Upon reading many of the vignettes in “The House on Mango Street” by Sandra Cisneros. I feel that the one that resonated most with me is “My Name”. In this chapter, we learn that the main character’s name is Esperanza. The name belonged to her great-grandmother. Esperanza says that the name means “sadness” in Spanish and reflects on how that meaning rang true for her Great-grandmother. Esperanza describes her great-grandmother as a wild woman who would not be tamed until she was forced into marriage by Esperanza’s great-grandfather. This union filled her great-grandmother with sadness because it stripped this once-strong “horsewoman” from the potential lives she could have led. Embodying the sadness that her name represents. While applauding her great-grandmother’s wild spirit, Esperanza does not want to end up living in sadness as her grandmother did, the meaning her namesake holds. She instead wants to carve her own path with a name that befits her true self. My first name (Joseph) is also the name of my grandfather, Joseph Wiggins. During my teens, I sought to distance myself from that name. My reasoning was that I saw it as plain and boring so, I went by a slew of nicknames; “J”, “JA”(A combination of my first and middle initial), Daze, Turtle (a name bestowed upon a friend who no longer dwells on this planet, R.I.P. “Black”). During my 20’s in my professional career, my co-workers knew me as and addressed me by Andre, my middle name. In my 30’s, I still go by Andre. The idea of my name being “plain” no longer bothers me. I do it for other reasons. Joseph Wiggins was driven, fashionably savvy (despite being color blind), and a successful entrepreneur and businessman. During the 1950s, my grandfather and his brothers began buying property. They brought houses in their home state (Georgia), and in the Carolinas. At some point, Joseph decided to expand his ownership to New York City. While here, my grandfather opened his own convenience store a laundry mat and even bought a few apartment buildings (including the one I grew up in). When I was about 5 years old, he passed away. My only memory of him is going to his laundry mat. My mother and I walked through the door and there stood Papa Joe! Awaiting as my little legs sped forward carrying the rest of my body with them. I would leap into his open arms, He’d hold me tight, pick me up, give me a kiss on my cheek, and ask me how I’m doing, and I would respond with a giggling “good”. He would then put me down and give me a dollar (as per my mom, He gave me a dollar every time he saw me). My grandfather was a black success story. Joseph Wiggins, I am not. I’m a struggling 34-year-old, who works himself to exhaustion trying to make ends meet while attempting to earn a college degree. I don’t own a business or a home (let alone an apartment building) also, I’m anything but fashionably savvy. As I grow older I feel this pressure to live up to his legacy, to fill his proverbial shoes. The longer it takes me to attain what I feel would be a comparable level of success, the bigger those shoes seem to get. Esperanza finds herself disliking her great-grandmother’s name because she fears that she’ll inherit that sadness, that identity, instead of the one she wants to carve out for herself. I find myself running from my grandfather’s name because of the weight it bears and my fear that I won’t live up to it. While on different ends, Esperanza and I both find ourselves fearful of what our name represents. That’s why this vignette resonates with me.
