by Sandra Cisneros

I lost count of how many times I read The House on Mango Street as a kid. I didn’t own it since we rarely bought books and used the library instead. But I must have checked it out at least a hundred times. It was the first time I felt seen, really seen, in any book. It was a book about being brown, about what happens on your block. It’s a book about heartache and feeling things for the first time. Growing up in the South Bronx, never feeling Dominican enough or American enough, Mango Street was my anchor – the book I kept coming back to when I felt misunderstood by my immigrant parents and left out by my American friends. One of my teachers, encouraging my love for writing, recommended the book to me and used it as an example of Latinx people being published. Sadly, there weren’t many books like that when I was younger but that’s changing! And I’m grateful to have had at least one book to help me navigate a childhood with a foot in two different worlds.

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