If my judgments on books actually meant something, I'd have to recuse myself from saying how much I liked [a:Quiara Alegría Hudes|1083742|Quiara Alegría Hudes|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1610049042p2/1083742.jpg]'s [b:My Broken Language|54997060|My Broken Language|Quiara Alegría Hudes|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1612197082l/54997060.SY75.jpg|85777211].
 A lot of it takes place in Philadelphia, where I lived during much of the time she covers, and places match. The Duchamp gallery at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the Free Library. She even writes about the street I lived on for twenty years, and I think a neighbor I was friendly with may be one of her aunts. Another significant part of it takes place in Philadelphia's western suburbs, where I was born and raised and live now.
 It would be a great read for anyone no matter where they live, though, and it sold well. It does a lot of things I don't usually like, like jump around in time, and has tons of cultural references I'm not well read enough to get, but none of this detracted from it.

 Every book, a horizon. A world I had no prior access to. An eye-opening.
 Books from Dr. Phillips's class.
 Books from Giovanni's Room, Borders, and the Free Library of Philadelphia.
 Books from mom's favorite botánica.
 Books purchased by skipping meals for lunch money and walking home to save SEPTA fare.
Qui Que became two readers, split down the middle as if by an axe. There was real Quiara who read the book, same as ever. And there was What-If Quiara, who would never unearth the revelations in its pages. Each book became its presence and absence, its voice and its silence.
 Who would I be without Ralph Ellison? Without the battle royal's electric brutality? Without five words strung together: "I am an invisible man"?