Thursday, March 22, 2018

Surviving the Storm: Antonia "Toni" Gonzalez Escarcega

     Daniel Cano

        The sisters, Gloria, Candida, and Esther pose
behind home on 22nd Street, Santa Monica

     "In Santa Monica when we were kids, you could walk down Michigan, from Cloverfield to Lincoln, and not hear a word of English ." (Toni Escarcega)                                                                 


     In November, 2001, I arrived at my aunt Toni’s West L.A. home just as she and her mail carrier, a pretty, young, African-American woman, stood on the front porch, planning a birthday party for one of the neighbors. The mail carrier had set down her bulky, mail-laden bag. I listened, with interest. The two spoke like old friends, laughing and calling each other by their first names.

     I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was; after all, how many of us today even know our neighbors, let alone celebrate their birthdays? My aunt's interaction with her mail carrier reminded me just how caring, friendly, and funny, she was, quick to crack a joke but quicker to laugh. So much time I'd spent at her house, staying overnight with my cousins, yet, I knew so little about her. So, I set out to ask her some questions about her childhood and early days in Santa Monica.

     Her husband, my uncle Mike, was in the living room watching television as I entered. He was a genuine outdoors' man. He taught us all, his sons, nephews, and neighborhood kids, to fish, ride dirt bikes, camp, and hunt, using bows and arrows, shotguns, or rifles, depending whatever prey was in season at the time. He’d take us camping and fishing to the Kern River on weekends, or the King’s River in summer, and up to the creeks rushing off the eastside of the Sierra Nevada Mountains along Highway 395, above Bishop. When I’d once asked him about hunting, he told me he remembered camping, and hunting deer in the Santa Monica Mountains in the 1950s, just north of Sunset Boulevard, until the City prohibited sports hunting in the area.

     My aunt Toni (Tonia, a name I only heard my grandmother call her) is my mother's older sister but closest in age. We, the kids, all called her Toni or Aunt Toni, never tia. My uncle Mike (probably Miguel, but I don’t think he even knew for sure) is my father's first-cousin, so my cousins and I are related on both sides of the family.

     I suppose L.A.'s Westside Chicano community, back in the 1930s and ‘40s, was provincial, like many barrios throughout the Southwest, so the kids from different neighboring towns knew each other well. My mother once told me, "All the girls from Santa Monica married guys from W.L.A., and all the girls from WLA married guys from Santa Monica." When I asked why, she told me, "Marrying guys from your own neighborhood, like the Guajardos and Garcias, would be like marrying a cousin or a brother. Our families were all very close back then."

New signs, same streets


     The second youngest in the family of Nicolas and Eusebia Gonzalez, my aunt Toni was born in Santa Monica in 1924. Of her earliest years at her parents' home, she said, "It was a nice place to live. I didn't know any other home, so I guess my parents must have bought the house on 22nd Street in the 20s." She thought for a moment, then said, as if suddenly remembering, "We all had our chores. Actually, we inherited each other's chores. Since your mom, Esther, and I were the youngest, we didn't have to do too much. But when the older sisters and brothers all got jobs, then we had to do their chores.

     "Mama," the name we all called my grandmother, "would get up every morning about 5:30 and make breakfast and lunches for everyone. She usually made tacos." (For some reason, we all called burritos tacos.) "Then your mom and I would get up, and we had to sweep and mop the whole house before we got ready for school. Everyone in the family had a job."

     She recalled one summer during the Depression when the family traveled to Northern California to work in the fields. She said, as if had all happened yesterday, "My uncle and aunt had already moved to San Jose. One year they left Santa Monica and went up north to pick fruit. They never came back. I guess they told my mom there was a lot of work, and people could make extra money.

     "Well, my dad, my brother Chuy, and the older girls were already working here, so my mom, my brother, Joe, your mom, some other friends, and I went up north to pick fruit. I didn't think we'd ever make it back. Our car got stuck on a hill, one time, and we tried to move it, but the tires just kept turning. We'd go up the hill a little, and then, back down the car would slide. I was young, so I really thought we'd get stuck and have to live there.

     "Picking fruit wasn't so bad, though. I guess I saw the trip…well, not as a vacation, but like something different, like camping out. There were about seventy-five people living in a small outside area. We had to crowd into a tent. I was about ten or eleven but old enough to work. Your mom was still too young, so she just stayed around the camp.

     "I was pretty fast at picking, and I thought it was fun, until the heat got to me. I was in a row way ahead of everybody when I got tired and laid down on my back. I could hear the others catching up, so I thought I better look like I was working. I was still lying on my back resting.”

     She began to laugh, “So I kicked the plants with my feet to make it seem like I was picking the fruit. I guess they got suspicious when the sounds kept coming from one place. The next thing I knew Mama came around a row and saw what I was doing. She gave me a good whacking.

     "I don't think we ever picked fruit again. I guess we [the family] weren't very good at it because I remember Mama had to call my brother Chuy, who had a job back home, so he could send us gas money to get home. But our relatives who lived in San Jose made money. They were used to that kind of work and knew how to do it. But since we were from Santa Monica, we weren’t really good at picking."


     My mother and I lived with my grandmother, Eusebia, for a short period of time when I was a toddler, so I knew my grandmother well. I never knew my grandfather, Nicolas, who died before I was born; though, I’d heard many stories about him, so I felt I knew him. I asked my aunt Toni what she remembered about her parents. She said, “They were both good parents but really strict.”

     Of the seven Gonzalez children, my aunt, Toni, and my mother were the only ones born in the U.S., in Santa Monica. So, of course, they were the most modern of the Gonzalez sisters. To them many traditional Mexican customs seemed rigid, out of date.

     When I asked her about this, my aunt told me, "One day we were all walking home from school, boys and girls. After awhile, the girls had all walked in different directions home, and I was the only girl walking with the boys. In Santa Monica, the back of our house on 22nd Street was on a hill. From there, my father could see over the whole neighborhood, and he could see me walking [with the boys].

     "When I got home he started hitting me. I cried and hollered but he wouldn't stop. Your mother, Esther, even came and tried to get him to stop. The bad thing was I didn't know why I was getting hit. When he finally stopped, he said he never wanted to see me alone with the boys again."

     She said she tried to explain to her father what had happened. She said her father knew the boys and their families, some of them had even visited their home. As she told me the story, my aunt's voice sounded more fascinated than hurt at the memory.

     Her father's reaction was common in Mexican communities across the United States in the 1930s. A child's action was a reflection of the family's reputation. After all, small communities turned truths into rumors and exaggerations. Nicolas Gonzalez knew this. He also knew a perceived "loose" daughter certainly would offer fodder to neighborhood gossip. "Oh, yes," she continued. "My mom and dad were good, but they were strict," she repeated during our talk.

22nd Street Hill, 2018

     "Another time, your mother and I went roller skating just up the street. Since our house was at the top of a hill, kids from other neighborhoods came there just to skate down the hill. Sometimes you could see twenty or thirty kids skating down the hill on Michigan Avenue. We all laughed and yelled, having a good time."

     She described how during those long, summer days, my grandmother, Eusebia, ordered the girls home by eight P.M. and to not dare stay out after dark. Toni and my mom were probably about eight or nine years old, at the time. The two sisters lost track of time. One of their friends said, "Here comes your mom." My aunt laughed, when she said, "Your mom and I squeezed into the group of kids and ran home through the back alley, hoping my mom hadn't seen us. When we got home, we took off our skates and jumped into bed with all our clothes on. Mama came into the room and started hitting us with a broom. No warning, nothing."

     Her voice rose, as if she were reciting a poem. "Your mom was smaller and she squeezed under me to hide, so I got the worst of it. Funny," she kept laughing, "your mom says she doesn't remember. Yeah, but I remember. I guess since we were so close in age, we were pretty competitive. But I was older, so I think I always got the blame."

Remnants of family home, Mitic, Los Altos de Jalisco

     If--in his novel Al Filo del Agua (At the Edge of the Storm), Mexican writer Agustin Yanez’s portrayal of life in 1910 in a Mexican village in Los Altos de Jalisco (my grandparents’ home in Mexico)--is accurate, it’s a bleak vision dominated by religious repression, as if all men and women are expected to live as monastics and ascetics, giving up all worldly pleasures.

     In Yanez's telling, his narrator describes the rural setting: "There are no fiestas in the village; only the daily dances of myriads of sunbeams, the only music is the sound of the bells that toll the passing of the dead, or the tuneless, plaintive melodies of religious chants that express the latent sense of oppression. Never any parties. Dancing is held in horror...Never to be thought of ... never, never. Families visit each other only at times of bereavement or illness, or possibly to welcome home a long, absent member. ...Village of black-robed women, hermetic and solemn."

     I can't help but ask, if my grandparents grew up in Mexico at the turn of the 20th Century, in the darkness described by Yanez, how did they reconcile the differences between life in those desolate villages and life in the United States? How did their Mexican lives impact the lives of their children, grandchildren, and future generations? I mean, we, the Chicano children, American baby-boomers, are but one generation removed from life in those villages.

My mother sitting, left, my aunt Toni standing, final reunion


     My aunt told me that when she was a child, the neighborhood kids had to go to the clinic for regular health checkups. She said, "Your mom and I walked to the clinic. I think it was on Michigan and 17th Street, near the cemetery. I was about fifteen, so your mom must have been about twelve or thirteen. Well, I was healthy, but the doctor said your mom was very sick." (In fact, my mother had been misdiagnosed with tuberculosis and spent three years at Olive View Sanitarium recuperating from an illness she never had.)

     "On the way home, your mom kept crying, so I wanted to make her feel better. I said, 'Look, it is better for you to be sick now because you're still too young to go to dances and have a good time. It wouldn't be good if I got sick because pretty soon I'll be going to the dances, and that would be bad.' Oh, your mom got mad at that. She hit me and said, 'That doesn't make me feel better.'

     "Another time, I had to go outside and start a fire, so my mother could wash clothes. I had to pile wood and paper, get some brush, and get the fire going. We would start washing about 9:00AM--first the whites in one tub, then the colored clothes in another tub. We wouldn't finish until about 2:00 or 3:00. It was so hard.

     "Well, this one time, I finally got a flame going, and just as the fire began to catch, your mother came over and stomped it out. Then she started laughing. Oh, I got mad and told her not to do it again or she would be sorry. I got it going again and here came your mother, laughing, and did the same thing. I grabbed her, just to make her stop. We started wrestling, then we fell, and we started rolling across the dirt, right into the garbage pit, a hole my father had dug. My mother came out and saw us. She started yelling at me. I tried to explain, but she wouldn't listen. She reached in and helped your mother--who was crying--out of the pit. I reached up for my mom to help me too, but she just walked away, so I had to crawl out by myself."

     My aunt laughed as she finished the story. "Funny how your mom doesn’t seem to remember any of those things today, but I do."

     My aunt Toni went on to describe how my grandfather, a small but strong man, "...used to raise a pig and kill it, cook it in a pit, and invite people over for a party. He didn't like us watching him kill the pig, but we would peek from around the corner. I remember watching him, with a big knife in his hand, jumping on the pig's back. But my dad was so small, the pig would buck him off, and oh, we'd laugh. But my dad got back on the pig, getting bucked all over, until he killed it.

     "But he was also real kind. When my mother would take the older girls to the dances in Santa Monica, your mom and I would stay home with my dad. He'd put us to bed as soon as it got dark. We'd crawl in between him because we knew he would tell us scary stories about Mexico. Well, after a few of his stories, we were so scared, we'd tell him we were sleepy, and he'd say, 'Okay girls, enough stories. Go to sleep.' And we would. We'd fall right to sleep. We were pretty good kids."

Wednesday, March 21, 2018


Written by Junot Díaz
Illustrated by Leo Espinosa

Age Range: 5 - 8 years
Grade Level: Kindergarten - 3
Hardcover: 48 pages
Publisher: Dial Books 
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0735229864
ISBN-13: 978-0735229860

From New York Times bestseller and Pulitzer Prize winner Junot Díaz comes a debut picture book about the magic of memory and the infinite power of the imagination.

Every kid in Lola's school was from somewhere else.
Hers was a school of faraway places.

So when Lola's teacher asks the students to draw a picture of where their families immigrated from, all the kids are excited. Except Lola. She can't remember The Island—she left when she was just a baby. But with the help of her family and friends, and their memories—joyous, fantastical, heartbreaking, and frightening—Lola's imagination takes her on an extraordinary journey back to The Island.  As she draws closer to the heart of her family's story, Lola comes to understand the truth of her abuela's words: “Just because you don't remember a place doesn't mean it's not in you.”

Gloriously illustrated and lyrically written, Islandborn is a celebration of creativity, diversity, and our imagination's boundless ability to connect us—to our families, to our past and to ourselves.


* "With his tenacious, curious heroine and a voice that’s chatty, passionate, wise, and loving, Díaz entices readers to think about a fundamental human question: what does it mean to belong?"–Publishers Weekly, starred review

Junot Díaz was born in the Dominican Republic and raised in New Jersey. He is the author of the critically acclaimed Drown; The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, which won the 2008 Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award; and This Is How You Lose Her, a New York Times bestseller and National Book Award finalist. A graduate of Rutgers University, Díaz is currently the fiction editor at Boston Review and the Rudge and Nancy Allen Professor of Writing at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

Leo Espinosa is an award-winning illustrator and designer from Bogotá, Colombia, whose work has been featured in The New Yorker, Wired, Esquire, The New York Times, The Atlantic, and more. Leo's illustrations have been recognized by American Illustration, Communication Arts, Pictoplasma, 3x3, and the Society of Illustrators. Leo lives with his family in Salt Lake City, Utah.

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Middle Readers Historical Novel Raises Big Issues. News 'n Notes.

Historical Novel and Hidden Treasure Explore Issues for Middle Readers

Review: Diana J. Noble. Evangelina Takes Flight. Houston: Piñata Books for Middle Readers, 2017. ISBN: 978-1-55885-848-0

Michael Sedano

It’s 1911. Evangelina de León, who’s spent her 14 years on a remote rancho somewhere in northern Mexico, is about to be uprooted by marauding Villistas, next stop Texas USA. As Diana J. Noble’s Evangelina Takes Flight opens, a young reader will deserve absorbing storytelling and anticipate a first-hand look at girls her age a century ago.

A girl back them on el rancho rises with the sun, hauls water, feeds chickens and gathers eggs. After breakfast she sorts beans, minds her younger siblings, reads and writes, thinks.

Evangelina finds her about-to-quinceañera sister beautiful and doesn’t realize she herself looks fifteen already and boys admire her looks. Soon, she’ll realize that, right now she likes how boys’ attention feels.

Los de León aren't the only displaced Mexicanos who move-in with relatives on the Mexican side of dusty little Seneca TX. Evangelina's familia already lost one home, now they’re being denied a home where they’ve landed. Fortunately, a single anglo stands against racism and effects la palomilla’s rescue.

Then there’s safeguarding the secret treasure, a profound measure of Evangelina’s character. The treasure becomes a sore point unintended by the author, but nonetheless salient. And it raises a dilemma of adult responsibility when reading with or buying for children. Leave them to delight in story; make her immune to pernicious sleights and the kid’ll be fine. Instead, explore ambiguity and sharpen her reading to understand and connect beyond the page.

Author Noble secretes Abuelo's treasure in her reader’s imagination. Abuelo, who goes into hiding, charges Evangelina to carry his deepest secret north. An early crisis--an urchin steals the hidden treasure--tests Evangelina. Her goodness rescues the treasure. In the novel’s dénouement the dirt-poor familia gives away the treasure.

See something, say something. That epistrophe has become a watchword in public safety circles. I apply the same principle to books for kids. When a book stumbles into cultural ambiguity, see something say something.

Abuelo’s treasure is a jewel-encrusted gold cross. Abuelo’s secret guilt grows from his theft of the cross from Comanches, for whom the object was a talisman. Los Comanches, 100 years earlier, took the cross from a caravan of Spaniard Mexicanos. In the end, Evangelina’s family feels sinful cashing in the cross for personal gain, so, because “the Comanches are long gone from northern Mexico,” the family gives the treasure to the Mexican church. And the church, or someone, cashes in, and maybe in years the old rancho will be rebuilt from the proceeds.

That “comanches are long gone” point needs discussion, and where that gold and jewels originated. Given the uneasy rapprochement from resentful Anglos in the book, and racism in non-fictional Texas burgs today, kids can use literature that addresses racism in their lives; kids need strategies that don’t hinge on deus ex machina.

The novel's themes of movement, immigration, pioneer settlers, assimilation, have less ambiguity in a young reader’s experiences. The reader may herself be an immigrant, and most certainly has FOB friends, and all have origin stories like the de León family. They got here.

The little girl with the burned arm who takes to stealing to survive is one refugee who will die soon. That part's not in the book. Gente like that little innocent never make it p’al otro lado. Nowadays, she might get to a clinic, nowadays she might wander the desert dehydrated, finding water bottles slashed empty by people named Frank Silver but who were born Francisco Rubén Silva, like in the novel.

Evangelina Takes Flight comes from Piñata Books, an imprint of Houston’s Arte Público Press. Distribution via a local bookseller will readily put a copy into your young reader’s hands. You can order publisher-direct at this link.

News & Notes

NHCC Coming Alive All Year

This week's highlights from the National Hispanic Cultural Center include movie night, the Dolores Huerta movie,Dolores. Free admission. And if things haven't changed since my most recent visit, parking's ample and free. Consult the NHCC's website for full calendar, here (link)

Exciting news from NHCC. I've seen no announcement yet, but Valerie Martinez has assumed the Directorship of History and Literary Programs at the NHCC. Under earlier leadership, History and Literary Programs sponsored a decade of National Latino Writers Conferences.

San Antonio
Free to Give Open Mic

Fred C. Dobbs and San Antonio's Gemini Ink (link) share the same problem, money and how to get some. Fred didn't end up so good, but Gemini Ink is having a marathon read aloud and you're invited. Click here for details.

Los Angeles Downtown
Classic Slam Time

Always a top event for spoken word poetry, the Get Lit competition brings regional high schools together for two days packed with original and classic poetry, performed aloud in a highly energized auditorium. Click here for details and tickets.

Monday, March 19, 2018

Comentarios al libro 'De segunda mano' de Osiris Mosquea

Comentarios al libro De segunda mano de Osiris Mosquea ‖ Xánath Caraza

La última publicación de Osiris Mosquea es un libro de microrrelatos y pigmeismos titulado De segunda mano.  Con gran placer tuve la oportunidad de prologarlo.  Hoy, queridos lectores de La Bloga, comparto con ustedes mis comentarios.
Osiris Mosquea
Osiris Mosquea nació en San Francisco de Macorís, República Dominicana. Realizó sus estudios universitarios en la Universidad Autónoma de Santo Domingo (U.A.S.D.) donde obtuvo su título de Licenciada en Contabilidad.  Es gestora cultural y posee un Master of Spanish Language and Literature, The City College of New York.  Es una de las fundadoras del taller literario Búsqueda, en su país natal, fundadora de Trazarte Huellas Creativas en la ciudad de New York y coeditora de la revista Trazos. Su trabajo ha sido publicado en revistas, periódicos y diferentes antologías: Antología poética Terre de Poétes, Terre de Paix, París 2007; en la antología poética, Un Poema a Pablo Neruda en Isla Negra, Chile 2010; en la Antología del XIV Encuentro Internacional de Poetas en Zamora, Michoacán México 2010; Noches de Vino y Rosas, La Antología, New York 2010; Mujeres de Palabra Poética, donde además es una de los editores, New York 2010; y en Nostalgias de Arena (Antología Escritores Comunidades Dominicanas en los Estados Unidos) República Dominicana 2011. Sus cuentos han sido publicados en la revista literaria XALOC, Alicante España 2007. Fue finalista del concurso internacional de cuentos, Latin American Intercultural Alliance (LAIA). Ha publicado tres poemarios y un libro de narrativa: Una mujer: todas las mujeres, miCielo ediciones, México 2015, Viandante en Nueva York, Artepoética Press 2013 y Raga del Tiempo, 2009.  De segunda mano, Books&Smith New York Editors, 2018, es su más reciente libro de relatos.

La violencia de género, ese mal que se esparce sigilosamente por todos lados y del cual, muchas veces, no queremos hablar; quienes la hemos experimentado, sabemos de las cicatrices tan hondas que deja en sus víctimas: los círculos viciosos que son tan difíciles de, primero, descubrir y, después, de intentar romper, peor aún, de salir intactas. Violencia verbal, de omisión, física, psicológica, emocional donde es el miedo el que impone sus reglas para controlar, a quienes han caído en estas realidades, con una furia incontenible.

Osiris Mosquea en De segunda mano nos llena de imágenes contundentes a través de una prosa estructurada en microrrelatos y pigmeismos que, igual que la violencia, llega concentrada, a su máximo, de realidades desgarradoras y sin aviso. Acertadamente la elección narrativa de Mosquea intensifica el mensaje que nos quiere compartir: la violencia de género existe.

Mosquea es diestra como la mano que sostiene “algo fino y frío” que roza la garganta de una de las protagonistas quien apenas logra distinguir un sutil aroma “que trajo a su memoria contradictorios momentos”, único signo, que reconoce demasiado tarde, de un peligro mortal.  Osiris nos llena de sorpresas amargas, guía al lector a un lado y acabamos en otro, lo logra con exquisitez y un choque eléctrico nos sacude mientras leemos, “Después de escucharse un grito en aquella habitación de hotel, su gesto se transfiguró del placer al rictus de la muerte”. 

Por la naturaleza de su elección narrativa, microrrelatos y pigmeismos, las oraciones cortas hacen rápida la lectura de De segunda mano, amortiguan lo trágico de estos relatos pero siguen vibrando en nuestra mente e invitan a releerlos, a deshojar los varios niveles de interpretación en cada historia.  Las voces contenidas en estas páginas habitan lo doméstico, lo público y lo clandestino; la violencia de género está en todas partes y en todas las clases sociales; Mosquea también nos fuerza a replantearnos los esquemas de clase en nuestra sociedad y cómo están teñidos por ésta.

De segunda mano es un testimonio narrativo sobre la violencia de género.  Mosquea apuesta por la memoria y a través de sus personajes deja récord de situaciones que son familiares en contextos latinos.  Registra hechos, los ficcionaliza y en sus líneas, los recuerdos quedan escritos para que los leamos, reflexionemos y quizá, alguna víctima de este mal, logré verse reflejada y pueda escapar de esa realidad alterada que se filtra por los recovecos de la vida cotidiana. 

Las voces que Mosquea nos presenta son arquetípicas dentro de los cuadros donde la violencia de género existe.  Mosquea las identifica, las analiza, las recrea, la mayor parte del tiempo en primera persona, y empatizamos con cada una de ellas en las páginas de De segunda mano. 

Padecemos la angustia que una migrante caribeña, en medio del mar, siente al intuir que por estar menstruando, condición natural de la mujer, será arrojada para evitar que los tiburones ataquen la pequeña embarcación donde va, ““Así es la vaina.  Las mujeres con la luna no se montan en mi yola, los tiburones la huelen y se jode to. Entonces no hay más remedio que dárselas de comer””.  Nos sentimos asfixiadas y marchitas junto con la protagonista de “Toda llena de nostalgia”, “Desde hacía muchos años había dejado de ser mujer para ser solamente madre y esposa…para que no olvidara el hábito de madrugar y saberse muerta en vida” y queremos romper las cadenas psicológicas que la atan.  O empatizamos con otro de sus personajes y salimos corriendo como ella en las páginas para ser libres, “Me sentí libre.  Muy adolorida y con un par de costillas rotas decidí huir, entonces corrí, corrí como loca, riendo a carcajada por toda la calle”.  ¿Es que acaso las mujeres tenemos que ganarnos la libertad? ¿No es la libertad un derecho de todo ser humano? Mosquea también nos invita a reflexionar sobre la condición de libertad en esta colección.

Mas sus personajes no son solo mujeres.  Están los niños, muchas veces testigos silenciosos en los relatos, otras veces, víctimas de los tíos que visitan a las madres una vez por la semana, “Mi tío juega conmigo, sus manos son suaves y ligeras, que hasta me hacen sentir fiebre y sus piernas bien duras.  Siempre me dice que me quiere como un padre y que debo ser un niño bueno y obediente” y otras como perpetradores de los círculos de violencia doméstica, “Mi padre no era tan malo, solo que era un hombre embrutecido por el alcohol. Así era su padre y el padre de su padre y así dice él que voy a ser yo cuando sea hombre.  Por eso no quiero crecer y ser un hombre”.

También están las mujeres vengadoras, que de una u otra forma escapan de la violencia inmediata, “Cuando ya el cuerpo de su esposo había perdido la altivez (su rostro había quedado sin expresión, su boca era una muesca de donde no saldrían más las palabras y sus ojos eran dos bolas vidriosas y frías), ella, lentamente se llevó la copa de vino a la boca” pero, ¿rompen en realidad con el círculo de violencia? “Tuve que degollarlo como se degüella un toro inservible”. 

Desde el título, De segunda mano, Mosquea reta al lector, ¿somos, las mujeres, ciudadanas de segunda mano? Acertada selección de palabras para cuestionar la condición y estatus de la mujer en el mundo, por otra mujer, narradora y poeta; no hace quinientos años, sino, hoy, en pleno siglo XXI.  Agradezco que Mosquea rompa el silencio, cómplice de la maldad, apueste por la memoria y deje plasmadas estas voces no solo en el papel sino en nuestras conciencias.