About the author
Sandra Cisniros, an English-speaking American immigrant from Chicago, USA, published in 1984 the short-lived book The House on Mango Street, which is said to have sold two million copies.
The success of the book, and the subsequent work of poetry and prose, have made her one of the most prolific female writers in the country.
The book contains forty-four short, independent narratives. The narratives are intertwined and provide a complete narrative.
In Chicago, there is a family who want to escape from a poor Latin American immigrant village or barrio. Spranza Cordero, the youngest daughter, tells us about the family’s struggles. This is how the title of the book, the title of the book, is translated.
Mango Street will never be the same. We used to live in Lumis. On the third floor. Before him we were Killer.
Paulina before Killer. I don’t remember Paulina even before. I fondly remember that we change homes frequently.
It seems that we are adding a new person to our luggage and preparing for a new life.
By the time we reached Mango Street, there were six of us. Mom, Dad, my brothers Carlos and Kiki, my sister Neni and me.
The mango street is ours. We do not pay rent to anyone, we do not share the playground with other people below us,
we do not save our voices in frustration, we do not have a landlord who sweeps our roof. Still, it has nothing to do with the house of our imagination.
We hurriedly left Lumisu’s home. Due to his advanced age, the water supply was broken, but the landlord refused to repair it.
We had to hurry. We had to use our neighbor’s bathroom next door to fetch water from empty milk storage. That’s why Mom and Dad are looking for a better home and we came to this edge of town.
They always tell us that one day we will be able to live in our own private home and get rid of it year after year.
Then we draw water from our hearts. Our pipes will not break. Our interiors are the best stairs we see on TV, not just passages. We do not have to tell all the members of the family when we want to take a shower, as we have one basement and at least three bathrooms.
Colorful white house, surrounded by trees, a spacious garden and fenced-in lawns. Dad likes to grab a lottery ticket, and that’s what Mom dreams of when she tells us stories that take us to bed.
But our current home is not what it used to be. In fact, it is small, and the color is red. It has narrow and reserved steps on the front.
The small size of the windows makes them look like they have swallowed their breath. Occasionally, the bricks begin to fall apart.
The door swells and does not open unless it is pushed hard. There are no trees in the city except for a few trees planted by the municipality.
In the background is a parking lot that we have not yet purchased. We also had a small, well-kept backyard that was hidden between two large buildings.
Of course, the house has steps inside. But the ordinary steps are ordinary; They are ups and downs. One bath for his mother is a must. Besides, we all share a bedroom.
Mom and Dad, Carlos and Kiki, Me and Henny.
Once we are in Lumis. As I was playing outside, a nun I knew from school saw me.
The laundry, which is one floor above us, was looted two days ago, but the owner stuck it on a piece of wood and said, “Yes, we are working.”
The nun asked me, “Where do you live?”
..E there .. I pointed back to the third floor.
..Do you live there? .. I followed their eyes and looked across the third floor, and I carefully looked at the paint on the wall, which was drying and crumbling,
and the wooden grid made by Dad so that we would not fall through the window. The nun’s words made me feel empty.
..over there; I live there
That’s when I realized it was a real house that I proudly pointed to as “***”. But this is not the case. The house we live in on Mango Street will never be the same. “No, it’s only a matter of time,” said Mom. “We will not continue,” said Dad. But it was not hard for me to understand such things.