Authors' Sala continues reading series June 16, 2006
By Linda Sorin

The San Miguel Authors' Sala continues its special series with a second evening of its very popular readings from works in progress. Two writers, Lynda Schor and Halvard Johnson, will read fiction and poetry, respectively.

Lynda Schor is the author of three books of short fiction, Appetites, True Love & Real Romance, and, most recently, The Body Parts Shop. Her articles and stories have been published in many magazines and anthologies, including Ms. Magazine, Playboy, GQ, Mademoiselle, Fiction, Witness and Gargoyle, among others. Her stories have been nominated for an O'Henry Award, and she has won a number of grants and awards, including two Maryland State Arts Council grants.

She is the fiction editor of the online literary magazine Salt River Review. She lives in New York City.
Excerpt from the story "The History of My Breasts," from the short story collection The Body Parts Shop (Fiction Collective 2) by Lynda Schor:


Boob Ambivalence

They didn't swell particularly early, my breasts. Some of my friends had breasts before I did. And they didn't grow particularly quickly. I almost didn't notice how large they'd become. Like most of my friends I was anxious to wear what they then called a "training bra" (apt phrase), which was probably to get a young woman used to the strain of straps, the feel of an elastic harness. But how joyfully we embraced that harness, that emblem of our womanhood, which we often stuffed with tissues to make us seem more developed than we were.

"You're really maturing," noted my mom one morning, while stirring boiling water into our instant Maxwell House, all I ever had for breakfast. But what did she mean by "maturing"? Her voice betrayed a combination of pride and disgust, joy and fear, pleasure and envy. I was wearing my hot pink sweater, slim skirt, and white bucks. My mother's own large breasts swung nearly to her waist; her dark nipples were visible through the white cotton nightgown. I didn't want breasts like hers. Already I was realizing that perhaps I'd need a different lifestyle.

My own close friends began to act strangely. Didi and Rose wouldn't accept my invitations to sleepovers. Lana praised my breasts, studied them. "Hey, these are like amazing. They're like … whatever.…" She ran her fingers, her bitten green nails, over their white softness, touched the delicate, pointed tip of her tongue to each cerise nipple-and then never spoke to me again.

The boys at school (along with calling out comments) began bumping into me. My mother was upset by my tears. When she came home from work we'd make dinner together, grilled cheese on rye. "Your breasts are gorgeous," she said. "I can't think of anyone else in the family with them. See? You`re unique," she said, her mouth full of American.


Boob Power

Mr. Pincer, who also taught Physical Education and Hygiene along with Cultural Values, was very sympathetic. One day he gave me detention, as if all the hubbub in gym was my fault. As if any of it was my fault. I was a victim of my breasts. 

I no longer took pleasure in being unique. Unique is another word for freak. I sat in homeroom trying to study, but I couldn't concentrate. Mr. Pincer squeezed into the seat near mine. He was stocky, and it was a tight fit. In spite of myself, I smiled. He wasn't too old, and he was kind of cute. I liked the way he couldn't keep his light-brown straight hair off his forehead. He'd push it back with his stubby palm and one second later it was covering his forehead again. Maybe he felt sorry for me. I was too ashamed to speak, nor was I sure what anything was about. He moved close to me. His voice was husky, like Alec Baldwin's. "Indeed," he said, "the prohibition against open revelation of the breast is one of the few remaining sacred elements of western culture. Do you honestly wish to desacralize it further in the name of 'equality'? In Central Africa, where the period of weaning is often traditionally far longer than it is in the West (with breast feeding continuing for a period of years, as it did in the tradition of the Oglala Sioux and other indigenous peoples in the Americas) the breast did not diminish in importance as an object of symbolic interest. The difference between present-day American culture and these indigenous traditions is basically that we-all of us-were weaned too early. We still want to suck."

Mr. Pincer offered to drive me home. He parked his white Hyundai Excel a few blocks from my house. I felt nervous and excited. Mr. Pincer was trembling. "May I?" he whispered. 

He placed his shaking fingers under my sweater until I felt them vibrate near my nipple. He breathed in sharply as if he'd had an electric shock, then sighed, and closed his eyes. His fingers articulated my shape. He sighed rhythmically, and then began to moan and make inarticulate cries, which I found I understood better than his lessons in Cultural Values.

I felt like he was learning from me. I let him touch me for a while, and by the time I pulled my sweater down again, Mr. Pincer looked like a dead jellyfish, transparent and limp. His head rested on the headrest. He emitted very low moans. I got out of the car and ran home. My book bag felt light. I felt light. I felt good.

San Miguel Authors
Works in Progress by Lynda Schor & Halvard Johnson
Friday, May 19, 5-7pm
Posada San Francisco, Plaza Principal 2
50 Pesos, Includes Wine Reception
Everyone welcome


Cohan reads from newest book

Author Tony Cohan reads from and discusses his new book, Mexican Days: Journeys into the Heart of Mexico (Broadway Books). Cohan's On Mexican Time, his chronicle of discovering a new life in San Miguel, has beguiled readers and become a travel classic. Now, in Mexican Days, point of arrival becomes point of departure as Cohan undertakes a richer, wider exploration of the country he has settled in.

The reading takes place on Thursday, June 29, at 6pm at the Bellas Artes Auditorium in the Centro Cultural El Nigromante. Cohan's book is an enticing catalog of the author's travels: the misty mountains and coastal Caribbean towns of Vera Cruz; the ruins and resorts of Yucatán; the stirring indigenous world of Chiapas; the markets and galleries of Oaxaca; the teeming labyrinth of Mexico City; the remote Sierra Gorda mountains; the haunted city of Guanajuato; and the evocative Mayan ruins of Palenque. Along the way he encounters expatriates and artists, shady operatives and surrealists, and figures from his past before returning home to San Miguel. 

Of Mexican Days, The Christian Science Monitor has said: "It is this ability of Mexico to surprise, to intrigue, and to enchant that Tony Cohan captures so well … A basket of riches." The Los Angeles Times: "The phrase 'magical travel realism' keeps springing to mind. Cohan can make a reader smell the orchids and coffee, feel the mist and shrouds of jungle fog. Mexican Days is a standout." The Toronto Globe and Mail: "Few write more knowledgeably and sympathetically about Mexico than Tony Cohan. These 18 sketches, gleaned from a year-long ramble through the country's interior, are intimate, often sensual, evocations of Mexican life." 

Cohan is also the author of the memoir Native State (a Los Angeles Times Notable Book of the Year) and the novels Opium and Canary (a New York Times Notable Book of the Year). His articles, essays and reviews have appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Los Angeles Times, The Guardian, and Condé Nast Traveler. 
Books will be sold after the reading, and the author will be happy to sign them.

Reading by Tony Cohan
Thursday, June 29, 6pm
Bellas Artes auditorium, Hernández Macías 75