The House onMango StreetWe didn't always live on Mango Street. Beforethat we lived on Loomis on the third floor ,and before that we lived on Keeler. BeforeKeeler it was Paulina, and before that I can'tremember. But what I remember most ismoving a lot. Each time it seemed there'd beone more of us. By the time we got to MangoStreet we were six-Mama, Papa, Carlos, Kiki,my sister Nenny and me.

The house on Mango Street is ours, and wedon't have to pay rent to anybody, or sharethe yard with the people downstairs, or becareful not to make too much noise, and thereisn't a landlord banging on the ceiling with abroom. But even so, it's not the house we'dthought we'd get.

We had to leave the flat' on Loomis quick.The water pipes broke and the landlordwouldn't fix them because the house was tooold. We had to leave fast. We were using thewashroom next door and carrying water overin empty milk gallons. That's why Mama andPapa looked for a house, and that's why wemoved into the house on Mango Street, faraway, on the other side of town.

They always told us that one day we wouldmove into a house, a real house that would beOurs for always so we wouldn't have to moveeach year. And our house would have runningwater and pipes that worked. And inside itwould have real stairs, not hallway stairs but

. 'stairs inside like the houses on TV. And we'dhave a basement and at least three washroomsso when we took a bath we wouldn't have totell everybody. Our house would be whitewith trees around it, a great big yard andgrass growing without a fence. This was thehouse Papa talked about when he held alottery ticket and this was the house Mamadreamed up in the stories she told us beforeWe went to bed.

But the house on Mango Street isnot the way they told it at all. It'ssmall and red with tight steps infront and windows so small you'dthink they were holding their breath.Bricks are crumbling in places, andthe front door is so swollen you haveto push hard to get in. There is nofront yard, only four little elms thecity planted by the curb. Out back isa small garage for the car we don'town yet and a small yard that lookssmaller between the two' buildingson either side. There are stairs in ourhouse, but they're ordinary hallwaystairs, and the house has only onewashroom. Everybody has to share abedroom-Mama and Papa, Carlosand Kiki, me and Nenny.

Once when we were living onLoomis, a nun from my schoolpassed by and saw me playing outfront. The laundromat downstairshad been boarded up because it hadbeen robbed two days before and theowner had painted on the wood YESWE'RE OPEN so as not to losebusiness.

Where do you live? she asked.There, I said pointing up to the

third floor.You live there?There. I had to look to where she

pointed-the third floor, the paintpeeling, wooden bars Papa hadnailed on the windows so wewouldn't fall out. You live there?The way she said it made me feellike nothing. There. I lived there. Inodded. ...,

I knew then I had to have a house.

1. flat: an apartment on one floor of a building.

A real house. One I could point to. But thisisn't it. The house on Mango Street isn't it. Forthe time being, Mama says. Temporary, saysPapa. But I know how those things go. 1ft

My NameIn English my name means hope. In Spanish itmeans too many letters. It means sadness, itmeans waiting. It is like the number nine. Amuddy color. It is the Mexican records my fatherplays on Sunday mornings when he is shaving,songs like sobbing.

It was my great-grandmother's name and nowit is mine. She was a horse woman too, born likeme in the Chinese year of the horse-s-which issupposed to be bad luck if you're born female-but I think this is a Chinese lie because theChinese, like the Mexicans, don't like theirwomen strong.

My great-grandmother. I would've liked to haveknown her, a wild horse of a woman, so wild shewouldn't marry. Until my great-grandfather threwa sack over her head and carried her off. Just likethat, as if she were a fancy chandelier. That's theway he did it.

And the story goes she never forgave him. Shelooked out the window her whole life, the way somany women sit their sadness on an elbow. Iwonder if she made the best with what she got orwas she sorry because she couldn't be all thethings she wanted to be. Esperanza. I haveinherited her name, but I don't want to inherit herplace by the window.

In English

my name

means hope.

In Spanish it

means too

many letters.

2. Chinese year of the horse: The traditional Chinesecalendar names each year after one of a series of twelveanimals: rat, ox, tiger, hare, dragon, snake, horse, sheep,monkey, fowl, dog, and pig. People born in years named'after the same animal are believed to share certain traits.Horse people are active and energetic, quick-witted andcunning. The horse is an individual who depends only onhis wits and his labor to get what he wants.

THE HOUSE ON MANGO STREET

I have

At school they say my name funny as if thesyllables were made out of tin and hurt the roof ofyour mouth. But in Spanish my name is madeout of a softer something, like silver, not quiteas thick as sister's name-Magdalena-whichis uglier than mine. Magdalena who at leastcan come home and become Nenny. But I amalways Esperanza.

I would like ro baptize myself under a newname, a name more like the real me, the onenobody sees. Esperanza as Lisandra or Maritzaor Zeze the X. Yes. Something like Zeze the Xwill do. i<never

seen myPapa Who Wakes UpTired in the DarkYour abuelito' is dead, Papa says early onemorning in my room. Estd muerto," and then asif he just heard the news himself, crumples like acoat and cries, my brave Papa cries. I have neverseen my Papa cry and don't know what to do.

I know he will have ro go away, that he willtake a plane to Mexico, all the uncles and auntswill be there, and they will have a black-and-white photo taken in front of the tomb withflowers shaped like spears in a white vase becausethis is how they send the dead away in thatcountry.

Because I am the oldest, my father has told mefirst, and now it is my turn to tell 'iP-eothers. Iwill have to explain why we can't play. I will haveto tell them to be quiet today.

My Papa, his thick hands and thick shoes, whowakes up tired in the dark, who combs his hairwith water, drinks his coffee, and is gone beforewe wake, today is sitting on my bed.

And I think if my own Papa died whatwould I do. I hold my Papa in my arms. Ihold and hold and hold him .. -)~-

~"'-

Papa cry

and don't

know what

to do.

3. abuelito (a·bwe-le'to) Spanish: grandfather.

4. Esta muerto (es·tii' mwer'tO) Spanish: He is dead.

'rNIT FOUR AUTHOR STUDY: SANDRA CISNEROS

A Smart CookieI could've been somebody, you know? mymother says and sighs. She has lived in thiscity her whole life. She can speak twolanguages. She can sing an opera. She knowshow to fix a 'TV, But she doesn't know whichsubway train to take to get downtown. I holdher hand very tight while we wait for the righttrain to arrive.

She used to draw when she had time. Nowshe draws with a needle and thread, littleknotted rosebuds, tulips made of silk thread.Someday she would like to go to the ballet.Someday she would like to see a play. Sheborrows opera records from the public libraryand sings with velvety lungs powerful asmorning glories.

Today while cooking oatmeal she isMadame Butterfly- until she sighs and pointsthe wooden spoon at me. I could've beensomebody, you know? Esperanza, you go toschool. Study hard. That Madame Butterflywas a fool. She stirs the oatmeal. Look at mycomadres," She means Izaura whose husbandleft and Yolanda whose husband is dead. Gotto take care all your own, she says shaking herhead.

Then out of nowhere:Shame is a bad thing, you know. It keeps

you down. You want to know why I quitschool? Because I didn't have nice clothes. Noclothes, but I had brains.

Yup, she says disgusted, stirring again. I wasa smart cookie then. ;--,.,.....,p -,

Mango SaysGoodbye SometimesI like to tell stories. I tell them inside my head.I tell them after the mailman says, Here's yourmail. Here's your mail he said.

I make a story for my life, for each step my

brown shoe takes. I say, "And so shetrudged up the wooden stairs, hersad brown shoes taking her to thehouse she never liked."

I like to tell stories. I am going totell you a story about a girl whodidn't want to belong.

We didn't always live on MangoStreet. Before that we lived onLoomis on the third floor, andbefore that we lived on Keeler.Before Keeler it was Paulina, butwhat I remember most is MangoStreet, sad red house, the house Ibelong but do not belong to.

I put it down on paper and then theghost does not ache so much. I write itdown and Mango says goodbyesometimes. She does not hold me withboth arms. She sets me free.

One day I will pack my bags ofbooks and paper. One day I will saygoodbye to Mango. I am too strongfor her to keep me here forever. Oneday I will go away.

Friends and neighbors will say,What happened to that Esperanza?Where did she go with all thosebooks and paper? Why did shemarch so far away?

They will not know I have goneaway to come back. For the ones Ileft behind. For the ones who cannotout . .,r,.::/

5. Madame Butterfly: the main character in anopera by Giacomo Puccini. She is aJapanese woman who kills herself when shediscovers that her fiance has abandoned herand married a woman from the UnitedStates.

6. comadres (korna'dres) Spanish: womenfriends.

III

THE HOUSE ON MANGO STREET n