Uncomfortable for its trauma, multi-multi-generational and recognizable and so brutal. Uncomfortable also because there’s this problem I have with some memoirs: the people being written about aren’t there to defend themselves nor even present their versions of stories. Figueroa acknowledges trauma and systemic racism and patterns of abuse and toxic masculinity on one hand, while on the other demonstrating (IMO) little compassion toward the people in her life who are products of those. She comes off as a lost soul, desperately grasping for meaning and relevance; this does not always end well.
Unrated. I didn’t especially enjoy reading this, and am not likely to recommend it to friends, but I wish Figueroa success with this book. My sincere hope is that she found the writing cathartic and healing, and can use it to break the chain of abuse.
