By 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 morning when he is shaving, songs like sobbing.
It was my great-grandmother・s names and now it is mine. She was a horse woman, too, born like me in the Chinese year of the horse- 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 wile 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 all her 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.
Reference:
Cisneros, S. 1984. My Name from the House on Mango Street in Holeton, R. 1995. Encountering Cultures in a Changing World, 2nd Ed. US: Prentice Hall
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This page was created by Aiden Yeh and was last updated on March 12, 2005.