The House on Mango Street

by Sandra Cisneros

The young woman works with students who have dropped out of high school but have decided to try again for their diplomas. She learns from her students that they have more difficult lives than her storyteller’s imagination can invent. Her life has been comfortable and privileged compared to theirs. She never had to worry about feeding her babies before she went to class. She never had a father or boyfriend who beat her at night and left her bruised in the morning. She didn’t have to plan an alternative route to avoid gangs in the school hallway. Her parents didn’t plead with her to drop out of school so she could help them earn money. How can art make a difference in the world? This was never asked at Iowa. Should she be teaching these students to write poetry when they need to know how to defend themselves from someone beating them up? Can a memoir by Malcolm X or a novel by García Márquez save them from the daily blows? And what about those who have such learning problems they can’t even manage a book by Dr. Seuss, but can weave a spoken story so wondrous, she wants to take notes. Should she give up writing and study something useful like medicine? How can she teach her students to take control of their own destiny? She loves these students. What should she be doing to save their lives?

At the university I work for a program that no longer exists, the Educational Opportunity Program, that assists “disadvantaged” students. It’s in keeping with my philosophy, and I can still help the students from my previous job. But when my most brilliant student is accepted, enrolls, and drops out in her first semester, I collapse on my desk from grief, from exhaustion, and feel like dropping out myself.

years. The woman who is me goes home proud of having gone to the movies alone. See? It wasn’t that difficult.

But as she bolts the door of her apartment, she bursts into tears. “I don’t have diamonds,” she sobs, not knowing what she means, except she knows even then it’s not about diamonds.

Usually when I thought I was creating someone from my imagination, it turned out I was remembering someone I’d forgotten or someone standing so close I couldn’t see her at all.

You lie down next to me and drape one leg over mine like when we sleep together at your home. We always sleep together when I’m there.

Her power is her own. She will not give it away.