芒果街上的小屋the house on mango street_芒果街上的小屋女性

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I want to be

like the waves on the sea,like the clouds in the wind,but I’m me.One day I’ll jump

out of my skin.I’ll shake the sky

like a bundred violins.The House on Mango Street

We didn’t always live on Mango Street.Before that we lived on Loomis on the third floor, and before that we lived on Keeler.Before Keeler it was Paulina, and before that I can’t remember.But what I remember most is moving a lot.Each time it seemed there’d be one more of us.By the time we got to Mango Street we were six—Mama, Papa, Carlos, Kiki, my sister Nenny and me.The house on Mango Street is ours, and we don’t have to pay rent to anybody, or share the yard with people downstairs, or be careful not to make too much noise, and there isn’t a landlord banging on the ceiling with a broom.But even so, it’s not the house we’d though we’d get.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 paint peeling, wooden bars Papa had nailed on the windows so we wouldn’t

A House of My own

Not a flat.Not an apartment in back.Not a man’s house.Not a daddy’s.A house all my own.With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias.My books and my stories.My two shoes waiting beside the bed.Nobody to shake a stick at.Nobody’s garbage to pick up after.Oniy a house quiet as snow, a space for myself to go, clean as paper before the poem.Mango Says Goodbye Sometimes

I like to tell stories.I tell them inside my head.I tell them after the mailman says.Here’s your mail.Here’s your mail he said.I make a story for my life, for each step my brown shoe takes.I say, “And so she trudged up the wooden stairs, her sad brown shoes taking her to the house she never liked.”

I like to tell stories.I am going to tell you a story about a girl who didn’t want to belong.We didn’t always live on Mango Street.Before that we lived on Loomis on the third floor, and before that we lived on Keeler.Before Keeler it was Paulina, but what I remember most is Mango Street, sad red house, the house I belong but do not belong to.I put it down on paper and then the ghost does not ache so much.I write it down and Mango says goodbye sometimes.She does not hold me with both arms.She sets me free.One day I will pack my bags of books and paper.One day I will say goodbye to Mango.I am too strong for her to keep me here forever.One day I will go away.Friends and neighbors will say.What happened to that Esperanza? Where did she go with all those books and paper? Why did she march so far away?

They will not know I have gone away to come back.For the ones I left behind.For the ones who cannot out.