One of the first things people will notice when reading Las Luchadoras is the presence of two languages living side by side. English and Spanish coexist on the page, sometimes within the same sentence. It can be a refreshing change of pace for some, and can definitely be unfamiliar territory for others.
That reaction is precisely why bilingualism in this story matters. Most stories tend to shy away from this form of writing, whether it is in dialect, vernacular, or in how the author writes it. But in bringing attention to it here, I’m not framing it as some ‘thing’ that this book has. I don’t want to make it the hook to latch on to, but something that is an additive extra, a point of interest for the narrative as its own thing, and for the book as a product.
For Esperanza—one of two protagonists, Spanish is not an accessory. It’s not there to add flavor or exoticism. It’s not meant to show off culture in neat, digestible pieces. Spanish is how she thinks, how she grieves, how she loves, how she remembers her mother. English, on the other hand, is how she survives institutions that were not built with her in mind. The constant movement between the two is not performative. It’s part of her, part of the world she lives in. It’s necessary.
Growing up bilingual often means being told, implicitly or explicitly, to compartmentalize yourself. One language is acceptable here. The other belongs at home. One version of you is easy to pronounce, easy to place. The other is “too much,” inconvenient, or misunderstood. That pressure doesn’t disappear with age. If anything, it becomes more subtle and more exhausting.
In Las Luchadoras, language reflects power. Who gets to speak comfortably? Who is forced to translate themselves—literally or emotionally? Esperanza’s experience as a bilingual medical scribe was especially important to me when writing this book. She is positioned as a bridge between patients and providers, yet that role comes with invisible labor. She hears fear first. She absorbs grief first. She understands nuances that charts and checkboxes never will. Bilingualism, in real life and in this story, is emotional labor nobody can ever measure.
I chose not to italicize Spanish words or over-explain them because that, too, is a statement. Bilingual readers do not need footnotes to understand themselves, and monolingual readers are capable of sitting with a moment of not knowing. That discomfort mirrors the daily reality of so many people who are expected to adapt constantly while others never have to.
One language stays in the heart, and the other in the mind. Both are part of one’s identity, one’s memory and belonging. Language is survival. In Las Luchadoras, bilingualism is not a quirk of character, but a core truth they inhabit.