Central American Authors Are Finally Having Their Moment — & I’m Thrilled

Growing up, I had no idea how much I craved to see myself and my culture in stories — on the big and little screens, in novels, and even in history books. Everything changed for me, though, in my early teen years when I discovered Honduran-American actress America Ferrera in Real Women Have Curves. It felt like a lightbulb had gone off in my brain where endless possibilities started to take shape. And as Ferrera’s star power grew with The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and later Ugly Betty, a voice told me that Hondurans had a place in the arts — we could be actors, producers, screenwriters, and more. I sought more representation, and as a story lover, I turned to books, but unfortunately, I had difficulty finding myself reflected on the pages. 

The Latine canon is vast. From Nicholasa Mohr and Esmeralda Santiago to Veronica Chambers and Angie Cruz, we have no shortage of amazingly talented authors to read and recommend to our book besties. Yet, despite this, there is still a lack of diversity within the publishing industry, which affects the books and authors that publishers uplift. The data backs this up. Grassroots organizations People of Color in Publishing and Latinx in Publishing conducted a Workplace Racism Survey that showcased how unwelcome people of color felt at publishing houses. Sixty-one percent of respondents said they had to modify themselves to fit in. One person surveyed said, “I often had to soften my POV or critiques to minimize the tension and diffuse the defensiveness.” PEN America also conducted an analysis of the industry in its Reading Between the Lines Report, with a section dedicated to addressing “how the lack of staff diversity impedes the autonomy and authority of editors and executives of color, and limits the books that are acquired and how they are marketed and sold.” 

Last year, Texas Rep. and author Joaquin Castro noted in a Publishers Weekly article that “Publishers are Failing Latino Stories.” I agree; we still see little Central American stories and even fewer Honduran ones. 

There is hope, though. Just in the last five years, the industry has published a noticeable number of Central American authors. Just this year my anthology — The Black Girl Survives in This One, co-edited with Desiree S. Evans — published to wonderful success. And I have enjoyed seeing other Central American authors with books out this year making a splash as well, like Karla Tatiana Vasquez with The SalviSoul Cookbook, Gina Maria Balibera with The Volcano Girls, Ruben Reyes' with There is a Rio Grande in Heaven, Prisca Dorcas Mojica Rodriguez (September) with Tías and Primas, and Jessica Hoppe with First in the Family (September), to name a few. 

I recently spoke with a few authors to reflect on the importance of telling our stories from a Central American lens as well as their thoughts on finally seeing more of us getting book deals and the praise we so rightfully deserve. 

I grew up in a small town in suburban New Jersey, feeling invisible and having my identity denigrated, so seeing Central American colleagues get deals and praise is inspiring. It allows you to see a path toward a vibrant career with authors with whom you can be in dynamic community and conversation. 

Discovering the work of Sheila Maldonado was a breakthrough moment for me. Her poetry was infused with nuance and particularities I could deeply identify with as a Honduran woman who also claimed their Caribbean identity — that truly felt like a homecoming, not to mention the permission it gave me to write unabashedly about my experience.

Central American stories are essential because future generations deserve to see bookshelves filled with books that validate and affirm the spectrum of Central American experiences.

As someone who grew up in Miami where Cuban stories took center stage, I missed out on that wonderfully fulfilling feeling that comes from not having to explain yourself. I remember in a writing group in 2022, I read a very millennial Nicaraguan immigrant story and cried involuntarily. Having our experiences normalized because they are normal to us, means so much to those of us who don’t experience that in the diaspora. 

It’s intoxicating to see other Central Americans get book deals. And making our Central America experiences part of our stories and book deals does not feel real yet. And I do believe that is how we get in. We are coming in with years of stories underneath our wings, and we’re ready to soar. That’s never felt more obvious.

I first read Yesika Salgado’s poems in 2013 or 2014, and her poetry took my breath away. My paternal family line is Salvi; my grandfather was an immigrant from El Salvador in Nicaragua. But he died before I got to meet him, and reading Salvi poets gives me a glimpse into that part of my family line. It has connected me to a well of Salvi storytelling that I know I have been missing. 

I also grew up with my own Central American family telling me stories, and I absorbed that like a sponge. I grew up with our stories as my entire essence. They formed me and made me the writer I am today. 

Because I'm Central American, it is not possible for me to tell a story that is not inherently filtered through a Central American lens. Being Central American informs the way I move through the world as an individual, but it also shapes what I recognize as a story and my inclination toward certain types of stories and storytelling moves and techniques. 

The lack of representation is painful. We are an underserved community that has for a long time had our story and personhood told for us, not by us. 

A few years ago, when I first moved to the U.S., the only times I'd see Honduras acknowledged by the media was in an explicitly xenophobic vein. This was back when the first few caravans of people walking to the United States-Mexico border from San Pedro Sula began. While I can't say the way the general media discusses Honduras and other Central American countries has changed, I feel tremendously lucky and excited for the slowly growing representation I have gotten to see in the last few years, specifically in literature. And yet, I want more. 

Once upon a time, I thought it was incredible that Central American stories were being acknowledged as a specific subgroup of Latin America at all — because for a long time it felt like if I saw any Latine stories, it was either Mexican or Colombian or Puerto Rican. And these stories are still hard to come by and extremely important. But we need to go even further. Within Central America itself, there are dozens of groups of Indigenous people that do not necessarily align themselves with the nationality of the geographical space they exist in; peoples that are ignored and invisibilized by their countries even more so than the majority-Mestizo population. I love that Libertad gets to exist in the world — I would have given anything to read a queer YA about a girl from Tegucigalpa when I was a teenager, but I'm still someone who within Honduras itself has much more visibility than others. And we need their stories, too — desperately. 

I feel excited and hopeful whenever I learn of a new Central American writer receiving the attention and space they deserve. I remember the first time I held a book by a Honduran writer in the U.S., Catrachos by Roy G. Guzmán. It meant the world to me. Or when I saw Wild Tongues Can't be Tamed announced — I couldn't believe it. Most recently, I was floored by John Manuel Arias' Where There Was Fire and Javier Zamora's Solito. My thoughts are this is long overdue; give us more — more space, more stories, more. 

There are many Central American authors who have inspired me, but I don't think I could've written Libertad if Edgar Gomez hadn't written High-Risk Homosexual. I sobbed throughout that whole book; still do when I re-read it today. Anything Gomez writes reminds me I — a queer Central American — am not only possible but beautiful.