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You Da One

by Jennif(f)er Tamayo



About the Author

Jennif(f)er Tamayo is a queer, migrant, latinx poet, essayist, and performer. JT is the daughter of Nancy, Flora, Leonor y Ana. Her books include [Red Missed Aches] (Switchback, 2011) selected by Cathy Park Hong for the Gatewood Prize (2010), Poems are the Only Real Bodies (Bloof Books 2013) and YOU DA ONE (2017 reprint Noemi Books & Letras Latinas’s Akrilica Series). Her essays and poetry has been widely published including in Poetry magazine, Best American Experimental PoetryMandorla: Writing from the AmericasBettering American Poetry 2015, and  Angels of the Americlypse; An Anthology of New Latin@ Writing. She has held fellowships from NYU’s Hemispheric Institute for Performance and Politics and CantoMundo. Currently JT is studying the liberatory possibilities of voice and voicing. You can find their writing and art at

You Da One


“I am addressable”—Jennifer Tamayo’s You Da One, is a maliciously filial exploration of packaged familial relations. Professional Detail: suggest face-to-face interplay with the severed head of Gwenyth Paltrow in Se7en. Is that your daughter? Is she a box? Tamayo posits a slick surface of home and determinate location only to scrape it through a landfill of epistolary detritus, Spanglish, and pop music. Daddy-daughter playtime becomes a sweet serial narrative, caught and unraveling on the jagged edge of obedience. There is no manicured heaven here, nor any logic of quotation, simply the primordial spit of techno-banality from which emerges the thrill of the partial. Look into those $50 bona fide baby blues: you (the one) you’re on a lawn, your hand is in a bowl of grapes. Look at the camera, darling, smile for Mommy in your best interior composition!

Trisha Low


By turns violent, political, romantic, incestual, cerebral, bodily, and personal, this second full-length from Tamayo (Red Missed Aches) bears the formal markings of the hypermodern in its deployment of digital, pop, and intertextual elements. Written after her first trip back to her native Colombia in 25 years, the book is indebted to Rihanna, Barthes, and Aimé Césaire, whose texts she mines voraciously. Those influences, as well as the spectres of Alfred Molina and the author’s father, haunt the page, intermixed with screen captures, cheap internet advertising, deliberate misspellings, and pun-ridden Spanglish.

Publishers Weekly