Tomas Gutierrez

November 17, 2022

Hunger of Memory

By Richard Rodriguez
This reading is about Richard Rodriguez and how his childhood and family life was
essential ruined by assimilating to the 'American' way. He went from being a scared student that
didn't know English to being a normal American kid who was accepted in American society. But
in the process, he lost the closeness of his family. His family was embarrassed to speak English
because they weren't good at it and they didn't want to look stupid. The same was for Richard in
class, he was scared to speak because the other kids would make fun of him. When his family
made the decision to speak English at home is when Richard thinks that made the closeness that
his family had, disappear. In the Spanish community, the household is a very sacred place and is
cherished, and Richard thinks because his family was faced with assimilation, that destroyed the
closeness, of his heritage. The quote "The house I returned to each afternoon was quiet. Intimate
sounds no longer rushed through the door to greet me." shows what Richard was talking about
and how he felt that that closeness was gone. I can relate to this reading in a different way.
Before I got into sports I was always home just hanging out with the family, always having fun.
Once I got into sports and became good, I was never home anymore, and no one was ever home
at the same time. I became close with my father because he was always with me, but I was
distanced from my mom, brother, and sister because I never saw them anymore. I essentially
traded family for soccer and sports. Richard was forced to trade his family for assimilation. Have
taken Caliban’s advice. I have stolen their books. I will have some run of this isle.Once upon a
time, I was a “socially disadvantaged” child. An enchantedly happychild.Mine was achildhoodof
intense family closeness. And extreme public alienation.Thirty years later I write this book as a
middle-class American Man. Assimilated.Dark-skinned. To be seen at a Belgravia dinner party.
Or in New York.Exotic in a tuxedo. My face isdrawn to severe Indian features which would pass
notice on the page of aNational Geographic, but at a cocktailparty in Bel Air, somebody
wonders: “Have you ever thought of doing any high-fashion modeling? Take this card. In
Beverly Hills will this monster make a man.)A lady in a green dress asks, “Didn’t we meet at
the Thompson’s party last month in Malibu? “And, “What do you do, Mr. Rodriguez I I am a
writer. A part-time writer. When I began this book, five years ago, a fellowship bought me a
year of continuous silence in my San Francisco apartment. But the words wouldn’t come. The
money ran out. So I was forced to take temporary jobs. Have friends who, with a phone call, can
find me well-paying work. In the past months, I have found myself in New York. In Los Angeles.
Working. With money. Among people with money. And at leisure a weekend guest in
Connecticut; at a cocktail party in Bel Air. Perhaps because I have always, accidentally, been a
classmate to children of rich parents, I long ago came to assume my association with their
world; came to assume that I could have money if it was money Wanted. But money. big money
has never been the goal of my life.