"Wasn’t that the point of leaving everything behind to come to this country? To live entirely unlike who they might have been on the island?”
These thoughts of Charo, one of the main characters of Alejandro Heredia's forthcoming book, Loca (Simon & Schuster, February 2025), encapsulate the novel’s narrative thread. In it, readers follow two young people, Charo and Sal, growing up in the Dominican Republic and struggling to be their authentic selves – Charo because she chafes against the limits of the traditional role of wife and mother, and Sal because he is eager to live as a gay man fully and without fear. They see a new life in the United States as a fresh start, where they can be the people they want to be. However, their pasts are not easily left behind and, ultimately, they learn that they won’t find themselves by running away, but by running back.
For me, Loca represents everything I love about literature: that I, a middle-aged white woman in the upper Midwest, can open a book and drop into a world I would otherwise never experience. Suddenly, I’m sitting in an apartment in the Bronx or walking in a park in the Dominican, in a body very different than my own. Heredia maintained this feeling of embodiment through the use of Spanish throughout. Sometimes I knew the words, sometimes looked them up, sometimes I gleaned meaning from context, and sometimes I left the Spanish phrases unknown and let myself sit with the reminder that I am from outside this community.
One of my favorite passages was when Sal and his friend, Yadiel, someone much more at ease with his queerness, are drinking coffee at La Cafetería Colonial. Though male, they refer to each other as loca: “They’ve been doing this new thing where they refer to each other in feminine pronouns, and it feels good. Simple. Like seeing each other better.” I loved the idea of them taking a language structured around the binary of male and female and carving out a space for themselves inside it.
There were times as I read, particularly in Sal’s point of view, where he didn’t seem emotionally connected to the events in the book, some extremely violent and terrifying, and so I didn’t either. Sal ruminates about them (the word “think(s)” is used 220 times in the book – thanks Kindle! – and usually associated with Sal.) There are benefits and disadvantages to Sal’s thoughtfulness – readers have direct access to the thoughts of a person they might not under other circumstance have access to, but because the events and experiences are screened through Sal’s thoughts, they remain distant.
To me, Charo was more present on the page, more actionable. While Sal was thinking, she was doing: working, cleaning, partying, writing, driving. She also tried to get other characters to do things: Sal to make phone calls; Ella to sing. I felt more connected to her and invested in her story as the book unfolded.
In the end, neither Sal nor Charo has left everything behind, and neither lives entirely unlike who they might have been in Santo Domingo. But they’ve learned that their identities are rooted within themselves rather than in the place where they live. I was glad to go on the journey with them.
Thank you to NetGalley and Simon & Schuster for the advanced copy. The cover art drew me in and the sentences made me stay.