In English, my name means hope. In Spanish, it has too many letters. It can also mean sadness. It is like the number nine and a colour that looks like mud. It reminds me of the Mexican music my father plays on Sunday mornings while shaving. The songs sound like crying. My great-grandmother had the same name as me. She was a strong woman, just like me. We were both born in the Chinese year of the horse. I wish I could have known my great-grandmother. She was so wild that she never wanted to marry. But my great-grandfather changed her mind. He put a bag over her head and took her away, as if she were a beautiful flower. That's how he did it. According to the story, my great-grandmother never forgave him. She spent her whole life looking out the window, like many women who carry their grief on their elbow. I wonder if she made the best of what she had or regretted her life. My name is Esperanza. I got it from my great-grandmother. But I don't want to inherit her place at the window. At school, they pronounce my name in a funny way. But in Spanish, my name sounds softer, like silver. It is not as long and thick as my sister's name, Magdalena, which I like less than mine. Magdalena can come home and be called Nenny. But I am always Esperanza. I would like to give myself a new name, one that reflects the real me, the part of me no one sees. Maybe I could be called Lisandra or Maritza, or even Zeze the X. Yes, something like Zeze the X would be perfect.(The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros.)
Lesduur is: 45 min
