Miss Loreta / Broken Boy

About the Book

A pioneer of local trans literature and a beacon for dissident writing, Susy Shock presents two stories that transcend established forms and blend traditional neatly defined, clearly identifiable gender boundaries.

In a nation—and a literary tradition—built on a trail of dichotomies, her transvestite narrative carries the power of thinking beyond the binary (or the most recent “divide”). From the pages of Miss Loreta and Broken Boy (La Loreta and Pibe Roto), Susy Shock deploys all of her creative arsenal, with her powerful, resonant voice, to tell two love stories: the first one is about friendship, and the second one, about romantic, sexual, revolutionary love.

Excerpt

Miss Vicky had to pay a much heavier toll than other girls when it came to Miss Juana, and if it hadn’t been for Miss Loreta, always there to mediate between the two of them, she might have ended up being hurt; because Miss Juana couldn’t forgive her for “being a woman” in tranny territory. Also there was the fact that “this wannabe” had completed high school and occasionally dreamed—way too loudly for Miss Juana's taste—of getting into medical school and making a better life for herself, and, to top it all off, she was one of the few who didn’t need to wear contact lenses and could show off those natural sky-blue eyes of hers, which almost all the others faked to mimic a Western, well-regarded look, believing that this would attract more clients.

That was why Miss Loreta put distance between them—distance measured both in square meters and in words—to spare everyone the trouble and resentment, because she knew perfectly well what Miss Juana was capable of. Nobody had told her. She herself had had those tranny hands around her neck, that afternoon when a joke went wrong, when, after a stupid argument, she insulted her and made the mistake of saying she was the spitting image of her father, that drunken, violent, soulless man from Tucumán, that small province in the North of Argentina. That was just what came to mind and she shouted at her—she who never mentioned his name, who claimed to be fatherless, missing a last name; she was “Miss Juana,” plain and simple, which was why she chose to walk around without papers rather than bear that cursed stamp. And just as determined, she didn’t hesitate to blindly pounce on her like a raging she-monkey. It was only when Miss Loreta stared at her, almost out of breath, trapped under her brutish grip, in what was almost her last desperate plea for mercy, that she did relent from her fury—only to stay away from home for days, something these friends never, ever spoke about. That boundary was seared into them, like sex for the first time, that pact of silent sisterhood that, in a sissy sort of way, they all accept and adopt under the compelling force of instinct.

Once again, well into the night, Miss Loreta caught that same fire in her friend’s eyes as she turned back to snap a retort to Miss Vicky after some back-and-forth or other. She pretended to break a heel and even fall over to draw everyone’s attention away, and defuse the tension caused by that furious monkey of a woman reappearing once more. Nothing coming from Miss Vicky ever seemed to sit right with the girl from the North. She’d hear that Buenos Aires accent, and she’d already be steaming out her nostrils: “Miss Future Doctor” was one of the newest faces in this part of town, and according to Miss Juana, she was taking advantage of the fact that Miss Loreta liked her to keep clawing her way up.

Miss Juana: “One day she’s going to stab you in the back.” 

Miss Loreta: “Enough with the drama, you.” 

Miss Juana: “Keep playing Mother Superior, and you’ll see how this all ends.” 

Miss Loreta: “She’s a good woman, give her a chance.”

Miss Juana: “She’s a woman—that’s enough for me.” 

Miss Loreta: “Where did you come from? A mushroom?”

Vicky was fifteen when she ran away from home, fleeing an abusive father and a mother who refused to see what was happening under her own roof and who accused her of being the one who was asking for it. The girl didn’t say a single word; she just grabbed her handbag with a few things she could find on her way out and left, first to a friend’s house, then to another’s, and eventually to the streets. That’s why she couldn’t finish high school; in fact, it wasn’t even clear if she’d ever started. But the thing is, she was so well-read, so curious, that it seemed like she knew everything. Whatever topic came up, she had it mastered, and with that sky-blue gaze, it even seemed as if everything she said was true. “Far too fanciful,” according to Miss Juana; “too smart,” according to Miss Loreta. The thing is, she could do math so fast: every time the police car pulled over, and they named the amount the chief demanded as a weekly toll so they wouldn't be arrested and could work in peace, she’d divide it in her head, in a flash, and the calculation was done. She used that same knack in her final gesture toward Miss Juana, figuring out the exact amount they all had to chip in to pay for her dead friend’s coffin, and immediately after, those sky-blue eyes became foggy with a few respectful, wordless tears, as the only possible way to fill the stingy, brief silence.

Translated by Sandra Botta - Edited by Cecilia Della Croce