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Written in the 1950s and discovered by family members years after her death, Margaret Brown Kilik’s shocking coming-of-age novel of the emotional and sexual brutality of young women’s lives in wartime San Antonio deserves a place on the shelf alongside classic novels like Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar and Carson McCullers’s The Member of the Wedding.

The Duchess of Angus reworks Kilik’s unusual personal history (her mother spent the 1930's running flophouse hotels all over the United States, leaving Margaret to be brought up by a host of relatives) into a riveting portrait of a young woman navigating a conflicted and rapidly changing world, one in which sex promises both freedom from convention and violent subjection to men’s will. Strikingly modern in its depiction of protagonist Jane Davis and her gorgeous, unreadable friend Wade Howell, The Duchess of Anguscovers some of the same emotional territory as novels like Emma Cline’s The Girls and Robyn Wasserman’s Girls on Fire.

Includes an introduction by Jenny Davidson and contextual essays by Laura Hernández-Ehrisma and Char Miller.

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781595349071
Publisher: Trinity University Press
Publication date: 03/31/2020
Pages: 272
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 8.00(h) x (d)

About the Author

Margaret Brown Kilik was raised by a single mother, and they moved frequently throughout the country during her childhood. Kilik graduated from the University of Toledo with a degree in English and subsequently lived in San Antonio, where she renewed a relationship with Eugene Kilik, whom she married. They spent the majority of their lives in New York City, where Kilik established and ran the Key Gallery in Soho. She was a collage artist and writer, and her only novel, The Duchess of Angus, written in the early 1950s, was discovered after her death. She died in New York in 2001.

Read an Excerpt

The Discovery

Margaret Brown Kilik’s The Duchess of Angus by Jenny Davidson

The manuscript of an unpublished novel whose author died many years ago automatically triggers a certain degree of pathos. When that manuscript derives from the days before word processing, even its material aspects evoke something of feeling: the uneven saturation of the letters produced by a manual typewriter with dirty type and an old ribbon; the crinkle of typing paper; the faint musty fragrance of long-stored pages. The typescript for The Duchess of Anguswas bound in two volumes, each with a brown embossed pressboard report cover and a Duo-Tang twin-prong fastener; the paper watermark is Eaton’s Corrasable Bond, a brand of correctable typing paper. Occasional errors have been corrected with eraser and pencil. But all of these details become inconsequential as soon as we encounter the arresting voice of the novel’s narrator: a first-person voice inflected with some of the flat affect and disturbing candor to be found in the fiction of J. D. Salinger and Sylvia Plath. This is a live piece of writing, a novel not just of historical interest but of significant literary power and force in its own right.

The author was Margaret Brown Kilik, and she must have finished writing the novel sometime between 1955 and 1960, since the label on the cover gives Kilik’s address as
Readington Road, Whitehouse Station, N.J., where the Kilik family (wife Margaret, husband Gene, sons Mike and Jimmy) lived for five years at what Gene later always just called “the farm,” an old wooden clapboard-style house with an apple orchard and a small flock of sheep who regularly made themselves sick eating windfalls. My mother, Caroline, married Jimmy many years afterward. I only met Margaret, my step-grandmother, once before she died in 2001, but Gene became my much-loved step-grandfather, and it was after he died in 2017 that this manuscript came into my possession.

The story of how the novel came to be remains a mystery. What steps did Kilik take to get the work published, and what led her to put it aside? There must have been correspondence that would fill in some gaps in the story of the work, but it is unlikely that the missing pieces will emerge. We are left instead with this remarkable piece of writing, and with the lost time and place and people it brings so effectively to life.

The novel is set roughly fifteen years before it was written, in San Antonio, Texas. The work holds value for cultural historians interested in American life on the home front during World War II, in Anglo-American attitudes toward Mexican Americans in that time and place, in the lived texture of young women’s experience (especially young women on the “bohemian” fringes of middle-class existence), in the cultural history of sexual relationships, and perhaps most of all in the sights and sounds and smells of a city transformed now almost beyond recognition. It is de rigueur in literary criticism to maintain a healthy skepticism about the identity of author and first-person protagonist, but in this case there is a good deal of evidence to show that Kilik drew heavily on her experience to create the novel’s protagonist, Jane Davis.

Jane, twenty years old and in possession of what she refers to as “unsensational good looks,” has returned home in spring 1943, after four years at a small midwestern college: “Even though I posed as an intellectual and had spent a lot of time handling the more revered literature (Willa Cather, Henry James, and D. H. Lawrence at the moment),” she says, “my ideas seemed to reflect the ‘even the plain girls are beautiful’ attitude of Redbook and American.”

Jane’s patron saint is John Dos Passos, whose sway over the imaginations of American readers of the 1940s and 1950s is too often forgotten (“I spent an hour flipping listlessly back and forth between Shelley and William Dean Howells,” she says at one point. “Then, in desperation, I raced madly through Dos Passos. It was no use”).
Like her protagonist, Kilik returned to San Antonio after graduating from college—in her case, the University of Toledo—in 1943. She’d earned a bachelor’s in English. Back home, she stayed in her mother’s flophouse hotel and dated Second Lieutenant Eugene Kilik, a member of the air force who had dropped out of the University of Virginia after Pearl Harbor to enlist. Gene had met Margaret in Ohio during basic training, and was posted to San Antonio for his first assignment. Many inconsequential details in the novel are identical to the facts of Margaret’s life, even down to the point that Jane Davis, like Margaret, is able to name all of the members of Samuel Johnson’s Literary Club: it was a trick Gene loved and used to allude to regularly in the years after her death.

The novel vividly brings to life wartime San Antonio, including a number of important local landmarks (see Char Miller’s essay “Streetwise,” at the end of this volume, for more details), but the central stage is the courtyard at the Angus Hotel and Jane’s room upstairs. The hotel’s other residents include Jane’s half-brother, Jess, a navy veteran who lost his right foot early in the war, and her mother’s friend Lillie du Lac, a colorful character who at the start of the narrative has been on “a Vogue diet of grapes and gin and 7 Up and had lost ten pounds, according to her own calculation.” Prone to making aphoristic pronouncements (“The layaway plan has broken down more social barriers than the French Revolution”), Lillie du Lac was once married to a man known as “the Colonel,” who is now posted to Fort Sam Houston outside San Antonio. The Colonel’s stepdaughter, Wade Howell, works in the art department at Joske’s, the same department store where Jane sells dresses in the Sportshop. Built around these characters, the novel tells a meandering yet tightly constructed story about Jane’s friendship with Wade and the cryptic and unpleasant sexual encounters each girl experiences. A deeper understanding of Margaret’s life helps us to better understand the characters and the San Antonio setting she reveals in The Duchess of Angus. I knew the broad outlines of Margaret’s early life by way of the stories Gene and their son Jim liked to tell. Since Jim predeceased his father by a few years, and Gene’s death was the occasion for the manuscript passing to me, I wasn’t able to ask more targeted questions about Margaret’s personal life. I was able to draw on an interview Gretchen Kraus did with Gene the year before he died. The interview was for a book Kraus produced under the direction of Gene and Margaret’s beloved nephew Jon Kilik, commemorating Margaret’s work as a gallerist and collage artist in Soho in the 1970s and 1980s. But even with Gene and Jim’s stories, and the Kraus interview, to draw on, I knew I needed to come to San Antonio and to talk to some of Margaret’s Texas relatives.

Della Daniels is the matriarch of Margaret’s side of the family today. Married to Margaret’s younger half-brother Jack, who died of complications from muscular dystrophy in 1982, Della raised three children while working at the San Antonio Express-News. A petite and beautifully put-together brunette in her eighties, Della now lives with her daughter (Jennifer) and son-in-law. They graciously invited me over to the house for lunch so that we could talk. I’d purchased a voice recorder with the intention of recording the interview proper, but Della began to tell some of the old stories as soon as we sat down. Eager to soak everything in, I gave up the idea of recording our conversation, whipped out a pencil and paper, and started scribbling. What I hadn’t anticipated was the extent to which our conversation turned not around Margaret, who downplayed her creative talents and deflected attention from her achievements, but around her mother, Agnes, a woman whose personality and unusual choices profoundly affected all three of her children. Lightly fictionalized portrayals of Agnes and the hotel she ran in San Antonio during World War II are central to Margaret’s novel, and what I learned during the conversation with Della and her family helped me to answer one of the central questions in my mind: how did Agnes, and by extension her fictional counterpart, end up running hotels of the “flophouse” description?

As a young woman born into a farming family of Swedish descent in Stamford, Texas,
Agnes Olson saw clearly that West Texas held nothing for her. “I wasn’t going to be a slave for those farmhands,” she regularly said in later years. She was the eldest of six siblings; she had two sisters, Martha and Lala, and brothers who later settled in Philadelphia (Bill) and Fort Worth
(Herman). Chicago was where Agnes went to reinvent herself. She made a living working in the then-ubiquitous tearooms and married a man who was a waiter at a famous hotel; his name was
Charlie Brown. Margaret was born on August 19, 1921, and Charlie was killed soon afterward in a car accident. His family had some money (Gene said they owned a furniture store in Ohio), and
Margaret spent most of her childhood living with either her father’s family or extended family in
Texas; her paternal grandparents would later fund her undergraduate degree at the University of
While Margaret was living with other relatives, Agnes was leading an interesting,
somewhat rackety life, whose exact details are lost to history. Gene described Agnes as “the strangest woman you might ever meet” and said that during Margaret’s childhood, Agnes
“wandered around the country doing the best she could, mainly opening these flophouses wherever she might be.” He added, “Margaret would stay with her for a little while. Then, all of

a sudden, her mother would say goodbye and leave Margaret with some relative or friend.
Margaret would go to the public school that was available wherever she was. From public school to public school, she got the feeling that school was the only thing that tied her together. She was interested in studying, but very modest.”1
In the late 1920s Agnes married her second husband, Paul Daniels, who worked with the rodeo in Chicago, and their sons Jack and Jimmy were born in 1930 and 1931 respectively. Paul left the family early on, and Agnes divorced him. The pattern Agnes had established with
Margaret was then repeated with the younger kids; Agnes dropped Jack off with cousins in
Stamford, for instance, and left him to be raised by them. When she came back years later to pick him up, he hid under the stairs. He didn’t want a stranger to take him from his family.
Agnes continued to run flophouses throughout the 1930s, including at least one in
Chicago, but what seems to have precipitated her return to Texas was an incident in which Jack and Jimmy found a bullet on the streetcar tracks. A police officer picked the boys up and brought them home, making threats about what would happen if Agnes continued to let them run wild,
and she decided to move to downtown San Antonio. She ran a series of small hotels in the years that followed, so many that it is hard for anyone to remember exactly what they were called and where they were located. There was usually a small restaurant on site; Agnes was a good cook,
known especially for her dinner rolls and macaroni and cheese, and by the time he was eleven or twelve, Jack was working in one of these eateries as a busboy.
The boarders—all men—were often waiters, mechanics, or railroad workers. Agnes never rented to women. In The Duchess of Angus, Lillie du Lac says that Jane’s mother “doesn’t like renting to women. It cheapens a place she always says.” Lillie du Lac is undoubtedly based on Agnes’s cousin Emma, who lived in San Antonio and ran another flophouse (the family

seems to have used the term in the spirit of description rather than disparagement) on Quincy,
with a small restaurant where young women from Joske’s department store ate lunch.
In The Duchess of Angus, if the character of Jane’s mother is clearly based on Agnes, and the character Lillie du Lac on Emma, what about Jess? He’s Jane’s older half-brother, while
Margaret’s real-life half-brothers were nine or ten years younger. Jess does seem to combine features of both Jack and Jimmy. Jimmy Daniels ran away to join the rodeo at age fifteen, which is part of Jess’s backstory. Jack served in the navy and came back from Korea in 1950 with a disability; his situation can be considered loosely analogous to Jess’s return from a stint in the navy with an amputated foot. Jack went to college on the G.I. Bill, but he had trouble using his hands when the temperature was cold, and this led to a diagnosis of muscular dystrophy. There had been an episode aboard ship involving serious chemical exposure, and the paperwork filed at the time was ultimately detailed enough to qualify Jack for full disability, but Jack’s health issues meant that money was tight. Life was hard, too, for Jimmy and his family (he had three sons,
Jack, Jimmy, and David), who lived in a shack in Missouri where they had to pump water from a well by hand.
Money was always short for Agnes and her children, more so than the portrait of family life in Margaret’s novel suggests. Gene’s retrospective description, in the third person, of his and
Margaret’s initial meeting in San Antonio after Margaret returned there after college offers evidence of this. At the time, Margaret was staying with her mother and working at Joske’s, just as Jane does in the novel. Gene, after graduating from basic training, had spent a short leave at his parents’ house in New Jersey, then in April 1944 took the train to his posting at Randolph
Field outside San Antonio. He met up with Margaret as soon as he could, recalling:

It was at a large house on North Main [Avenue]. He walked up the steps, and she was sitting on the porch. She introduced him to her young brother [Jack], who couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. She said that they no longer lived in that house,
but [she] had come to meet him because that was what they had made up [and she didn’t have a way of contacting him]. She told him that San Antonio was an interesting city and if he wanted to look around, she would try to be his guide. He asked if she was hungry,
and she nodded sort of. Years later he found out that she and her brother had had nothing to eat but some dry crackers for the last two days. But she didn’t let on during their walk through the city that the only thing on her mind was the hope that he’d ask her if she’d like [to get] something to eat.
As Gene told the story in his interview with Kraus, they met only a few times in San
Antonio before he was posted to Baton Rouge to work as a flight instructor. On an impulse, he put in a call to Margaret, who had since moved north, and asked her if she would like to get married: “She was teaching in Pontiac, Michigan, which was gloomy. So, she thought she’d be better off with me. She said yes. She got on a bus with the idea of us getting married. We had only met maybe three or four times. We got married and our marriage lasted nearly sixty years,
until she died.”2
Margaret and Gene both loved San Antonio, and they remained especially close with Jack and his wife and children. Margaret’s Texas visits brought unwonted glamor, and her nephew
Tim has a vivid memory of her turning up outside the Daniels house driving a black convertible
Mustang and looking like a movie star. Gene’s brother’s son Jon remembers wondering on
Christmas visits to Gene and Margaret’s eighteenth-century farmhouse in New Providence, New
Jersey, how this woman who looked like Grace Kelly had ever ended up in their family.

Margaret was a shy and private person, more comfortable promoting the work of other artists than her own. Strongly affected by the death of her older son Michael following a car accident in his mid-thirties, she lived a quiet life in New York and New Jersey in the years that followed. She died of lung cancer in a New Jersey hospital on September 20, 2001, a month after her eightieth birthday. Gene recalled the powerfully sad aspect of being in one’s private world of loss during the days immediately following September 11, 2001, when the attention of everyone in the region was fixated on the national tragedy that had taken place just a few miles away.

The juxtaposition of one’s personal life with international conflict is a persistent undercurrent in The Duchess of Angus. World War II serves as a background, against which the moments of Jane’s life—and the details of war itself—shine as both all-important and inconsequential. In this passage, which effectively places the events of the story in April and
May 1943, Jane reports: “The San Antonio Light was black with war news. There was a victory in North Africa. Rommel had been flushed out and had slunk back to Germany. But of course this was what we had expected all along. It was simply a question of time.” Jane tosses the papers aside. “Newspapers irritated me,” she adds. “Their very dailiness and indiscriminating detail was as senseless as life itself, if not taken in hand.”
Living in a room at her mother’s hotel, Jane is torn between her desire to be indolent and a strong wish that something meaningful should happen in her life. Reluctantly she takes a sales job at the local department store: “I was exhausted from my years of floundering about in academic muck, and I wanted nothing but to float in my lush vacuum. Of course, I would have preferred to loll away the days vaguely reading or walking about through the twisting streets and along the river and perhaps coming to life for a few hours at night. But the thought of my mother

working while I wallowed in indolence was more of a disturbance to my contentment than taking a job.” In the meantime she passively acquiesces to dates with young military men, takes a few
English classes, and drinks a lot of beer.
When a young man on a date with Jane makes a callow remark about her Joske’s acquaintance Wade Howell, Jane defends Wade with a pronouncement at that point more wishful than true: “Wade Howell happens to be a very dear friend of mine.” Then the girls begin to eat lunch together in the Fountain Room at Joske’s, supplementing their sandwiches with milkshakes they order from a cowgirl who gets them “from the faucets in the nose of a Black
Angus steer.” It is the dynamic of the girls’ friendship that Wade leads and Jane follows: “I was doomed because of a passive nature and an overactive sense of the dramatic to let myself be dragged about by anyone who appealed to my imagination,” she pronounces.
Although well-written and engaging, The Duchess of Angus has its flaws. Jane tends to cast people outside her immediate circle—particularly Mexican American people—as types rather than as individuals, with few exceptions, and Kilik doesn’t grant much autonomy to these characters along the way. There is the “monstrous” Mexican woman who sells Wade and Jane confetti eggs, the bucktoothed Mexican hostess at the Fountain Room, a “filthy little Mexican”
child sucking on grape candy on the bus. Laura Hernández-Ehrisman’s essay, “Beyond Adobe
Walls,” at the end of this volume offers some context for Anglo-American attitudes toward
Mexican Americans during the World War II setting and when the novel was written.
The casually dismissive language about other minorities is also disturbing. At one point early on, Jane says that “for someone who didn’t want to be stared at, Wade Howell was as conspicuous as a blue-eyed Chinaman, to use one of Jess’s expressions.” Shortly afterward, we learn that Wade has “eyes like a Hindu, dark and spilling out in shadows all over her face; not

the sharp little marbles of the Orientals that remain so tightly confined to their orbits.” The ethnic stereotyping falls into clear and unpleasant categories; then, too, there is the “little retarded daughter” who emerges from a taxi with Sergeant McCane and his “homely” wife.
This kind of language will mar the book for many readers, and I don’t want to minimize its presence. The novel is, in some ways, a time capsule: it features discriminatory ways of thinking and speaking about minorities and disabled people that were common at one time, but it also reveals key aspects of life for certain young women in wartime America, as well as a portrait of a San Antonio that is now passing out of memory.
One of the novel’s great pleasures is the detail in which it captures a cityscape of exteriors and interiors now mostly lost to the passage of time. The girls freshen up in the ladies’
lounge at the Saint Anthony Hotel, whose mirrored door features “flimsy lined drawings of languorous mermaids floating among seaweed that looked curiously like cacti.” Jane watches
Wade strip off her dress, sponge down her body, and shampoo and dry her hair, and then they are off on their escapade: “It was the first time I experienced the curious wave of discontent that I
was to come to know so well. The feeling always soared higher and dipped lower when I was in close quarters with this girl. At first I thought it was my own restlessness and boredom with playing second. Not until much later did I realize that I was experiencing the humiliating sensation of feeling unwanted. Wade Howell wanted desperately to be alone with her own precious body.”
References to San Antonio’s iconic river appear throughout the text, and the waterway serves as a backdrop at times to the sexual violence that is an ever-present threat in the novel:
Jess calls Jane “the Duchess” because she carries herself as though she is wholly above and apart from the rest of her family and friends, but she remains vulnerable to all sorts of assaults and

encroachments. On her way home alone after a date one evening, when she goes down the stairs to the river she is assaulted by a military man. She bites him, hard, and saves herself from being pushed into the river. At home at the Angus Hotel she accounts for the stain on her dress—her assailant’s blood—by telling everyone she had a nosebleed.
Aside from depicting the atmosphere of San Antonio during the 1940s, Kilik conveys the atmosphere of the hotel powerfully and evocatively. Individual characters and their motivations,
however, remain somewhat cryptic. Why doesn’t Jane tell anyone she’s been assaulted? What drives her mother to start one flophouse after another, moving from town to town and living outside the ordinary bounds of middle-class life? Jane is in love not with a man or even with the idea of a man so much as with the appeal of this “rambling shambling life,” and the novel’s strongest affective charge lies in its depiction of the seedy romantic pull of flophouse living: the way the roaches go after the sweet-smelling lotions stockpiled by the professional beauty operator; the century plant and huisache tree in the back courtyard, where Jess sleeps when weather permits.
Wade’s pull on Jane threatens Jane’s cherished freedom, embodied partly in her free ranging about town but also in her immersion in a set of literary texts that could hardly be more alien to the environment in which she finds herself: “I pulled out a copy of John Stuart Mill as though to tuck that erratic girl [Wade] between the precise pages of Utilitarianism and let her be devoured by reason. I did not need her. I did not thoroughly like her. She didn’t bore me, that was true, but the aimless escapades sapped my strength. And above all, there was the burden of gratitude. There was bound to be a forfeit.”
The grip Wade has on Jane’s life only tightens, though. It’s in a conversation with Wade and her mother “at the Orangeana, where the tropical drinks taste like bubble bath,” that Jane

first hears Wade’s mother explicitly suggest that Wade should move in with Jane at the hotel.
Jane says she’ll have to check with her mother: “I could just imagine my mother’s reaction. She liked to do business with complete strangers fresh off the street. The shorter the stay, the better.”
But Wade Howell’s advent is nigh. She arrives with a great many belongings in two taxis, and moves into Jane’s room. The girls talk together in their room at night. Wade has insomnia and is afraid of being in the dark by herself. She tells Jane that when she has cramps, the Colonel comes in and rubs her back, and that it’s because her mother saw him coming out of her room one night that she became so anxious to get her daughter out of the house.
The Colonel visits Wade late at night at the hotel while Jane has exiled herself to the balcony, and when she returns to the room it no longer smells of fresh paint: “In its place was a new smell, new at least to my room. I had changed enough dirty linen at the Angus to recognize the inimitable odor of love.” The euphemisms of this period of American writing were clearly not only dictated by publishers; authors brought their own decorum to the page. Prompted by this intimate view of Wade’s sex life (Wade will tell Jane later that her mother doesn’t know she and

the Colonel have “been doing it for years”), Jane sets out to have sex herself, asking for a two-
hour lunch break from work to make sure she has time for the projected encounter. The date

doesn’t go well, though, and she begins “to wonder whether two hours would be long enough.”
The man she’s targeted ultimately resists her attempts at seduction on the grounds that “some guy is going to want to marry you” (“It’s a helluva time to start a classification system,” Jane thinks).
The novel’s denouement is oblique. At the book’s close, the big thermometer on the
Dairy Maid sign reads 101 and Jane, battling a severe hangover, decides that it’s “high time to enter a new stage”:

With my passion for cataloguing, I began dividing myself into periods. First, a poor but bright little half orphan shuffled about among unappreciative relatives. Next, a serious half-grown Jane Davis slipping between the pages of her books to escape the inevitable. And finally a Jane Davis turned inside out . . . completely absorbed by the emotion of the moment. Was there a Jane Davis capable of permanent attachments? I
wondered. But I was not at all certain that I was ready to enter this next stage.
Wade, unable to make a date with a soldier, encourages Jane go instead. The date is with a lieutenant, at the Alamo for a sightseeing tour. He is a young man, unmarried, a flight instructor at Randolph and thus unlikely to suffer injury or death during the war. On the novel’s final page, we leave Jane running to meet the lieutenant, then slowing down, “realizing I had a whole day in the sun, and that at night a cool breeze would blow in through my window.”

Editor’s note: At least part of the appeal of discovering an unpublished manuscript like this one derives from getting to experience firsthand its idiosyncrasies: the misspellings, oddities of punctuation, and quirks of grammar that have not yet been eliminated by the normalizing work of a copyeditor. I soon realized, however, that in order to produce a true reader’s edition I
would need to correct errors of various kinds. My guideline in editing this text has been to stick as closely as possible to the words that Margaret Brown Kilik wrote, making small changes only to ease the reader’s passage through the sentence or paragraph.
Kilik’s use of commas was especially scattershot, and I have frequently repunctuated for clarity. That said, I hope the text retains the original feeling of comma use being relatively light;
it’s part of the flat affect of Jane Davis’s narration.

Margaret Brown Kilik’s original “Duchess of Angus” manuscript, and her scripts for two unpublished plays that came into my possession with the novel, will be deposited in the Special
Collections and Archives at Trinity University’s Coates Library in San Antonio.

Table of Contents

Table of Contents:

Foreword: Reflections on Revolutionary Women — Dolores Huerta
Preface – Kathy Sosa
Introduction: Setting the Scene of Revolutionary Women in Texas and Mexico
– Jennifer Speed

Section I: The Era of the Mexican Revolution of 1910
Las Soldaderas – Elena Poniatowska
Juana Belèn Gutièrrez de Mendoza – Cristina D. Ramírez
Valentinas, no! Valientas, si! Cristina Sosa and Leonila Ortiz Sosa [AM1] – Lionel Sosa
The Perservationists: Adina DeZavala, Rena Maverick Green, Emily Edwards – Lewis F. Fisher
Concepcion Acevedo de la Llata – Jennifer Speed

Section II: Las Antepasadas : Women Revolutionaries prior to the Mexican Revolution of 1910
Sor Juana Inès de la Cruz – Alicia Gaspar de Alba
Virgin of Guadalupe – Virgilio P. Elizondo
Jane McManus Cazneau – Linda Hudson
Teresa Urrea – Sandra Cisneros
Malinalli La Malinche – Laura Esquivel

Section III: The Legacy : Women Revolutionaries of the Post-Revolution Era
Alice Dickerson Montemayor – Cynthia Orozoco
Emma Tenayuca – Carmen Tafolla
Frida Kahlo – Amalia Mesa-Bains
Genoveva Morales –Elaine Ayala
Nahui Olin – Teresa Van Hoy
Gloria Anzaldúa – Ellen Riojas Clark
Chavela Vargas – Sandra Cisneros
Women of Guerrero – Marta Lamas

Epilogue: title TK – Norma Cantú

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