hombre biológico no haría esto. Los hombres no se dan cuenta del trabajo de las mujeres, y si lo hacen, no se sienten culpables por ello. En general. Estoy hablando en términos generales. En vez de eso, le doy un beso y flotamos por el vestíbulo del hotel sin que nadie nos mire más de dos veces. Un niño, una niña.''
y sobre el racismo:
''Según esta colombiana, la verdadera india es mi tía. Pero tía Dora siempre ha insistido que una india se porta mal y lo hace a todo volumen. Y sigue de la misma manera, de ida y vuelta, ninguna de nosotras tiene coherencia, ninguna de nosotras habla de las verdaderas mujeres indígenas, pero traficamos con el espectro racial que está destinado a mantener a todas las mujeres de color en su lugar.''
''El odio requiere intimidad. Una persona tiene que conocer algo bien para poder odiarlo. Tiene que estar familiarizado con el olor, con la forma de caminar, con la risa. Tiene que conocerlo de la misma manera que conoce sus propias manos, finas y pálidas, agarrando las sábanas temprano en la mañana.''
''Hay una jerarquía del dolor, y ya no se reduce a las páginas de mis libros de universidad, aquellos que hablaban sobre teoría política. Está aquí bajo la forma del señor Flaco. El dolor por sí mismo no es suficiente. Importa cuántos han muerto, cuántos han quedado heridos y en qué periodo de tiempo, qué tanta indignación pública hay en Occidente. El dolor tiene que ser significativo en relación con aquellos que están en el poder. Por contraste, nosotros (mi familia, los hombres de la parada del bus y yo) somos libres de tomar decisiones, compartir la indignación, conocer la solidaridad.''
''No tiene que ver con el señor Flaco, el racista. Ni con Uribe, el asesino. No sé lo que es. Las calles vibran con demasiadas personas, y los carteles se elevan sobre nosotros con caras blancas, dientes blancos, algodón blanco de verano, y me doy cuenta de que no tengo las palabras. Por mucho que quiera irme, no puedo hacerlo. Esta es mi gran oportunidad, el momento para el que me he estado preparando toda mi vida. La gente como yo, de la comunidad de la que vengo, no trabaja en el New York Times. Rosa Parks se sentó en una silla, Martin Luther King Jr. se puso de pie, y mis padres me pagaron el colegio católico para que pudiera estar acá. Lo que sea que haga, no puedo decir que no. Tengo que decir sí, sí y, una vez más, sí.''
January 10, 2023
A Cup of Water Under My Bed is no small feat. Hernández rolls up her sleeves and invites her readers into a a showcase of lyrical, gentle and yet searing commentary. The chapters oscillate kindly between the realities of her parents, and adjacent elders—think: inflexible aunties, who glimmer under Hernández’s light—as well as Hernández’s own truth and how she feels she ought to map it. Each paragraph wraps around the reader like a real and honest hug, each ‘character’ (per se) framed carefully within the world, and its many wounds, they orbit around (“It is the first time I have known someone… writing… about the terrible things a father does and the awful things the world does to him.”) Hernández is a poet, who cautiously twines together words with such precise consideration, because she knows better than anybody that language is a weapon, a gun. Here, she empties its gauge and insists we look carefully through the barrel. From where each of us are looking, though—from the soil upon which we stand and the stories we inherit and the dialects we speak—is the only thing that determines whether or not it is loaded.
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