As an old straight white guy, I was born into the demographic who tends to complain about the loss of "our" culture in this new era of diversity, as if we share the same background and it's somehow a threatened thing. We don't and it isn't. Personally, I'm loving the different voices that have gained a platform lately, especially in the genres of science fiction and horror. Sure, I don't always like the resulting novels but then I don't like everything written by old straight white guys either. I do like a lot of what's come my way lately and, living in the American southwest, I especially appreciate the recent wealth of novels exploring horror from a Latino perspective.

I read two of those this month—the other being Leopoldo Gout's “Piñata”—and they take a look at a consistent theme in very different ways. Their shared starting point is colonialism but not so much the actual invasion of Central America by conquistadors, which changed leaders and flags and built a substantial empire, and more the cultural ramifications of that act, the theft of a heritage, how it affected the identity of a people half a millennium later. There are a host of other similarities in what these two books explore but they differ considerably in how they do it.

For a start, the primary thrust of this one takes place entirely in the United States, where a lady of what I presume is Aztec heritage endures a troubled marriage. She's the Alejandra of the title and she was born in Texas to Mexican parents but was adopted at birth by white evangelical Christians, avatars of cultural repression in a clear reprise to the conquistadors. Sure, they don't rape her and kill her family, but they indoctrinate her in their ways and refuse to let her know the identity of her parents, even after she turns eighteen. So she turns to DNATree and figures it out herself.

As we begin, it's 2020 and Alejandra is living in Philadelphia with her husband and their three kids. It's an interesting relationship because it's not abusive in the usual senses but is still toxic for her. Matthew moved them to Philly for his job and he earns and provides well for his family, but there's no compassion and he treats her like he's hired her to do a job. There's no violence, whether sexual or otherwise, and he probably believes that he's doing a great job, but she's less a wife and more a combination maid, nanny and prostitute, there to take care of every need that he and the kids are ever going to have. He sees nothing wrong in that.

What this means to her is that she has nothing of her own, not even her name, because in America, a patriarchal society, she naturally took his. She has little idea of her heritage and almost nothing in the way of connection to it, beyond DNATree identifying her mother, Cathy, a lady who she found and connected with in Texas but sees little of now that she's moved to Philly. And so we read about it in her stead, initially all the way back to 1522 where we meet Atzi as the conquistadors show up.

Atzi's people are conquered, her family put to death and herself impregnated by an invader. She does commit suicide, but not out of any need for escape. She sacrifices herself to be part of a curse, agreeing to a deal with some sort of demon to destroy those who did this to her, down through their bloodlines. Her child is born with a birthmark, the same one that Alejandra has and now one of her own daughters. Clearly they're descendants but they share a generational responsibility that goes along with their generational trauma. She's simply yet to figure that out.

And that's where help comes in, because Matthew agrees that she should seek it, and she makes a fortuitous choice in Dr. Melanie Ortiz, not only a therapist but also a curandera. Melanie becomes a salvation, not through traditional therapy (though she provides that too) but through a connection to heritage and an understanding of what she owns up to experiencing. For a start, she sees visions of La Llorona, the crying woman of Mexican folklore, and her experiences, which Dr. Ortiz becomes a part of, go beyond mere visions.

I thoroughly enjoyed this tale not just of female empowerment, a suppressed woman discovering a way to bloom, but of cultural reclamation. I'm still not entirely sure what the demon is at the heart of the story, because it's not phrased in the traditional framework of any religion. It's some sort of creature from before, perhaps the source of the shadow archetype. What matters is that the ways to deal with it can be found and generational trauma can be ended. It was fascinating to me to see how what it did changed over the centuries but had a relatively consistent effect. Seeing how that manifested in past generations is a great way to see how it manifests today.

V. Castro's name has crossed my paths a few times, whether attached to her novel 'The Queen of the Cicadas' or her entry into the 'Aliens' expanded universe, 'Aliens: Vasquez', and it's always arrived in the company of positive comments. This is my first read by her but it certainly won't be the last. ~~ Hal C F Astell

For more titles by V. Castro click here