The House on Mango Street- Some Thoughts and Ramblings

The first time I read The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros, I was a freshman in college taking a women’s lit class.  As an English major in an all-women’s college, I would go on to take many more literature courses, many focusing on gender issues in texts (sort of comes with the territory), but this was the first literature course I took in my undergraduate program.  

Fittingly, the first novel we read in the class was Jane Eyre, followed by Wide Sargasso Sea (a book I’d highly recommend to anyone who thought that the “madwoman in the attic” from Jane Eyre ought to get the chance to tell her side of the story for once). 

When we finally got to The House on Mango Street, I was ecstatic for several reasons.  I’m sure I was glad to read something completely unrelated to Jane Eyre (a novel which I did not appreciate as much then as I do now—and even now it’s not exactly in my top-ten or top-twenty). 

I also remembered having read one of the novel’s vignettes during high school and appreciating it for not only its brevity but its simple eloquence.  The vignette, “A Smart Cookie,” all together takes up about a page, creates a complex backstory for one of the characters, and uses language in a way that makes you double-take for a second after you’ve read it, forcing you to look again at the deeper meaning behind it. 

Naturally, I wanted more, so getting to read the full novel was like a literary treat.  Of course, I was not disappointed upon finally reading it, finding each individual vignette to enhance the reading of the novel yet somehow able to stand alone and create a compelling story.

Deflowering a Blog Virgin

So, in a way, this whole blog came about because of pole-dancing.  Well, the idea of pole-dancing.  As a form of exercise, not as a profession.  (Not that I'm judging or anything.  Because that would be wrong.)

I'm rambling.  Let me start over.

Last week, I met up with some friends from high school, most of whom I hadn't seen in years.  As we were discussing the goings-on of our daily lives, one person mentioned how she had started taking some pole-dancing lessons, a fun and effective way of staying fit.  Naturally, I was intrigued (though a bit upset to learn that the classes did NOT include getting to wear sparkly, sequined costumes).  But again I digress.

My first thought, after my lamentation over the absence of the aforementioned sparkly number, was that the image of me trying to shimmy up a pole would not only be horrifyingly dangerous, but also insanely hilarious.  Athletic and/or coordinated, I am not.  This, of course, led me to my second thought, which was that trying something like this, whether it be pole-dancing, underwater basket-weaving, sky-diving, etc., would make excellent writing material, especially for the comedic gold it would no doubt supply.  As an aspiring writer, I was ecstatic.  How could I possibly go wrong?  I would go out and try a myriad of different activities, gaining life experience in the process, and then come home and blog about my many foibles, occasionally offering a nugget or two of advice on how (not) to do things.