Sassy Succulents

I was inspired by Cisneros’s work, The House on Mango Street so I cut out a mango and put her biography in there. Cisneros also wrote a lot about her Mexican heritage, which is very close to her so in her name I drew flowers based on the patterns of a traditional Mexican dress.

This is the inside of the mango biography.

Monica Martinez

The house quiets down and night finally begins in our suburban home. 

I lay in my bed confined to the four walls of my pink childhood bedroom listening to the orchestra of sounds outside.

The crickets are chirping, my neighbors dog is barking. My parents are snoring in the other room. 

But among these sounds I wait and I listen for the quiet between the sounds.

This is where I find peace, in the comforting quietness of my home.

All of the five poems I chose were from a popular work of Sandra Cisneros’ called The House on Mango Street. But although all five poems are from the same work, they are vastly different, yet share some key similarities. I noticed that every poem does a masterful job of making the main character Esperanza’s voice come through. The clear and direct voice present makes you feel as if Esperanza is the one writing these poems, not an adult. And this just proves that Sandra Cisneros is a very good writer because she was able to write as a character so well, that the tone is so clear and decipherable among all these poems, and doesn’t get lost along the way. Another main part that these poems have in common, is the observation that Esperanza talks about. Whether she is talking about another person, like Mamacita or her dad, she includes the major and especially minute and intricate details. Like their hair, or their voices. Esperanza is writing about her environment and the people that surround her daily. 

Now, although each poem is together in one piece of work by Cisneros, they all are a small part of teen Esperanza’s journey of growing up and learning about who she is. So it’s apparent that every poem talks about different topics, like death, hair, or even a neighbor across the street. Each poem tells you more about Esperanza’s life, and allows the reader to relate to some of the events of her life. 

Sandra Cisneros

Your abuelito is dead, Papa says early one morning 

in my room. Está muerto, and then as if he just heard the

news himself, crumples like a coat and cries, my brave Papa 

cries. I have never seen my Papa cry and don’t know what 

to do. 

I know he will have to go away, that he will take a 

plane to Mexico, all the uncles and aunts will be there, and 

they will have a black-and-white photo taken in front of 

the tomb with flowers shaped like spears in a white vase 

because this is how they send the dead away in that country. 

Because I am the oldest, my father has told me first, 

and now it is my turn to tell the others. I will have to explain 

why we can’t play. I will have to tell them to be quiet today. 

My Papa, his thick hands and thick shoes, who wakes 

up tired in the dark, who combs his hair with water, drinks 

his coffee, and is gone before we wake, today is sitting on 

my bed. 

And I think if my own Papa died what would I do. I 

hold my Papa in my arms. I hold and hold and hold him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Although this poem is short, it still holds so much meaning. It deals with growth for Esperanza. She is their Oldest sister, and the Eldest child. So as the oldest, she needs to handle serious duties. She needed to act like the adult in the situation, because of what her dad was going through. She needed to act strong in this situation, on behalf of her father, who couldn’t. Not only does this poem tackle growth and the idea of taking on the strength for your parents because that’s all you can do, but it tackles Mexican culture and tradition. That the dad carries a lot of the strength for a family and he’s the source of strength. I especially like how Cisneros explains the duties and roles that Esperanza’s family will have to follow now. For example, the fact that he’s going to need to go to Mexico, and “have a black-and-white photo taken in front of the tomb with flowers shaped like spears in a white vase because this is how they send the dead away in that country.” The poem uses the pattern of phrasing death as an obligation, and the things that follow it, like the rules and funerals are nothing more than an annoying chore to finish. But as well as all that the poem brings forth the love Esperanza has for her father and how grateful she is to have her father around and alive.

Sandra Cisneros

The Three Sisters

They came with the wind that blows in August, thin

as a spider web and barely noticed. Three who did not 

seem to be related to anything but the moon. One with 

laughter like tin and one with eyes of a cat and one with

hands like porcelain.  The aunts, the three sisters, las co-

Madres, they said. 

The baby died. Lucy and Rachel’s sister. One night a 

dog cried, and the next day a yellow bird flew in through 

an open window. Before the week was over, the baby’s fever

was worse. Then Jesus came and took the baby with him 

far away. That’s what their mother said. 

Them the visitors came… in and out of the little 

house. It was hard to keep the floors clean. Anybody who 

had ever wondered what color the walls were came and 

came to look at that little thumb of a human in a box like 

candy.

I had never seen the dead before, not for real, not in

Somebody’s living room for people to kiss and bless them-

selves and light a candle for. Not in a house. It seemed 

strange.

They must’ve known, the sisters, They had the power 

and could sense what was what. They said, Come here, and 

gave me a stick of gum. They smelled like Kleenex or the 

inside of a satin handbag, and then I didn’t feel afraid.

What’s your name, the cat-eyed one asked. 

Esperanza, I said.

Esperanza, the old blue-veined one repeated in a high 

thin voice. Esperanza … a good good name. 

My knees, hurt, the one with the funny laugh com=

plained. 

Tomorrow it will rain.

Yes, tomorrow, they said. 

How do you know? I asked 

We know.

Look at her hands, the cat-eyed said.

And they turned them over and over as if they were

looking for something.

She’s special. 

Yes, she’ll go very far. 

Yes, yes, hmmm.

Make a wish.

A wish?

Yes, make a wish. What do you want?

Anything? I said. 

Well, why not?

I closed my eyes.

Did you wish already?

Yes, I said. 

Well, that’s all there is to it. It’ll come true.

How do you know? I asked.

We know, we know.

Esperanza. The one with marble hands called me 

aside. Esperanza. She held my face with her blue-veined 

hands and looked and looked at me. A long silence. When 

you leave you must remember always to come back, she 

said.

What?

When you leave you must remember to come back

For the others. A circle, understand? You will always be 

Esperanza. You will always be Mango Street. You can’t 

Erase what you know. You can’t forget who you are.

Then I didn’t know what to say. It was as if she could 

read my mind, as if she knew what I had wished for, and 

I felt ashamed for having made such a selfish wish. 

You must remember to come back. For the ones who 

cannot leave as easily as you. You will remember? She asked 

as if she was telling me. Yes, yes, I said a little confused.

Good, she said, rubbing my hands. Good. That’s all.

You can go. 

I got up to join Lucy and Rachel who were already 

outside waiting by the door, wondering what I was doing 

talking to three old ladies who smelled like cinnamon. I 

didn’t understand everything they had told me. I turned 

around. They smiled and waved in their smoky way. 

Then I didn’t see them. Not once, or twice, or ever

again. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here Cisneros again mentions the struggles that many teens face. These three sisters know almost that Esperanza wants to change who she is and one day leave this place, leave Mango Street for something better. It almost seems like a response to previous work, “My Name”. Where Esperanza used to feel uncomfortable with her name and tried to change it, but these women came and told her that no matter what she can’t forget where she came from. No matter how much she may want to trade her life, identity, and past experiences for someone else’s she can’t. The line that I feel perfectly encapsulates this feeling is when the sister with marble hands says to Esperanza, “You will always be Esperanza. You will always be Mango Street. You can’t Erase what you know. You can’t forget who you are.” I feel this really speaks to young Esperanza especially after how she had been feeling throughout The House on Mango Street. 

Another feature I like in this poem is the imagery Cisneros uses. Especially when they describe the situation Esperanza’s at, like the small details that people wouldn’t think matter, or are important. Like the fact that a yellow bird flew through an open window, or that it was hard to keep the floors clean. The language and the small details that make one think that it was an average or regular day, when in reality this family’s world was turned upside down. 

Sandra Cisneros

Mamacita is the big mama of the man across the street, third-floor front. Rachel says her name ought to be Mamasota, but I think that´s mean. The man saved his money to bring her here. He saved and saved because she was alone with the baby boy in that country. He worked two jobs. He came home late and he left early. Every day. Then one day Mamacita and the baby boy arrived in a yellow taxi. The taxi door opened like a waiter’s arm. Out stepped a tiny pinky shoe, a foot soft as rabbit’s ear, then the thick ankle, a flutter of hips, fuchsia roses and green perfume. The man had to pull her, the taxicab driver had to push. Push, pull. Push, pull. Poof! All at once she bloomed. Huge, enormous, beautiful to look at from the salmon-pink feather on the tip of her hat down to the little rosebuds of her toes. I couldn’t take my eyes off her tiny shoes. Up, up, up the stairs she went with the baby boy in a blue blanket, the man carrying her suitcases, her lavender hatboxes, a dozen boxes of satin high heels. Then we didn’t see her. Somebody said because she´s too fat, somebody because of the three flights of stairs, but I believe she doesn’t come out because she is afraid to speak English, and maybe this is so since she only knows eight words. She knows to say: He is not here for when the landlord comes, No speak English if anybody else comes, and Holy smokes. I don’t know where she learned this, but I heard her say it one time and it surprised me. My father says when he came to this country he ate hamandeggs for three months. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Hamandeggs. That was the only word he knew. He doesn’t eat hamandeggs anymore. Whatever her reasons, whether she is fat, or can’t climb the stairs, or is afraid of English, she won’t come down. She sits all day by the window and plays the Spanish radio show and sings all the homesick songs about her country in a voice that sounds like a seagull. Home. Home. Home is a house in a photograph, a pink house, pink as hollyhocks with lots of startled light. The man paints the walls of the apartment pink, but it’s not the same, you know. She still sighs for her pink house, and then I think she cries. I would. Sometimes the man gets disgusted. He starts screaming and you can hear it all the way down the street. Ay, she says, she is sad. Oh, he says. Not again. ¿Cuándo, cuándo, cuándo? she asks. ¡Ay caray! We are home. This is home. Here I am and here I stay. Speak English. Speak English. Christ! ¡Ay! Mamacita, who does not belong, every once in a while lets out a cry, hysterical, high, as if he had torn the only skinny thread that kept her alive, the only road out of that country. And then to break her heart forever, the baby boy, who has begun to talk, starts to sing the Pepsi commercial he heard on T.V. No speak English, she says to the child who is singing in the language that sounds like tin. No speak English, no speak English, and bubbles into tears. No, no, no, as if she can’t believe her ears.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In this poem I see the relevance it carries to how the world is like today. It relates to how there are so many people in the world who may have moved from Spanish-speaking countries and are now in countries where the primary language is English and they feel lost. For some their language is what ties them to the culture they are connected to, and the culture they left behind. They can feel that them learning English completely disregards who they were before. It may even feel like an abandonment of who they are. Someone’s culture and language are a major part in who a person is and changing that can be a major shock to their system. This thought is expressed when Mamacita’s baby boy begins to speak English. She can see that he’s losing the culture he was born with and is beginning to be heavily influenced by the English-centric tendencies of the United States. Which breaks Mamacita’s heart and I’m sure she feels left out by the mannerisms her family has adopted. Also, currently in life, there are still people who want everyone to be just like them and put the American culture first. Another thing I love about this poem is the use of dialogue. With words like, “Ay Caray!”, “Cuando, Cuando, Cuando” and “No speak english” help demonstrate the possible desperation in Mamacita’s voice and let the reader know the emotions running though Mamacita’s head.

Sandra Cisneros

Everybody in our family has different hair. My papa’s hair is like a broom, all up in the air. And me, my hair is lazy. It never obeys barrettes or bands. Carlos’ hair is thick and straight. He doesn’t need to comb it. Nenny’s hair is slippery—slides out of your hand. And Kiki, who is the youngest, has hair like fur. But my mother’s hair, my mother’s hair, like little rosettes, like little candy circles all curly and pretty because she pinned it in pincurls all day, sweet to put your nose into when she is holding you, holding you and you feel safe, is the warm smell of bread before you bake it, is the smell when she makes room for you on her side of the bed still warm with her skin, and you sleep near her, the rain outside falling and Papa snoring. The snoring, the rain, and Mama’s hair that smells like bread.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I appreciate this poem because it takes a subject that is seemingly uninteresting, like hair and gives it life. At first glance, it just appears that Esperanza is observing her family’s hair and taking note of the special things in their hair. But as you look deeper, you can tell that Esperanza clearly has a preference to who’s hair she likes the most, her mother’s. Esperanza compares her mother’s hair to things with positive connotations, like bread, and rosettes. The way Esperanza describes her mother’s hair lets the reader know that Esperanza probably feels safe with her mom, and looks up to her for beauty standards. As Esperanza continues to describe hair, she is taken to a special memory, and moment in time. When her mom lets Esperanza sleep near her and feels safe, with the sounds of her dad snoring and rain in the background. So it is clear to see that hair isn’t just hair to Esperanza, it’s safety and sweet memories.  

I also love the imagery that the author includes to describe the hair of other members of the family. For example, a broom is used to describe her father’s hair, and because a broom is a common object in the world the reader can visualize what Esperanza’s dad’s hair may look like. 

Sandra Cisneros

In English my name means hope. In Spanish it means too many letters. It 

means sadness, it means waiting. It is like the number nine. A muddy color. It is the 

Mexican records my father plays on Sunday mornings when he is shaving, songs like 

sobbing. 

It was my great-grandmother’s name and now it is mine. She was a horse

 woman too, born like me in the Chinese year of the horse—which is supposed to be 

bad luck if you’re born female—but I think this is a Chinese lie because the Chinese,

 like the Mexicans, don’t like their women strong. 

My great-grandmother. I would’ve liked to have known her, a wild horse of a 

woman, so wild she wouldn’t marry. Until my great-grandfather threw a sack over 

her head and carried her off. Just like that, as if she were a fancy chandelier. That’s 

the way he did it. 

And the story goes she never forgave him. She looked out the window her

 whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow. I wonder if she 

made the best with what she got or was she sorry because she couldn’t be all the 

things she wanted to be.  Esperanza. I have inherited her name, but I don’t want to 

inherit her place by the window. 

At school they say my name funny as if the syllables were made out of tin and 

hurt the roof of your mouth.  But in Spanish my name is made out of a softer 

something, like silver, not quite as thick as sister’s name—Magdalena— which is 

uglier than mine.  Magdalena who at least can come home and become Nenny. But I 

am always Esperanza. 

I would like to baptize myself under a new name, a name more like the real me, 

the one nobody sees.  Esperanza as Lisandra or Maritza or Zeze the 

X. Yes. Something like Zeze the X will do. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This poem talks about a young girl who is struggling to accept the name she’s been given. Esperanza doesn’t like it and associates a lot of negative things with her Spanish name. She describes it as “too many letters” “muddy” and “sadness” Esperanxa is having a hard time accepting the fate that is given to her and is trying to make it her own, but in the process is completely changing things. For example, at the end of the poem she writes, “I would like to baptize myself under a new name, a name more like the real me, the one nobody sees.” Here Esperanza, a teen girl, is enthralled with the idea of becoming a new person. Someone’s name is a key part in their identity and Esperanza’s adamence in wanting to change it, voices what so many teens struggle with in life: accepting the person they are and learning how to accept the cards they’ve been dealt with in life. Esperanza is doing the only thing that makes sense in her mind, trying to change her identity to isolate herself from who she is inside. Cisneros does a wonderful job in writing about this and taking on what a teenage girl might experience in her life. 

What I also love about this poem, is the imagery that shines through. The comparisons made to things like sobbing, shaving, or the number nine pulls the emotion out of the poems and allows the reader to be transported to negative moments and allows the reader to relate to the subject being written about, even if you’ve never experienced what the author’s writing about. 

Female Poet Assignment

Poems:

My Name Sandra Cisneros

In English my name means hope. In Spanish it means too many letters. It 

means sadness, it means waiting. It is like the number nine. A muddy color. It is the 

Mexican records my father plays on Sunday mornings when he is shaving, songs like 

sobbing. 

It was my great-grandmother’s name and now it is mine. She was a horse

 woman too, born like me in the Chinese year of the horse—which is supposed to be 

bad luck if you’re born female—but I think this is a Chinese lie because the Chinese,

 like the Mexicans, don’t like their women strong. 

My great-grandmother. I would’ve liked to have known her, a wild horse of a 

woman, so wild she wouldn’t marry. Until my great-grandfather threw a sack over 

her head and carried her off. Just like that, as if she were a fancy chandelier. That’s 

the way he did it. 

And the story goes she never forgave him. She looked out the window her

 whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow. I wonder if she 

made the best with what she got or was she sorry because she couldn’t be all the 

things she wanted to be.  Esperanza. I have inherited her name, but I don’t want to 

inherit her place by the window. 

At school they say my name funny as if the syllables were made out of tin and 

hurt the roof of your mouth.  But in Spanish my name is made out of a softer 

something, like silver, not quite as thick as sister’s name—Magdalena— which is 

uglier than mine.  Magdalena who at least can come home and become Nenny. But I 

am always Esperanza. 

I would like to baptize myself under a new name, a name more like the real me, 

the one nobody sees.  Esperanza as Lisandra or Maritza or Zeze the 

X. Yes. Something like Zeze the X will do. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This poem talks about a young girl who is struggling to accept the name she’s been given. Esperanza doesn’t like it and associates a lot of negative things with her Spanish name. She describes it as “too many letters” “muddy” and “sadness” Esperanxa is having a hard time accepting the fate that is given to her and is trying to make it her own, but in the process is completely changing things. For example, at the end of the poem she writes, “I would like to baptize myself under a new name, a name more like the real me, the one nobody sees.” Here Esperanza, a teen girl, is enthralled with the idea of becoming a new person. Someone’s name is a key part in their identity and Esperanza’s adamence in wanting to change it, voices what so many teens struggle with in life: accepting the person they are and learning how to accept the cards they’ve been dealt with in life. Esperanza is doing the only thing that makes sense in her mind, trying to change her identity to isolate herself from who she is inside. Cisneros does a wonderful job in writing about this and taking on what a teenage girl might experience in her life. 

What I also love about this poem, is the imagery that shines through. The comparisons made to things like sobbing, shaving, or the number nine pulls the emotion out of the poems and allows the reader to be transported to negative moments and allows the reader to relate to the subject being written about, even if you’ve never experienced what the author’s writing about. 

By: Lee Herrick

Light a match. Watch the blue part

                                                             flare like a shocked piñata

                                            from the beating
                                            into the sky,

                                                             watch how fast thin

wood burns & turns toward the skin,

the olive-orange skin of your thumb

                                                             & let it burn, too.

Light a fire. Drown out the singing cats.

Let the drunken mariachis blaze their way,

streaking like crazed hyenas

over a brown hill, just underneath

a perfect birthday moon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With this poem I like how the author takes a subject like a birthday and makes it into something you don’t expect him to say. The author writes about the simple parts of a birthday, like watching a match burn, the mariachis, wood burning. When usually when someone talks about the good parts of a birthday are presents, or going out and doing a lot of activities, but this poet wants to relish in the small and simple things.