WHY I WRITE
No Soy Gabriela
It was New Year’s Eve in Guadalajara and we were celebrating the march of time with my abuelitos. Their home moldered in a neighborhood called Mezquitan Country, and because a hamburger stand operated across the street, the house often smelled of charbroiled beef. In the living room, we arranged seats in a shape that a generous observer might’ve described as circular. Tortas
