Isabel Quintero and her ex-husband find the perfect tacos to eat at the end of their marriage.
While a writer searched for her Latinidad, a narcissistic abuser exploiting his status as a Cuban dissident found her.
Organizers of Giovanni's Room unite to honor literary ancestors
A Latina calls out the city of Seattle for its social chilliness.
I was lost. Although I had never imagined myself as a mother at the time, I knew it couldn't happen the way it was going to. I was despondent and caught in a physically, emotionally and sexually abusive relationship. I didn't need a child. I needed help. During this terrible time, I experienced a clear realization that if I went forth with this pregnancy, my baby would suffer.
After a gang unit stopped my 14 year old cousin for driving in a stolen hoopty, they took her to Eastlake Juvenile Hall and handed her over to a new abuser: a cop.
An older homegirl, a hood mom whom Desiree considered her mentor, announced, "I'm jumping you in."
Myriam Gurba writes about her cousin Desiree, female gangsters, cholas, Mexican bad asses with big hair, and the criminalization of survivors.
Mariana Enriquez’s The Dangers of Smoking in Bed joins the ranks of magic realism's finest short story writers with a group of off-kilter tales enlivened by captivating unease.
It's no secret that the US has long undermined self-governance in Latin America while pretending to be the greatest exporter of democracy in human history. I recall an aphorism attributed to Porfirio Diíaz, "Mexico, so far from God, so close to the United States." With that lens, I see this coup attempt as evidence of how weak US institutions, beliefs, and democracy truly are.
féi hernandez writes poetry con y del corazón. Their new collection, Hood Criatura, tells emotionally intimate stories crafted in imagistic Spanglish.
Eating while beautiful isn't heroic. Neither is rubbing glitter into your butt's stretchmarks: Myriam Gurba on the weaponization of body positivity by Hilaria Baldwin and others.
Revisiting one of our favorite pieces from Tasteful Rude: “Are you Black?” my first crush, a white boy, asked me as we played together in the sandbox at school. I wasn’t sure. I thought of my nickname “negrita” but I didn’t know how to explain that I’m the darkest in my family or why it seemed perfectly natural to be identified by my pigmentation. When I couldn’t answer, he ran away from me.