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In her 1929 essay “A Room of One’s Own,” Virginia Woolf argued that a woman who wanted to write needed a "room of one's own" that also had a lock. My husband Ramón and I just bought this place to call our own on April 30, so it has been exactly one month. He jokingly tells me that when he talks too much, I can go and lock myself in the upstairs room and take my laptop with me.

There is a grain of truth in his humor. When we lived in the apartment, I constantly demanded that he "give me my space" (dame mi espacio). The neighbors thought that we were watching a telenovela on Telemundo or Univisión and we had the TV turned up. What they were hearing was the sound of our bickering in Spanish. At least I am thankful because I learned the language well enough to be able to express strong emotions.

I am fortunate not to be a “Judith Shakespeare,” William’s penniless, fictitious sister who was forced into marriage and doomed to take her own life. All around me I see multicultural women bloggers.

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My “room of one’s own” is still bare, but it is the perfect place for visiting grandchildren to play “hide-and-seek.” They like to run up and down the steps as they look for the one who is hiding. Right now I am using the living room as a writing space, but soon the upstairs room will be furnished, and just in time for summer classes.

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