by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez
2004 St. Martin’s Press

First sentence: There were times that made me s’dang proud to be a Mexican I wept ’til my mascara melted—say, when Vincente Fernandez sang “Cielito Lindo” for the Republican National Convention in 2000.
All-time worst title for a book: “Playing With Boys”
Only way to make it worse: “Playing With Little Boys”
Way to make it funnier: “Playing With Boys While Dressed as the Easter Bunny”
Way to make it a horror novel: “She Played With Boys”
Way to make it a tragic but ultimately heart-warming story of an impoverished family during the Jim Crow era of the Deep South: “Mama Played With the Boys”

[2024 note: I’ve redacted most of this entry because in retrospect it’s a little too edgelord-y and honestly not that funny. I’ve left the post here because I still like the introduction, and to demonstrate the importance of maturing as an artist and disavowing your younger, stupider self when possible. That said, I thought this book was shitty.]

Other reviews: Fresh Fiction, Book Reporter

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