For a long time, I let my mother say what she wanted about me, and what was worse, for a long time I believed her.

Then you look at her and smile a smile your dissembling face will remember until the day you die. Baby, you say, baby, this is part of my novel. This is how you lose her.

I am a chatty person, but colossally discreet.

As expected: she, the daughter of the Fall, recipient of its heaviest radiation, loved atomically.

I think a lot of the most interesting immigrant writing involves stepping outside of that old, dreary binary. Chang-rae Lee's Native Speaker is a great example. Same goes for Maxine Hong Kingston's The Woman Warrior.

Of course we all know that's not how life works. The novel that is our life can end at any time. Sometimes even on page one.

As a Dominican man, you're socialized to be a playboy. You spend a lot of time being taught that women are important, but without the really positive framework of why. You figure out quickly it's because of culo (ass). But there is a sense that it's not that simple.