Answer: I know that living there for a limited period of time would feel like we were going to stay there permanently because it didn’t feel like we were getting anywhere close to the house mom and dad told us we would have forever one day. Papa was always coming home late, he never had more than 20$ in his hand, mama would cook for us, but the food wasn’t enough to last me, my sister, and my brother for a day. I envied the kids in my neighborhood, every time I played with them, they would ask me where I lived, I would hesitantly point “there”, the place that was supposed to be the house papa always talked about. I was ashamed when pointing “there”, because we probably had the ugliest house in the neighborhood. The other kid’s homes looked better than mine, fences looked larger, some had cars that could fit in the garage, but we had a car that wasn’t even ours yet. Every day felt like we’d spend more and more time in mango street and I started to lose hope, hope for the big white shiny house papa kept talking nonstop about, hope for a better neighborhood, and hope for more food for more than a week.
Step-by-step explanation:
This is a narrative from Marin from The House on Mango Street, that I created. Its basically me continuing the story in the vignette marin.
Close to a poem.