Last week I looked over some old press clippings about myself from 10 years ago, profiles in places like the New York Times and Chicago Tribune. The articles talked about me in the context of the release of my first novel, and quoted me accurately in ways that now make me cringe. “I vomit to be called a Latina writer,” I told a reporter. It was my way of letting him know that in spite of my last name, I was born and raised in the United States and as such, that I was as American as Stephen King and should be called merely “a writer,” just like he was. After all, I thought, that was only fair.