Madison's Blog

In House On Mango Street, written by Sandra Cisneros, the thematic motif of identity and truly understanding oneself is evident throughout the many trials that Esperanza must face. Through the many embarrassing moments that this little girl faces, to the many happy ones, her true self becomes more evident as she realizes the kind of young woman she desires to become. For example, when her friends joke about her residency, rudely asking “Where do you live…You live there?” (Cisneros, 5) Esperanza begins to be embarrassed by her home. Her “ugly three-flat house,” (43-45) the one she lied to the nun about, begins to define who she believes she is. To a child, your house is who you are. The elegance of it’s character, or the lack there of. Also, when a friend of Esperanza’s proclaims that she says the neighborhood is getting bad,” (13) Esperanza realizes that her family and her have just recently moved into the neighbor, causing the young child to realize that her kind must be “bad.” Though this young child does not understand why this neighborhood that she has recently occupied is getting so “bad” so suddenly, Esperanza realizes that her friends do not understand the struggles she endures in finding her true identity. Only thinking she can only be bad for her whole life, Esperanza feels as though the bad of neighbor, and the rude remarks by rude school teachers will determine who she is and what her fate is. Claiming that “most likely I will go to Hell…I deserve to be there,” (58) the young girl believes that the lot she was given in life as an outcast, and as a part of the inferior race that is so rapidly harming this neighborhood will earn her an eternity in damnation. Just as a young child would believe, the childish Esperanza believes that, though she is a lost child, claiming that “you can get lost easy,” (19) the young girl believes she must already know her true self, and the lack of this knowledge causes the girl to question much more. For instance, she begins to desire more for herself. Esperanza desires to be more. To be something much more than herself. More than The House On Mango Street. The young and naive Esperanza desires “to be like the waves on the sea…to jump out of my own skin.” (60) Though the young girl knows not of her own true identity, she knows what she what she wants in life, leaving self-identification to follow in her small footsteps.
Through the apparent flow of the thematic motif of self-identification and understanding true self, Sandra Cisneros allows the young character, Esperanza, to endure many trials as the child realizes who she is and what she desires to be in her house on Mango street.

(Google Images) http://blog.lib.umn.edu/nich0185/myblog2/antilatino.jpg

This photo shows not only racial prejudice, but also the ignorance of people. Granted, I am not saying all people are ignorant, just their perceptions. This sign displays the refusal to serve those who are different. Not only is this a sign of racism, it is also the unwillingness to accept differences. As a 21st century prodigy of rainbow skinny jeans and recycled 60’s rock, I cannot fathom racism. Sure, people have different skin color. They may be different, but we’re all equal. I selected this picture not only because it solely targets the race at hand in this novel, but also because this is what I see in my everyday life. There might not be signs plastered on the walls of this town, but there is a sense of “white pride” that is very evident. This novel displays racism through the many prejudices that Esperanza has to face. Through the rude looks of her friends that concern her home, to her lack of money or riches.

“Matt, sing for me.” Grandfather pleaded. Sick, yet stubborn, his eyes longed for peace. I picked up my guitar, the same yellow wooden box with the same rusty strings that were laid across its neck when I begged for my grandfather to buy it for me. Though the cancer was no friend, his smile was. The same smile that urged me to keep singing.

“Grandpa, what should I sing?” I asked, always expecting the same response. On cue, Grandpa whispered. “Whatever makes you happy, Matt.” Strumming our favorite chord, the beautiful C major, I began to sing. I watched his eyes fill up with tears just like the coffee mugs him and I would leave in the rain, hoping to steal all of the rain from the sky. He would always tell me that the rain was the angels crying because my singing was so beautiful. He could always make me smile. Though he could not tell me what the name if the song was, or even who sang it, I knew his heart had been mended. Telling me that the cancer is just a little set-back, he urged me to play on. He urged me to keep my music going. He urged me never to quit.

“We’ll get over this, Grandma, I promise,” He would always say. “Play me an old one, Matt. How about some Willie?” Willie, he was his favorite. As I grabbed the resting guitar, I could see his smile lighting up his worn face. Patsy could never subdue the cancer, but Willie did the trick. Willie, and his lonesome whistle. willie, and his lovesick blues.

“Hey, Grandpa! How about some Marty Robbins?” I always wanted to please him. He was my inspiration.

“Matt, you may forget how to sew, cook, or even do things for yourself,” he would always tell me. “but you will never forget about our memories. You’ll never forget how we would sit in the studio for hours learning new songs. Promise me you’ll never forget my old bones?” As I finished my song, and let him sleep, I could feel tears streaming down my face. Walking away, I knew he’d never forget.

As the memories of his lecturing and his teachings replayed through my head, I approach his sleeping body for the last time.

“I’ll never stop singing, Grandpa.”

Querido Mamacita,

Hola, me llamo Madison. I originally speak English. I have recently discovered that you speak primarily Spanish, and the English that you do know is very minimal. I have written you this letter to persuade you, hopefully, to consider learning English and expanding your English vocabulary. Mi abuela, Freida, is from Germany, therefore she originally speaks German. Mi abuelo, Bob, brought my grandmother over here to America, even though she could hardly speak any English. As time went by, my grandmother was able, with the help of my grandfather, to learn enough English to acquire her citizenship officially. Though my grandmother is still learning, even today, she knew that it was a necessity to be able to comprehend and speak English. I understand the desire you have to return to Mexico, but, as you and I both realize, your husband is doing the very best that he can to make your stay in America as enjoyable as possible. I also understand that you wish your children would not learn English. I do understand, but however I do wish to stress this issue with you, Mamacita… When your child attends school that is more than likely going to be an English speaking school, how will your child be able to respond to his/her peers if they cannot understand what it is that they are saying.

Si, yo entiendo, pero escuchame.

Though you may believe that English is inferior to Spanish and American culture is not as important as that of Hispanic culture, I strongly urge that during your residency in this country, you further your vocabulary in order to make your stay less of a dredded one.

Adios.

In one of Sandra Cisnero’s pieces in her book, The House on Mango Street, Cisnero uses symbolism as a striking device in order to reveal her evident theme in this book. The entry “Hips” reveals Cisnero’s thematic motif of growth and self-identity as Esperanza and her friends discuss matters of adulthood. Ironically, as the children continue to play jump rope, which is a child’s game, the wanna-be-women begin to discuss “hips.” Claiming that these are necessary for “holding a baby,”  the girls, with their adolescent talk, provide a juxtaposition between the subject at hand, and the playground game. By using the hips as a symbolic item of Esperanza’s life, it reveals her desire to mature and grow older, but also her content with childish things. As her friends continue listing off the many reasons why “hips” are such a necessity, and how they are so important, such as a statement of “they are scientific,” the girls allow the thematic motif to have a strong underlying significance. As the children play and speak of “dancing” with their womanly hips that are sure to be the reason you know you are woman, Esperanza dreams up the hips she desires. Though the young girl knows nothing of the heavy responsibilities of these grown-up hips, Esperanza does not understand the power that accompanies such items. With a twelve years old desire to mature quickly in order to be beautiful, Esperanza and her friends continue to play their silly games and dream of the many things that these incoming hips will do for them. As a result, by using the symbolism of the hips to portray the childlike desire to grow and mature but the incapability due to an evident youth, Cisnero develops the theme of this vignette series very early and efficiently.

My house has a lot of memories that are definitely some of my favorites. From the kitchen that definitely contains my favorite things, to my room that houses my insanities emerges the room that, to this day, contains the memory to end all memories. The Game Room. Once a quiet room that held my musical instruments, workout equipment that never seemed to rid itself of the cobwebs, and an innocent white couch. (Keep this in mind as you continue your reading.) The game room, on this particular afternoon, offered an escape to begin a new project for my new bedroom. An old wooden frame of my first guitar tempted me, and I gave in. As I walked to the garage to retrieve the OIL-BASED BLACK PAINT that sat on the shelf. As I began to finish my project, I decided to do some cardio, and run a bit. HA! With the paint can on the couch, lid opened, I forgot about gravity. Yay. As I threw my towel on the couch, I heard a loud THUD, and watched as a cloud of black paint stained the white couch and the brand new white carpet. As I began to scream, I knew my life was over. Trying to mop up the paint with white towels, I knew there was no salvaging my world.