Weeds like so many squinty-eyed stars and brush that made your ankles itch and itch until you washed with soap and water.” There were dizzy bees and bow-tied fruit flies turning somersaults and humming in the air.

“There were sunflowers as big as flowers on Mars and thick cockscombs bleeding the deep red fringe of theater curtains. They pick with a dizzy finger anyone, just anyone.” “You know what you are Esperanza? You are like the Cream of Wheat cereal. Everything is waiting to explode like Christmas. “Everything is holding its breath inside of me. Here there is too much sadness and not enough sky.” You can fall asleep and wake up drunk on sky, and sky can keep you safe when you are sad.

“She looked out the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow.” Words are married, sentences consummated, images borne that my white-bread, New England-raised mind can’t comprehend except on an emotional level. This is lyrical, this is heart wrenching. “We didn’t always live on Mango Street.” Then, I’m lost. Where ethnicity is reserved for the Somalian refugees that pepper Burlington, but hardly touch the suburbs. ’A novel of a young girl growing up in the Latino section of Chicago.’ Okay… assigned to a freshman English class in Northern Vermont.

‘Mom, have you ever read The House on Mango Street?’ Okay, now I’m really testing that reality theory. But, to see her reading? She looks up at me and there are tears in her eyes. Reading? I’m used to the insomnia, on both our parts… we knock around each other, say a few words and pretend to sleep. She’s got about 4 blankets piled on top of her and she’s…. She’s sitting in the living room illuminated by a booklite. Kids asleep? Check…whoa, hold up a minute. The ones that blindside me and have that weird echo - is or isn’t this real? Sleep isn’t going to happen.

The house on mango street book cover