Interview with Ivón Osorio Gallimore
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Ivón Osorio Gallimore (Havana, Cuba) is a writer, poet, screenwriter, and radio show director and producer. She has published the poetry collections Etapas (Voces de Hoy, 2012), winner of the María Luisa Pinto Prize, and Del amor y otras ciudades (Publicaciones Entre Líneas). Her work has appeared in several anthologies. She lives in Miami, where she continues to develop new literary projects. In this interview about her book Calle Patria (Suburbano Ediciones, 2026) Osorio discusses how a propped-up house acts as a symbol of domestic and social resistance, paralleling a fragile family structure. She also comments on how often the hidden, intimate setting reflects larger societal changes.
TERESA DOVALPAGE: Right from the start, you introduce readers to lives that are "propped up" (apuntaladas), just like the narrator's house. Why did you choose this image of a fragile structure to connect with the notion of a broken family and that almost voyeuristic contrast of the girl observing an "intact" family from the balcony? IVÓN OSORIO GALLIMORE: First, I chose the balcony, which was actually propped up with beams. Then I placed the protagonist there: from that spot, she watches other people’s private lives, dreaming of the family she would like to have and, at the same time, trying to escape the one she was given. Her surroundings are full of cracks, like the balcony that can barely stay upright. That’s why that space ends up being a symbol of resistance, both on a familial and social level. DOVALPAGE: Now let’s step out of the house and into the street. The fact that the street where the narrator lives is named Patria (Homeland) charges José Martí’s epigraph (“without a homeland but without a master”) with symbolism. Do you consider the house on Patria Street a character with its own life, on the same level as the uncles or great-grandparents? How was it for you to work on that symbiosis between the place and the protagonist's identity? |
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OSORIO: Yes, the house on Patria Street ends up being another character. It’s not just the stage where the stories happen, but a space that reflects the lives of those who inhabit it. The propped-up balcony, for example, is in dialogue with the family: both show cracks and a certain fragility, but also a great capacity for resistance. I was interested in working on that symbiosis between the place and the protagonist's identity because, in childhood, the home is much more than a physical space: it is the first territory from which one learns to look at the world. In that sense, the house, the family, and the idea of “patria” end up intertwining.
DOVALPAGE: Exactly, and in that intertwining lies one of the most fascinating aspects of the book. On the other hand, the stories rescue pieces of a generational childhood: from films like The Snow Queen, shown on Russian projectors, to classic tales like those of Andersen. But I am very curious about something: what did you discover in the biography of Johann Sebastian Bach that left such a determining influence on your life and your narrative?
OSORIO: Something essential: Bach and the protagonist find order and meaning in repetition. Just as he builds his music with variations on a repeating theme, she watches the small routines of her neighborhood and the cracks in her family from her balcony, discovering beauty and harmony where others would only see chaos. The propped-up house, the fragile family, and her own imagination function as a silent score: every gesture, every observation, is a note that reveals the secret architecture of her world.
DOVALPAGE: In that world, there are lights and shadows. The story “La más oscurita de la casa” (The Darkest One in the House) addresses prejudice within the family nucleus with a mix of irony and sadness. Do you believe this intimate or “domestic racism” remains an open wound in today's society, and what role does literature play in making these dynamics visible?
OSORIO In Calle Patria, "La más oscurita de la casa" shows with irony and sadness how prejudices can take root within the family. This "domestic racism" is still present, and literature gives us the opportunity to see it, feel it, and question it, turning intimate stories into a way of making visible the wounds that often remain hidden.
DOVALPAGE: And speaking of things hidden, in the book, symbols clash and sometimes have to be concealed. I’m thinking of the Virgin of Charity covered by a Chinese drawing and the portrait of Fidel Castro with his Cohiba. What role do portraits and sacred (or political) images play in your story as chroniclers of religious and social changes on the island?
OSORIO: In the book, portraits and images, whether sacred or political, function as silent chroniclers of history. The Virgin of Charity covered by a Chinese drawing or the portrait of Fidel Castro with his Cohiba are not just objects on the wall; they are witnesses to the religious, cultural, and social changes that marked the lives of the protagonist and her family. Through them, the reader can perceive how ideas, beliefs, and symbols overlap, transform, or even contradict each other, reflecting an island in constant tension between tradition and transformation.
DOVALPAGE: Thank you very much for this interview, dear Ivón.
DOVALPAGE: Exactly, and in that intertwining lies one of the most fascinating aspects of the book. On the other hand, the stories rescue pieces of a generational childhood: from films like The Snow Queen, shown on Russian projectors, to classic tales like those of Andersen. But I am very curious about something: what did you discover in the biography of Johann Sebastian Bach that left such a determining influence on your life and your narrative?
OSORIO: Something essential: Bach and the protagonist find order and meaning in repetition. Just as he builds his music with variations on a repeating theme, she watches the small routines of her neighborhood and the cracks in her family from her balcony, discovering beauty and harmony where others would only see chaos. The propped-up house, the fragile family, and her own imagination function as a silent score: every gesture, every observation, is a note that reveals the secret architecture of her world.
DOVALPAGE: In that world, there are lights and shadows. The story “La más oscurita de la casa” (The Darkest One in the House) addresses prejudice within the family nucleus with a mix of irony and sadness. Do you believe this intimate or “domestic racism” remains an open wound in today's society, and what role does literature play in making these dynamics visible?
OSORIO In Calle Patria, "La más oscurita de la casa" shows with irony and sadness how prejudices can take root within the family. This "domestic racism" is still present, and literature gives us the opportunity to see it, feel it, and question it, turning intimate stories into a way of making visible the wounds that often remain hidden.
DOVALPAGE: And speaking of things hidden, in the book, symbols clash and sometimes have to be concealed. I’m thinking of the Virgin of Charity covered by a Chinese drawing and the portrait of Fidel Castro with his Cohiba. What role do portraits and sacred (or political) images play in your story as chroniclers of religious and social changes on the island?
OSORIO: In the book, portraits and images, whether sacred or political, function as silent chroniclers of history. The Virgin of Charity covered by a Chinese drawing or the portrait of Fidel Castro with his Cohiba are not just objects on the wall; they are witnesses to the religious, cultural, and social changes that marked the lives of the protagonist and her family. Through them, the reader can perceive how ideas, beliefs, and symbols overlap, transform, or even contradict each other, reflecting an island in constant tension between tradition and transformation.
DOVALPAGE: Thank you very much for this interview, dear Ivón.
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