Personal Narrative: The House On Mango Street

Some of my most notable memories take form as early morning breakfasts. Most days I’d eat a variation of cereal, yogurt, or maybe some fruit. But once in a while, there’d special morning where my Dad cooked up a breakfast. Now, the meal itself had little notability; sometimes there were eggs, sometimes whole-wheat popovers, sometimes toast. What really made those breakfasts special, though, were the stories. Stories of my Dad’s dreams of owning a little restaurant on the lakefront, of little chairs and little tables, of having a laminated menu with items ranging from his eggs, to his whole-wheat popovers, to his toast. “Joe’s Café,” he’d call it. Day after day, he’d tell me his aspirations of owning a gourmet restaurant, even though an hour later he’d sit in the driver’s seat of his Toyota on the way to his office job.

The stories of his restaurant faded gently into my memories

Accepting the world and surrendering to injustices doesn’t require bravery but imagining a better future does. In The House on Mango Street, Esperanza ponders a future where she moves from her sad little home to her very own ideal haven when she says, "Do you wish your feet would one day keep walking...and maybe your feet would stop in front of a house, a nice one with flowers and big windows and steps for you to climb up...” (Cisneros 82). Eventually, Esperanza escapes her situation. But in order for her to reach this point, she must take the first step and allow herself hope. She doesn’t ignore the fact that she lives in a low-class neighborhood. My dad didn’t ignore the fact that he had an office job. But if they had been too terrified to have aspirations, how would either find the means to reach their goals? Without dreaming of an absurd future how can we cure the pandemic of injustices? Understanding reality but still allowing oneself to have aspirations will let you find true goodness and