I love the writing style, and how it's told in vignettes. ( )

In The House on Mango Street, author Sandra Cisneros creates a tender and touching coming-of-age tale focused on Esperanza Cordero, a young Hispanic girl growing up in an impoverished, mixed-race neighborhood in Chicago. Billed as a novel, the book is really a collection of more than forty linked episodes, all told through Esperanza’s eyes as she tries to figure out the world around her while moving—reluctantly most days, it seems—from childhood to womanhood. All those tales are quite short, seldom more than a few pages in length, and each captures a specific moment in Esperanza’s upbringing or myriad relationships with friends and family that serves to underscore the book’s main themes of culture differences, wealth disparities, and gender roles.

This is a beautifully written story that reads as much like a prose poem as a traditional narrative. That is not all that surprising; in the version I read (i.e., the 25th anniversary edition), Cisneros includes an enlightening Introduction detailing the book’s origins dating to her time in a graduate writing program when she was struggling with the decision to move from writing poetry to producing short fiction. At times, it felt like the author must have been midway through that transition when she finished The House on Mango Street, which certainly produced an effective result. It was also clear from the Introduction that much of the story is autobiographical, based on Cisneros’ own experiences growing up in Chicago as part of a Hispanic family that struggled economically at times.

The choice to relate events entirely from Esperanza’s perspective was interesting, but one that led to a mixed outcome for me. I like first-person narration because, if you are going to encounter an unreliable narrator, that is the way the story needs to be told. And, without question, Esperanza is an unreliable narrator, not because she is deceitful or hiding a terrible secret, but simply because her age and lack of experience do not always allow her to perceive things the way they are. However, that limited perspective, while great for a story about growing up, also led to a very slight tale in which not a lot happens. Essentially, what we get amounts to a few months in the life of a young girl for whom Mango Street symbolizes who she is but also a place she desperately wants to leave. Overall, this is a poignant story that is well worth the brief amount of time it demands of the reader. ( )

I'm going to be honest and say that I did not choose this book for pleasure reading. I actually only read it because I will be utilizing some of the vignettes for my AP Spanish Lang course I'll be teaching this year.

While I can understand the cultural significance and the literary value this book holds, on a more personal level I can't say that I enjoyed it. I tried approaching this from an open mind and more laid back perspective, but it didn't work. It may have been my subconscious trying to find things that I could factor into my lessons, or the fact that reading this is Spanish was complete different than reading it in English (the original language it was written in). Whatever it was, I did have a hard time wanting to finish it. If it wasn't for the reading challenge I would have filed this under my dnf pile. I will give [a:Elena Poniatowska|32135|Elena Poniatowska|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1203572583p2/32135.jpg] credit for her translation of this book though! I think if it had been anyone else, the translation wouldn't have done it justice.

Now in terms of the content, I will say this book has a lot to offer especially given the perspective of a young Chicana growing up in Chicago. This book is a good book. It teaches the reader a lot about what Chican@s go through in a country in which racism is prevalent and opportunities aren't always easy to come by. Lastly, one thing that [a:Sandra Cisneros|13234|Sandra Cisneros|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1342038396p2/13234.jpg] does really well is experiment with different literary forms. It definitely took me a couple of rereading of certain vignettes to fully understand what was happening.

Overall, it's a good read. Worth a try I'd say. ( )

Refreshing and unexpectedly heart-warming and inspiring...a buoyant version of Miguel Street ( )

Se você pesquisar por "Geraldo No Last Name" no Google, você encontrará diversas aulas sobre esta pequena história. É retirado deste livro aqui, e utilizado frequentante nas aulas de inglês do Ensino Médio dos Estados Unidos, dado toda a sua temática. É curtinho, resolvi traduzi-lo só por exercício, mas que pode também ter alguma utilidade, portanto, segue:

Geraldo Sem Sobrenome — Sandra Cisneros

Ela o conheceu em um clube de dança. Jovem, e bonito. Disse que trabalhava em um restaurante, mas ela não se lembrava qual. Geraldo.

Era tudo. Bermudas verdes e camiseta de fim-de-semana. Era tudo que ela sabia.

Não havia como saber que ela seria a última pessoa a vê-lo vivo. Um acidente, sabe.

Atropelamento seguido de fuga. Marin, ela frequenta todos os clubes. Uptown. Logan. Embassy. Palmer. Aragon. Fontana. Ela adora dançar. Sabe como fazer cumbias, salsas e até mesmo rancheras. E ele era só alguém com quem ela dançou. Mais uma pessoa com quem cruzou aquela noite.

É isso.

Essa é a história. Foi o que ela repetiu de novo e de novo. Uma vez para os médicos e duas para os policiais. Não tinha endereço. Não tinha nome. Nada nos bolsos. Era uma pena.

Marin não sabia dizer por que razão aquilo importava, as horas e horas, por alguém que ela não conhecia. A sala de emergência do hospital. Ninguém a não ser um estagiário trabalhando completamente sozinho. E talvez se o cirurgião tivesse aparecido, se ele não tivesse perdido tanto sangue, se o cirurgião tivesse vindo mais cedo, saberiam quem notificar e onde.

Mas que diferença fazia? Ele não significava para ela. Não era seu namorado ou nada parecido. Só outro bracero que não falava inglês. Só outro indigente. Você conhece o tipo. Aqueles que sempre aparentam estarem envergonhados. E Marin, que foi mandada para casa com seu casaco e algumas aspirinas. O que ela achava disso tudo?

Ela o encontrou no clube de dança. Geraldo de camisa colorida e bermudas verdes. Geraldo que ia ao clube dançar.

Por quê importava?

Eles nunca viram as quitinetes. Não sabiam sobre os quartos de cômodo único que ele alugava para dormir, do dinheiro semanal que mandava para casa, do câmbio em moeda estrangeira. Como poderiam saber?

Seu nome era Geraldo. E sua casa ficava em outro país. Aqueles que ele deixou para trás estão longe, vão questionar, encolher os ombros, lembrar. Geraldo — ele foi para lá… E dele nunca mais ouvimos falar.