Reservoir Bitches: A Feminist Literature

Dahlia de la Cerda’s Reservoir Bitches, translated from the Spanish Perras de Reserva by Julia Sanches and Heather Cleary, is a raw, electrifying collection of thirteen interconnected short stories that delve into the lives of Mexican women navigating violence, poverty, and systemic misogyny. Published in 2024 by Feminist Press and longlisted for the 2025 International Booker Prize, this debut marks de la Cerda, a Mexican writer and activist from Aguascalientes, as a formidable voice in contemporary literature. With a BA in Philosophy and as co-founder of the feminist collective Morras Help Morras, de la Cerda channels her activism into stories that amplify marginalized voices—sex workers, assassins, cartel daughters, and victims of trans femicide.

The translators’ innovative use of English and London street slang captures the gritty cadence of Mexican vernacular, creating a vivid, immersive experience.

This review argues that Reservoir Bitches is essential reading for its unflinching portrayal of resilience, its bold fusion of dark humor and social critique, and its challenge to patriarchal norms through vibrant, defiant voices. The collection’s kaleidoscopic narratives offer a searing commentary on Mexico’s femicide crisis and social inequalities, resonating universally while remaining deeply rooted in Mexican realities. For Indian readers, the stories echo struggles against caste, gender, and class oppression, making the book a powerful lens for examining shared resistance and survival. Its linguistic daring and emotional depth make it a must-read for those seeking literature that confronts injustice with fury and wit.

Reservoir Bitches weaves thirteen stories, each narrated in the first person by Mexican women who “prod the bitch that is Life and become her” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 1). The opening story, “Parsley and Coca-Cola,” sets a visceral tone, with a young woman facing an unwanted pregnancy, reflecting, “You might think I’m exaggerating, that an unwanted pregnancy isn’t a catastrophe or anything, but for me it was. It was the biggest catastrophe of my life” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 3). The narrators—ranging from sex workers to cartel insiders—navigate Mexico’s brutal landscape, marked by femicide and inequality. Their voices, raw and colloquial, as in “you’re here for me to tell you how I got where I am, not to hear me spout proverbs and shit. So buckle up” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 17), create an intimate, confessional tone.

The stories interlink, with characters like Yuliana, a cartel boss’s daughter, reappearing across narratives. In “God Forgive Us,” a victim’s backstory unfolds in “God Didn’t Come Through,” revealing her criminal past. Settings span urban slums, cartel hideouts, and elite circles, reflecting Mexico’s social divides. The narrators’ defiance shines, as one declares, “Not only do these Reservoir Bitches not back down, but they also have the ability to laugh at themselves” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 145). Femicide is a central theme, with the final story proclaiming, “Mexico is a monster that devours women. Mexico is a desert of pulverized bone. Mexico is a graveyard full of pink crosses” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 189), a rallying cry against gendered violence.

Humor and rebellion infuse resilience, as seen in “Just like Los Bukanas de Culiacán say in ‘El Mini 6’, what starts rough ends rough. That’s my song, fam. My life philosophy” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 62). Betrayal and loss are visceral, with one narrator lamenting, “It was theft. You were stolen, violently ripped from my side…you were one more body in this genocide” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 134). Social hypocrisy is exposed, as a socialite faking Indigenous roots reveals “a fuckload of violence” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 112). The collection critiques misogyny cloaked in affection, as in “I killed her because I loved her. I killed her because she was mine” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 187). Other stories highlight survival tactics, with a narrator noting, “I learned to keep my mouth shut and my eyes open, like my mom always said” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 45), and another embracing her fate: “I’m a bitch, a real one, and I’m not ashamed of it” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 98). The collection ends with a call to action, urging readers to confront “a country that kills its women and calls it love” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 191).

Reservoir Bitches is a literary triumph, blending raw emotion with incisive critique. The first-person narration creates intimacy, as if “one is sitting across from each narrator, being told their stories as a close confidante” (Kirkus Reviews, 2024). The translation’s use of slang like “fam” and “amigui” preserves the Sinaloan vernacular’s vibrancy, making the English version, as Big Issue notes, “flow and sing in English” (2024). This linguistic innovation immerses readers in Mexico’s gritty realities, enhancing the stories’ immediacy.

The collection’s thematic depth confronts femicide and patriarchy with unapologetic rage, grounded in statistics like “10 women are murdered EVERY DAY by men in Mexico” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 189). The interconnected narratives form a tapestry, with Yuliana’s evolution from victim to avenger reflecting “the power that she has always had but held as other to her feminine persona” (Hindustan Times, 2025). Dark humor balances brutality, as in “My abortion lacked drama… This was less a tragedy than a bad period plus the flu” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 8), making the violence accessible yet impactful. The feminist activism, rooted in de la Cerda’s Morras Help Morras, amplifies the collection’s urgency, as one narrator asserts, “We’re not just victims; we’re fighters, and we’ll keep fighting” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 165).

For Indian readers, the stories resonate with caste, gender, and class struggles. The narrators’ resilience mirrors that of Dalit women or sex workers in India, as seen in Bama’s Sangati. The colloquial style parallels Indian vernacular literature, making it accessible to readers familiar with regional dialects. The critique of systemic violence aligns with Indian feminist movements, enhancing its relevance.

The narrators’ voices, while vibrant, can merge, as Kirkus Reviews notes: “their voices tend to blend into one another” (2024). The consistent irreverent tone, using slang like “queen,” risks obscuring individual distinctions, as critiqued as “indistinct from one another” (Hindustan Times, 2025). This homogeneity may dilute emotional depth for readers seeking nuanced characters. The translation’s Mexican slang and pop culture references, such as “I was vibing to Los Bukanas like it was my job” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 60), can disrupt immersion for non-Spanish-speaking readers, as one reviewer lamented: “the Mexican pop culture references left me breaking out of theFAC the world Dahlia de la Cerda created to research specific words and phrases” (Resch, 2025).

The graphic violence may alienate sensitive readers, with depictions like “blood everywhere, like a horror movie set” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 132) potentially overwhelming. For Indian readers accustomed to layered narratives like Mahabharata, the teleological focus on illustration over resolution may feel unsatisfying, as some stories lack closure. The interconnectedness, while ambitious, sometimes underdevelops characters like the seamstresses, reducing narrative depth.

The opening story’s raw humor, “I did the exact opposite of what the abortion instructions said, which was to eat light, drink Gatorade, and avoid anything that could upset your stomach” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 6), mirrors Indian defiance in stories like Lihaaf. Yuliana’s arc, showcasing “something flips in Yuliana” (Hindustan Times, 2025), offers a feminist narrative resonating with Indian resistance tales. However, similar voices, as in “you’re here for me to tell you how I got where I am” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 17), blur distinctions, and graphic content may challenge readers expecting subtler storytelling.

Why Indian Readers Must Read This Book

Indian readers will find Reservoir Bitches deeply resonant, reflecting their struggles with caste, gender, and class oppression. The narrators’ resilience, as in “I’m a bitch, a real one, and I’m not ashamed of it” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 98), mirrors Dalit women or sex workers in works like Sangati. The critique of systemic violence, “a country that kills its women and calls it love” (de la Cerda, 2024, p. 191), echoes India’s gender violence issues, like the 2012 Delhi case. The colloquial style aligns with Indian vernacular literature, and de la Cerda’s activism parallels Indian feminist movements, urging solidarity and reflection on cultural resilience.

Reservoir Bitches is a bold, electrifying collection that confronts Mexico’s femicide crisis with raw storytelling and feminist fury. Its vibrant prose, innovative translation, and dark humor make it a literary milestone, despite voice homogeneity and cultural barriers. Praised as “a literary gift” (Delgado Lopera, 2024), it demands attention for amplifying marginalized voices. This reviewer recommends it for readers seeking transgressive, impactful literature that challenges societal norms.