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Kinky Gazpacho: Life, Love & Spain (Wsp Readers Club) Paperback – May 26, 2009

by Lori L. Tharps (Author)

4.3 64 ratings

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Magazine writer and editor Lori Tharps was born and raised in the comfortable but mostly White suburbs of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where she was often the only person of color in her school and neighborhood. At an early age, Lori decided that her destiny would be discovered in Spain. She didn't know anyone from Spain, had never visited the country, and hardly spoke the language. Still, she never faltered in her plans to escape to the Iberian Peninsula.

Arriving in the country as an optimistic college student, however, Lori soon discovers Spain's particular attitude toward Blackness. She is chased down the street by the local schoolchildren and pointed at incessantly in public, and her innocent dreams of a place where race doesn't matter are shattered. The story would end there, except Lori meets and marries a Spaniard, and that's when her true Spanish adventure really begins.

Against the ancient backdrops of Cádiz and Andalucía, Lori starts the intricate yet amusing journey of rekindling her love affair with Spain and becoming a part of her new Spanish family. From a grandmother who spies on her to a grandfather who warmly welcomes her to town with a slew of racist jokes, the close-knit clan isn't exactly waiting with open arms. Kinky Gazpacho tells the story of the redeeming power of love and finding self in the most unexpected places.

At its heart, this is a love story. It is a memoir, a travel essay, and a glimpse into the past and present of Spain. As humorous and entertaining as such favorite travel stories as Under the Tuscan Sun, this book also unveils a unique and untold history of Spain's enduring connection to West Africa. Kinky Gazpacho celebrates the mysticism of travel and the joys of watching two distinct cultures connect and come together.

Print length

240 pages
Language

English
Publisher

Atria Books
Publication date

May 26, 2009
Dimensions

5.33 x 0.6 x 8.25 inches
ISBN-10

0743296486
ISBN-13

978-0743296489
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Editorial Reviews

Review

"With flawless agility, Tharps...juggles a coming-of-age story, a portrait of the writer as a young woman, a travel book and a detective story along with a memoir about learning to love oneself and one's world." -- Publishers Weekly (starred review)

"Joining the ranks of such fine books as Frances Mayes's Under the Tuscan Sun and Sarah Turnbull's Almost French, Lori Tharps takes us on an adventure of love, language, and travel. In her capable hands, it's not a small world after all -- but rather a big one, with much to discover and a great deal of fun to be had." -- Veronica Chambers, author of The Joy of Doing Things Badly and Kickboxing Geishas

"Kinky Gazpacho is not just a journey but a 'trip,' as they say. We encounter Frederick Douglass's hot descendant, Michael Jackson fans in Morocco, racist candies, and the love of a lifetime in a memoir that's sometimes heartbreaking, often hilarious, and always quirky." -- Asali Solomon, author of Get Down

About the Author

Lori L. Tharps is the author of Kinky Gazpacho: Life, Love & Spain, named by Salon.com as one of their top ten books for 2008, and the co-author of Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America. She is an assistant professor of journalism at Temple University in Philadelphia, PA, where she makes her home with her husband and family. She doesn’t have a nanny.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Kinky Gazpacho

1: International Day

Milwaukee, Wisconsin. 1980.

Third grade.

Right before dismissal.

We were sitting on the rug at the end of the day listening to Mrs. Fletcher explain about International Day. It was going to be something new and exciting and we were all going to participate. The gymnasium would be transformed into an international bazaar and there was going to be food and games and decorations from all over the world. I looked around at my classmates to see if anyone else thought this sounded exciting. Blank stares all around. Mrs. Fletcher continued, undeterred by our collective lack of enthusiasm. “So regular classes will be suspended for the entire day…,” she started, and then of course everyone perked up. “And we will spend the afternoon at the bazaar learning about different cultures. And the best part is you don’t have to wear your uniforms.” Some of the kids whooped and hollered at that. I didn’t really care. I actually liked my Black Watch plaid jumper with the gold buttons on the shoulders. It made me feel official. And my regular play clothes were not that cute anyway, thanks to having a mom who swore she could find the same designer clothing at the JCPenney warehouse that the other kids got from the Polo store and Laura Ashley.

Still, this bazaar thing had potential. I liked learning about different cultures and anything involving food and eating made me happy. My best friend was Japanese and I had already discovered a great love of tofu drenched in soy sauce. And thin, salty, crispy strips of seaweed made an excellent snack food. Thanks to Miko, I even knew how to say “grandma,” “grandpa,” and “soy sauce” in Japanese. And I could eat rice with chopsticks. Nobody else in my class could do that. I was about to raise my hand and offer up this bit of information to Mrs. Fletcher and the rest of my classmates when I remembered that Mrs. Fletcher had recently commented to my parents that I asked too many questions in class and needed to exercise some self-control. My mother, believing there was no such thing as too many questions, suggested I simply wait until the teacher was done talking before I shot my hand up in the air. “Just don’t interrupt her so much,” is what my mother told me, so I willed my hand still and waited for her to finish her instructions so I could share my wealth of information about Japanese culture.

“So,” Mrs. Fletcher was saying, “instead of your uniforms you are all supposed to come to school dressed in the clothing of your ancestors. So if your family is German you can wear lederhosen or one of those cute dresses with the white pinafore.” This being Milwaukee, the majority of my white classmates claimed German heritage and got it right away. Melissa Konig raised her hand, a look of concern wrinkling her lightly freckled face. “What if you’re German on one side and French on the other?” she asked. Mrs. Fletcher laughed. “You can pick whichever part of your heritage you want to display.” Another kid raised his hand. “What if we don’t know our heritage?” Again laughter from the teacher. “Your parents know exactly where they came from,” she assured us. “And that’s part of the reason for this day. We want you to investigate where you come from and share it with the school community. You can bring in decorations or foods or pictures or anything. The entire lower school will be involved.”

Suddenly Japanese culture wasn’t important anymore. I felt my cheeks burn. If they hadn’t been brown, everyone would have noticed that they were red. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone, in case they noticed my discomfort or figured out my shame. My ancestors were slaves! I was the descendant of a group of people kept as chattel, who lived in shacks, worked themselves to death, and, if luck was on their side, fled up north with Harriet Tubman and disappeared. What was I supposed to do? Come to school dressed in rags with a handkerchief tied around my head? And food? Slaves didn’t get to eat good food. Maybe my mom could bring in some table scraps for everyone to sample. I could feel my heart beating loudly in my chest and my skin went cold. How was I going to deal with this? And me being the only Black child in my class, my shame was my own.

“Are there any other questions?” Mrs. Fletcher asked, looking directly at me. I quickly averted my gaze and shook my head no. I didn’t want her to bring up my predicament in front of everyone. Maybe she’d tell me I didn’t have to come to school on Friday, seeing as I didn’t have a “real” heritage like everyone else. Luckily the boys in my class, unable to sit still any longer, freed me from my dilemma by jumping up and heading to the coatroom, effectively ending the discussion.

I dragged myself out the door and to the front circle to wait for the school bus. The ride to our house in Shorewood, a suburb of Milwaukee that felt like city living with more trees, lasted an hour. Usually Vivian Cole and I sat in the very back seats and sang classic rock songs at the top of our lungs to pass the time, but this day, I sat alone in an anonymous middle seat and tried not to cry. Life was so unfair. It had never really bothered me before that I was the only Black girl in my class and one of only a handful in my entire private school. In fact, I barely even noticed. And as far as I could tell, nobody else noticed, either. Nobody ever referred to me as “that Black girl” or called me names. I was just Lori. Now everyone was going to know I was different. They’d realize my history made me something less than they were. I went from sad to angry. By the time Vince the bus driver called me out of my funk to let me know I was home, I felt royally cheated that I wasn’t from a legitimate country like Germany or England. Or someplace exotic like Greece, which is where Kristopher Stavros was from. For every birthday since the first grade, Kristopher’s mother had brought in homemade sticky-sweet baklava, which, she was always careful to explain in her heavily accented English, took hours to make. But little Kristopher was worth it. Which I always questioned, since in class little Kristopher was a major pain in the butt, but that’s not really important.

“What’s the matter with you?” my mother asked when I came shuffling through the front door. She was always home to get me off the bus, having worked the early shift at the hospital. I told her about International Day and my embarrassing predicament.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she said, pooh-poohing my self-inflicted trauma. “You can wear whatever you want. In fact, you can wear my red beret, and I saw this perfect blue dress the other day that looks just like Madeline’s from the book. You can be French,” my mother said.

“But we’re not French,” I squeaked, wanting to believe my mother had the right idea, imagining myself in an adorable French outfit to rival Melissa Konig’s. And I did look good in a beret. I’d tried on my mother’s when she was taking a nap.

“We might be,” my mother said. “I’ve always felt very drawn to French culture,” she added.

But this wasn’t ethnic Halloween. I could just imagine showing up at school all Frenchied up and then having to explain to people how a Black person could possibly be French. We’d all seen the same history books, and not once did I ever recall a single Black person in France. People would just laugh at me—or worse, call me a liar.

“Forget it,” I said to my mother. “I just won’t wear anything. I’ll just say we couldn’t find anything.”

“Lori, you’re being silly,” my mother tried again. “You could wear something Dutch. I know for sure that on your father’s side someone was Dutch. We could find some wooden clogs and—”

“Mom, Dutch people have blond hair and blue eyes. Like that boy on the paint can,” I interrupted. “Who is going to believe me when I say I’m Dutch?”

“Well you are partially Dutch,” my mother sniffed. This conversation was making her uncomfortable, which was making me uncomfortable. I wanted a solution from her that not only made sense, but would also put me back on equal footing with my friends. I wanted to wear a costume like everyone else and be like everyone else, but in this instance I couldn’t. And I couldn’t bear the thought of wearing an outfit that belonged to the slave-owning part of my heritage and then having to explain how we were connected. I didn’t feel as if I had permission to claim the master’s culture. It wasn’t ours for the taking. And I certainly wasn’t going to explain all this to the kids at my school on International Day.

My mother gave it one last effort. “Would you prefer to go dressed as an Indian? I know for a fact that my grandmother on my mother’s side was half Cherokee Indian.”

I left the room without answering.

It was true that my mother’s people had some real Native American blood in them. But who didn’t? My mother was born in Egypt, Mississippi, one of ten girls and one boy. Her family moved to Milwaukee when she was four and she never left, except for the two years in Cincinnati while my father got his MBA at Xavier University. On my dad’s side of the family, everyone always talked about an Indian relative on my grandmother’s side that was responsible for their high yellow skin color and almost indigo eyes. Like my dad’s. But no one had ever been able to tell me much about this phantom relative whenever I pressed for details. In fact, they couldn’t even confirm whether he was an Indian from India or a Native American.

As I lay across my bed, racking my brain trying to come up with some exotic element in my family tree, I realized how very little I actually did know. My mother’s family seemed to start and stop with my aunties and cousins. They were my family, my history, and my ancestors. Each auntie had her own “thing” that made her special. Mary was the cook. Minerva was the beauty expert. Linda Sue, the baby of the girls still living in Milwaukee, was the one you went to for laughs. I thought I had parts of them all in my body. My dad’s family all lived in Baltimore and we only saw them on holidays and sometimes in the summer. I never even bothered to ask my grandmother anything about where she came from. I figured if we descended from something special, then I’d have heard about it by now. I fell asleep on my bed dreaming of slave shacks and Harriet Tubman.

• • •

On Friday morning I put my uniform on. I considered pretending to be sick, but my parents didn’t allow that. My father had actually divided our tuition by the hours we were in school to calculate how much each class was worth, so he could say things like “If you miss an entire day of school, that’s thirty dollars down the drain. One class, you’re talking five bucks.” Plus, as uncomfortable as I was, I was still really interested in tasting all that international food. Miko’s family had recently taken my sister and me to a real German restaurant in Chicago and made us try snails dripping with butter and garlic. I was hoping that with all the Germans in my school, there’d be some of those at International Day.

When I got to school, all the kids in my class were wearing the expected lederhosen and cutesy pinafore dresses, berets, and knickers, and one kid had on a pair of wooden shoes. The one Indian boy in my class, Vikas, wore something made of silk that looked like a dress and had a funny name. Mrs. Fletcher didn’t even ask me where my costume was. She probably assumed I wouldn’t want to come dressed like a slave. I was relieved she didn’t ask me to explain myself.

The activities started at lunchtime. Our usual family-style meal was a smorgasbord of international flavors. We had bratwurst and apple turnovers, Swedish meatballs and some sort of Chinese stir-fry with crunchy noodles. No snails, though. After lunch we headed to the gym and were met with a riot of color and noise and information. We went around as a class first, visiting the different booths. Each booth represented a different country and was manned by volunteer parents in costumes. And then we were free to roam around, playing games, sampling sweets, and reading about distant lands. As I meandered around the gym, I completely forgot about my lack of heritage and just enjoyed all the activities with my friends. And then it was time for the parade of costumes, and I moved to the edge of the floor. I wasn’t the only one without a costume, though. Other kids had forgotten or couldn’t find anything to wear. I tried to act like I belonged with them.

By the time International Day was over, I felt like I had been holding my breath and I could finally let it go. All day long I had been praying nobody would ask me where I came from and why I wasn’t wearing a costume. The fact that they didn’t ask made me realize that they all probably knew and didn’t want to make me feel bad. Everybody knew that Black people came from nothing.

Product details

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Atria Books; Reprint edition (May 26, 2009)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 240 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 0743296486
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0743296489
Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 7.7 ounces
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.33 x 0.6 x 8.25 inches

Best Sellers Rank: #1,722,381 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #36 in Milwaukee Wisconsin Travel Books
- #174 in Historical Spain & Portugal Biographies
- #283 in Computer & Technology Biographies

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4.3 64 ratings

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Lori L. Tharps

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Lori L. Tharps is the author of two award-winning non-fiction books, Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America and Kinky Gazpacho: Life, Love & Spain. Her debut novel, Substitute Me was released in August 2010. Her fourth book, Same Family, Different Colors: Confronting Colorism in America's Diverse Families (Beacon) was released in October, 2016.

When Tharps is not writing books, she teaches journalism at Temple University, where she is an associate professor in the School of Media and Communication. She also continues to write for magazines, newspapers and online media outlets and is the host of the podcast, My American Meltingpot.

Although it sounds rather boring, Tharps' greatest pleasure in life is reading. Other people's books of course, not her own.

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Customers find the memoir great, wonderful, and easy to read. They also appreciate the writing style as well-written, expressive, and thoughtful.

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14 customers mention "Readability"14 positive0 negative

Customers find the memoir great, wonderful, and well-written. They enjoy reading about the author, her desires, and traveling in Spain. Readers also mention the story is poignant, provides a great history lesson, and is a beautiful coming-of-age love story.

"...She had met her destiny. This is a wonderful memoir of growth: loving and accepting oneself...." Read more

"...Kinky Gazpacho: Life, Love, & Spain is a delight to read and I enjoyed every moment of it-even those moments of reading where I might have wanted to..." Read more

"...an interest in Spain and want to read what it's like, this is good book for you." Read more

"The most thoughtful, well-developed, all-encompassing memoir I have ever read. I was literally speechless after reading the last line...." Read more

7 customers mention "Writing style"7 positive0 negative

Customers find the writing style very well-written and easy to read. They also say the book is expressive, tender, and thoughtful.

"...In fact, the book, although written with sensitivity and poignancy is sometimes peppered with hilarity...." Read more

"The most thoughtful, well-developed, all-encompassing memoir I have ever read. I was literally speechless after reading the last line...." Read more

"I enjoyed this book very much. It was well written and kept my interest throughout the book...." Read more

"Very well written and easy to read!" Read more

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Urenna

I loved Kinky Gazpacho

Reviewed in the United States on August 10, 2014

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Kinky Gazpacho

Kinky Gazpacho by Lori L. Tharps is a memoir of her growing up in a Black American, middle-class family, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Despite her parents' education and background, Lori had a lack of self-worth concerning her origins. This was evident when she was in third grade, during International Day at a private school.

At one point, Lori's parents sent their children to public school for a year. Lori deemed this an experiment. However, because of her middle-class background and clear, expressive speech, she was not accepted by the three other minorities in her class. She and her older sister were returned to private school. By seventh grade, Lori regards herself a hispanófilo. She longs to someday visit Spain.

Due to the stereotyping and racist jokes she experienced as a young girl, the effects of negative prejudices were probably hidden throughout her childhood. She didn't confront her friend's teen sister who drove them home as she told a racist joke to a fellow student. Lori questioned, "Maybe I was different? Special? Maybe she forgot I was Black since I was so good at fitting in with all the whiteness around me." At school and in her neighborhood, Lori's friends were white.

At Smith College, Lori decided she would dissociate with white students. She attempted to befriend Black students. Most Black Smith College students are from middle and upper-middle class backgrounds. Lori felt she would have something in common with them. She wanted to fit in. However, this turned out to be a fiasco. The young women weren't friendly. But I think Lori didn't give them a chance. Tucked inside Lori was years of feeling like an outsider on both sides. The young women didn't welcome her with open arms. Lori thought she knew the reason, but I liken this to your first person in writing. Your protagonist does not know what another person is thinking.

Yet Lori learned the importance of friendship with a group of like-minded friends, regardless of skin color. She and friends formed Lamb Bhuna, an exclusive multi-culti, hush-hush, affirmative-action, eating club. I thought the title hilarious. In fact, the book, although written with sensitivity and poignancy is sometimes peppered with hilarity.

In her junior year, Lori attended Salamanca University in Salamanca, Spain. She felt she would meet her destiny there. She wanted to absorb the culture and its people. She discovered that some Spaniards were not friendly. They pointed and stared and called her morena, negrita and chocolate. Few Spanish students were interested in befriending Americans, but she had more male attention in one semester than she thought possible. However, their interest was her exoticism.

Lori did meet a Spaniard, Manuel, in college. They seemed to connect immediately. Both had similar tastes, opinions, and were family oriented. Eventually, he would take her home to meet his family who welcomed her with open arms.

At the end of the semester, on Lori's return home, Manuel flew to Wisconsin that summer and worked as an au pair on a student visa to be near her.

All though Lori was disappointed with her utopia, and constantly found fault in the country, she felt a connection when she discovered and researched Spain's Black historical past.

In Manuel she discovered a kind, patient, and considerate man. Kindness can make you feel cared for, understood, and validated--feel loved. Lori's family loved him and she did too. She had met her destiny. This is a wonderful memoir of growth: loving and accepting oneself. It is of friendship, and an expressive, tender love story.

After a six-year on-again-off-again courtship, the two married and are the parents of two sons.

I did understand Lori found most Spaniards behavior unsatisfactory or unacceptable toward people of color. But she also realized that Manuel's family for the most part, welcomed her with open arms.

I'm surprised her middle-class parents did not discuss Black history with their children. Lori should not have had the feeling of low self-esteem. Concerning International Day, she shuddered at the thought of dressing up as a slave to represent her people. With a little ingenuity, her parent(s) would have discovered: Queen Ahmose-Nefertari (1562 - 1495 BC), Queen Tiye (1398 - 1338 BC), known for her wisdom and beauty, she became the Great Royal Spouse of Pharaoh Amenhotep III.

Pharaoh Akhenaton (Amenhotep IV) was one of the many children conceived by Queen Tiye and Pharaoh Amenhotep III. Her grandson was King Tut. In addition, there was Candace of Meroe, legendary queen of Kush and many, many more.

Other issues were: If Lori had a sense of self before she set foot in Spain, she would have been unshakable in dealing with racism, and who she is. This should have taken place in her childhood.

Lori and Manuel should have educated each other about their family's culture, challenged false beliefs about each other's way of life, adjusted and adapted to one another's customs. And last, showed patience as your partner adapts.

One person found this helpful

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R.

A Review for Kinky Gazpacho: Life, Love & Spain

Reviewed in the United States on November 14, 2010

Verified Purchase

From the pink cobblestoned streets of Salamanca to the quaint fishing village of Barbate, this book tells the tale of one young Black American woman who searches to find herself in a country that she describes as "peculiar" and one that has a "particular attitude towards Blackness." It weaves the tale of one extraordinary adventure, one that ultimately starts with Morocco and ends with Spain. Only this story is a real adventure. It is touted as a memoir and that is exactly what it is...it is a coming of age tale coupled with trying to find one own's identity and it is a love story. What makes this memoir stand out just a little more is the fact that it provides a great history lesson. After reading this book, I conducted my own search about Spain's past. Kinky Gazpacho: Life, Love, & Spain is a delight to read and I enjoyed every moment of it-even those moments of reading where I might have wanted to cringe but did not-so I give this book 5 stars. I love it because the premise of the book may seem simple: girl studies abroad in Spain, girl meets boy, girl and boy get married and live happily ever after. It is so much more than that because it is about Life. Love. And Spain.

One person found this helpful

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TruxtonSpangler

Wonderful read

Reviewed in the United States on April 30, 2013

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Having lived in Spain myself, I was drawn to this book because so few Americans write about their years living in Spain. I was touched to hear that she experienced many of the same emotions as I did. Unlike her, I returned home and lost contact with Spain, so I envy her even more. If you have an interest in Spain and want to read what it's like, this is good book for you.

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Sharontina B.

especially when it comes to finding love in unfamiliar places

Reviewed in the United States on April 12, 2016

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The most thoughtful, well-developed, all-encompassing memoir I have ever read. I was literally speechless after reading the last line. Tharps' story is one that gives hope to the hopeless, especially when it comes to finding love in unfamiliar places. She told her story without telling all, if you know what I mean. She gave a full account, but still left much to the imagination. I feel like I was right there with her on the many journeys she depicts in the book, feeling the surprises and angst where need be. I will be reading this book again when I yearn for another dose of great inspiration and hope.

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danikat

Well written...but...

Reviewed in the United States on June 25, 2012

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I love travel books. Even more than that, I love a travel book that happens to be a true story about a black American woman and her travels, that includes a little love story thrown in. So, when I found this book I jumped for joy. The first half really resonated with me. So many times I laughed out loud at the similarities between Lori's life and my own, and of course this endeared me to her story. From life with her family in Milwaukee, to her travels through Spain, there was so much of her story to love. Where I began to lose the love for her, and this book consequently, was when I began to realize that Lori was not entirely a person that I liked. Instead of enjoying her time in Spain, and actually immersing herself in learning more about the culture and the people, she constantly sought to find something wrong with everything. That's how things turned sour for me. This book went from a sweet story of self discovery, love, and exploration, to some sort of historical fact finding mission to confront the people of Spain with their "hidden" slave past. I'm sorry but I was just really disappointed that despite being afforded opportunities that many young people, specifically young black people, would die for, Lori seemed to constantly find a way to find the negative in everything. Lori had found love with a sweet and handsome Spanish man, whose family and friends seemed to welcome her into their lives. But for some reason she was not happy with this and it always seemed as though it was not enough for her. I felt like it was rude and unfair for her to continue to try and find fault with her husband's culture and country. So, regardless of how well written, and how much of Lori's young life I could relate to, I find myself disappointed with the adult Lori, and therefore with much of her story.

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Francisco

memorias de una vida condicionada por el color de la piel

Reviewed in Spain on December 26, 2013

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EL libro es la memoria de una chica afroamericana que busca su identidad, lucha contra el racismo no reconocido en la sociedad, camina por un mundo que trata de comprender y encuentra el amor de su vida condicionado por la enormidad del ancho de océano atlántico.
Este libro te permite ponerte en la piel de otra persona, piel oscura que condiciona.
También te permite ver el choque cultural entre España y USA. Puedes ver España desde la visión de un norteamericano.

Está bien escrito y es de lectura fácil. Lo he leído rápido aunque estaba en Ingles y suelo preferir leer en castellano.

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