Unraveling Identity in "La mala costumbre"
When I first picked up La mala costumbre by Alana S. Portero, I was immediately drawn in by the promise of a raw yet poetic exploration of identity, resilience, and the societal landscapes that shape us. Statements by the author that the book shouldn’t be confined to a mere “LGBT label” intrigued me, hinting at the depth and breadth of her narrative. This wasn’t just a story about being different; it was a poignant reflection of a reality that many know all too well—growing up in a world that often feels intolerant.
Alana S. Portero invites us into the world of San Blas, a working-class neighborhood in the periphery of Madrid during the tumultuous 1980s and 90s. Through the eyes of a young trans girl grappling with her identity, we witness not just the brutality of societal rejection but also the tender moments of her childhood among the shadows of drug addiction and poverty. The contrast between the harsh realities of her environment and her dreams of self-actualization creates a narrative that’s both disheartening and uplifting.
The first-person narrative is strikingly powerful. Portero navigates between gritty realism and heartfelt tenderness, capturing the duality of a life lived in secrecy. One memorable quote from the book, resonating deeply with me, is when the protagonist reflects on the solitude of hiding her true self, a reality that many readers can empathize with. This duality expands throughout the narrative, showcasing her struggle to navigate a world that demands conformity while she yearns to live authentically.
What truly stands out in Portero’s writing is her vibrant depiction of the multicultural fabric of Madrid during this era. With a loving yet critical eye, she paints a picture of a city full of contradictions—the camaraderie of her neighbors who work tirelessly to keep their families afloat, alongside those who exploit vulnerability. This love for Madrid feels palpable, especially in her descriptions of the emerging Chueca, where pockets of acceptance begin to blossom.
The supporting characters are just as rich as the setting. People like Margarita, Eugenia, and Jay weave in and out of the protagonist’s life, providing pockets of refuge and understanding. They represent chosen family in its most authentic form, showing that love and acceptance can come from unexpected places. Their presence underscores one of the book’s vital themes: community can be a lifeline amidst despair.
As I turned the pages, I felt the emotional weight of the narrative—moments of despair that leave you breathless and instances of quiet joy that resonate deeply. The ending, a cathartic release, left me with a sense of hope layered with the poignant reminder of the journey that continues for many.
In conclusion, La mala costumbre is not just a story about being different; it’s an exploration of survival, acceptance, and the quest for identity in a world that often feels unwelcoming. I wholeheartedly recommend this book to anyone interested in a nuanced portrayal of gender identity intertwined with a rich cultural landscape. Whether you’re familiar with the struggles of growing up in a marginalized community or simply seeking a powerful narrative to inspire change, Portero’s work promises to touch your heart as it did mine. This book remains a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, urging us all to embrace our true selves in a world that can be so unkind.