Dan Johnson does a beautiful in-depth analysis of Guillermo del Toro's Frankenstein.

Diego Rivera reviews LatinoLand through an insightful analysis and gets to the book's core arguments and delivery.

United States of Banana: A Graphic Novel is a work of metamorphoses and becomings, masterfully achieved through the image-inspiring words of iconic Latinx poet and radical thinker Giannina Braschi and the artwork of Joakim Lindengren, whose illustrations give them a bizarre and beautiful twist.

Daniel Chacón's fiction doesn't just cross borders; it questions the very nature of boundaries themselves.

Anzaldúa's work is central to my research interests, particularly materials related to children's and young adult literature, queer femininity, and water imagery in folkloric contexts.

This refreshing novel weaves together the story of forgotten Cuban artist Anita de Monte in the 1980s and Puerto Rican-American Raquel Toro in the late 1990s. Anita battles marginalization in the art world and oppression from her abusive husband—even after her death. A decade later, Raquel navigates her identity as a Latina at Brown University, constantly reminded of her supposed inferiority in elite spaces.

Living as I do, entre mundos/between moving worlds, I hope to continue to tell stories that illuminate, resist, and heal.

"Oh, I auditioned for that show, but I heard they were going ethnic." Imagine sitting at a table with other women in the acting industry and hearing this, knowing you were the "ethnic hire". This was Stephanie Beatriz's reality when she landed the role of Rosa Diaz on Brooklyn Nine-Nine. She recounts this uncomfortable memory on the More Better  podcast she co-hosts with Melissa Fumero. Perhaps the woman meant to say, "I'm happy to see more representation on television"—at l

Chapa tells a new story for Malinalli, creating an environment where Malinalli has a chance to show herself in a way that history has not afforded her.

For too long, horror has spoken in a single accent—one that whispers of European castles, New England graveyards, and monsters born from traditions that never felt like home. But Our Shadows Have Claws (Hatchett, 2022) arrives like a long-overdue reckoning, and this time, the terror speaks in voices I recognize, in languages that feel like family.

Alejandro Heredia offers something far more valuable: the messy, beautiful truth of lives lived between languages, cultures, and identities

While the border is commonly depicted as a site of danger or crisis, Ruiz shows it as a place of community and care. Families move between cultures with ease, switching between Spanish and English, crossing bridges and borders not in fear but as a part of daily life. This depiction honors South Texas as complex, vibrant, and deeply American.

This is about stepping into a world of what-ifs and asking questions that can unravel everything.

It's a book for all time. It's the stories of working Chicanos who build the physical and cultural infrastructure of this country while being told they don't quite belong. Their stories will always matter. They will always need telling.

The film's "mash-up" approach risks reducing the Aztec Empire to a stylized backdrop—a commodity rather than a culture.

Genesis Stanley's Book Talk on Natasha Alford's Extraordinary Memoir, American Negra

This book is, in many ways, a love letter to the Southwest—especially Colorado and New Mexico.

Knowing the truth is painful, but liberating. Without it the scars will never heal.

My hope is that it makes its way to Latin America, to Guatemala, because this history isn't taught in schools there.

I'll be honest—I'm not a fan of demons. Or demon-related things. Suffice it to say I won't be re-watching The Exorcist   (1973) anytime...