#«i am the one who leaves the table like a man» (cisneros)

[intimatum]

Dorianne Laux, “This Close,” in: What We Carry

[urgaylollo]

“In the movies there is always one with red red lips who is beautiful and cruel. She is the one who drives the men crazy and laughs them all away. Her power is her own. She will not give it away.” (88)

“I have begun my own quiet war. Simple. Sure. I am one who leaves the table like a man, without putting back the chair or picking up the plate.” (88)

- “Beautiful & Cruel” from Sandra Cisneros “The House on Mango Street”

[chaoticsoft]

In the movies there is always one with red red lips who is beautiful and cruel. She is the one who drives the men crazy and laughs them all away. Her power is her own. She will not give it away. I have begun my own quiet war. Simple. Sure. I am one who leaves the table like a man, without putting back the chair or picking up the plate.

“Beautiful & Cruel” from The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

[tanda-panda]

I have begun my own quiet war. Simple. Sure. I am one who leaves the table like a man, without putting back the chair or picking up the plate.

Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street

[kirasreflectionsofstyle]

Blog #6: 10/22/18

From Dinty W. Moore’s Field Guide to Writing Flash Nonfiction

1.      Passages to Reflect On:

“The music of a sentence, likewise, ought to do more than merely please the ear.  It must please the mind as well.  When a well-crafted sentence propels the writer (and reader) into the next sentence, it’s because the dynamic among the various elements of a sentence—words, syntax, sound, texture, tempo, and rhythm—have a kind of forward motion. All these elements combine to give form and then movement to an embryonic idea until the shape and sounds of the sentence become a vehicle for consciousness.” (77)

 ~I rarely read aloud but when I do, the melodic sound of an author’s words is astoundingly lovely. Authors, of course, tend to vary their style but my favorites are the ones who make their prose into poetry just by their clever word choices.  I agree with Barbara Hurd when she says that a well-crafted sentence propels the writer (and reader) forward because it’s absolutely true.  A sentence or paragraph that drags will fail to hold a reader and writer’s attention, thus losing their interest for the rest of the story.  A story’s plot is only a fragment of the entertainment that an author brings to a reader; the other part has to do with the creative delivery of the writer’s words.  Without it, there won’t be a single reader who will choose to come back and learn more.

 “You’ allows you to take a step back; to watch yourself go through the motions in a way that is almost scientific, and that therefore precludes going-through-the-motions in the prose […] Second person allows and encourages you to cop to things you might otherwise leave out; to notice yourself within a larger frame; to be more observant and more understanding, perhaps, of the context in which you behaved as you did. Moreover, it slows down the pace of things so that the story happens to you and your reader at about the same time—both of you there, in the middle of whatever it is, however delightful or excruciating.” (101-102)

 ~I admit that I tend to stay away from books that are narrated in second-person.  I have read only a handful of books I genuinely loved that were written in (either entirely or partially) second-person, but not nearly as many as first-person or third.  The reason why has never been easy to explain, but my only guess is that I typically want to read about someone else—not me.  I tend to want to disconnect from the story I am reading.  When I see the name of a protagonist on the page instead of “you”, I feel more invested in a story that has nothing to do with me.  I feel more fascinated by a life lived by someone who is very different from myself and is experience things I would never dream of doing.  When something exciting or terrible happens, I still feel intense emotions even if there is no “you” to pull me into the story—I am already pulled in.  

 2.      Experiments in Prose Style:

~Dinah Lenney provides a very interesting prompt on page 102 of Moore’s book: “Remember a time when you had to make a choice, any choice, no instance being too big or too small, but best to focus on a time, or place, or thing that is significant to you, of course […] Write an essay about it in second person.”  Being that I do not typically write anything in second person point-of-view, I thought that this would be a great challenge for myself.

 It's the first day of a new semester and you’ve entered the school cafeteria with a growling stomach.  High school can be such a drag, but so can making new friends in a sea full of strangers.  You scope out the spacious room, looking for anyone who looks remotely friendly enough to let you sit with them.  That is step one.  Each table looks full so far.  How did these people meet each other so fast?  The lack of chairs is really beginning to concern you.  The long, rectangular tables seem like your best bet, but who would let you join them?  Your gaze sweeps over the glamourous social butterflies who are too absorbed in their own gab fest to notice you.  Finally, another lone figure besides yourself catches your eye.  Seated at the end of one of the tables is someone with long blonde hair draping over her green shirt.  The curvy black letters printed on it say “SLYTHERIN.”  A fellow Harry Potter fan sitting alone? Jackpot. The stone-faced stranger is boredly sorting the contents of her lunchbox, but has no companion to talk to.  You breathe in and walk to the empty chair beside her.  

“I like your shirt,” you say. 

She glances up and her blank expression is replaced by a smile.  “Thanks.” 

You gesture to the chair.  “Is it okay if I…?”  

The stranger nods.  “Yeah, sure.” You sink into the plastic chair with a heavy sigh of relief.  Step one is complete.

3.      Artful Sentences:

·       Second Person Narrative: “The circus looks abandoned and empty.  But you think perhaps you can smell caramel wafting through the evening breeze, beneath the crisp scent of the autumn leaves. A subtle sweetness at the edges of the cold.”—Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

·       Location (explained on pg. 84 of Moore’s book): Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it.  In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square.”—Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

·       Tense Shift (from present to past): “All night the boy who is a man watches me dance.  He watched me dance.”—Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street

4.      In-Class Exercises:

a)      Grace’s Conjunctive Adverbs Exercise:

~In class, Grace gave us the following exercise at the end of her presentation about conjunctive adverbs: Write 3 sentences using conjunctive adverbs that following 2 ideas in each prompt:

>You had to turn in an assignment late because you were sick.

>He was an avid reader and enjoyed writing.  

>She went to bed early because her evening plans fell through.

 The sentences that I came up were as follows:

>I caught a stomach bug last Monday, thus I asked my teacher if I could hand in my essay on Tuesday instead.

*I caught a stomach bug last Monday; thus, I asked my teacher if I could hand in my essay on Tuesday instead. 

>He enjoyed books and subsequently he developed a fondness for writing.

>Her evening plans fell through, therefore she went to bed early last night.

 b)      Emilya’s Dependent Clause Exercise:

~At the end of her presentation about dependent clauses, Emilya gave us this exercise: Write a paragraph of varied sentence types and lengths by incorporating a combination of independent and dependent clauses (making complex sentences). Try to have both subordinate and relative clauses, but focus on how this variation helps with syntax and style.

 This was my own paragraph, which is about my intense love for everything related to autumn:

Autumn is such a beautiful time of the year that, to me, the others pale in comparison.  The leaves change colors.  The warm air transforms into crisp, cool breezes.  The holidays are creeping right around the corner for us to enjoy.  No doubt that will be playing Christmas music the day after Halloween.  I’d rather leave some time for Thanksgiving.  “Jingle Bells” doesn’t quite wrap November up like a roasted homecooked turkey.

*Revision note: Under part ‘a’ of Grace’s in-class exercise, I rearranged the first sentence. My professor suggested using a semicolon before the conjunctive adverb (thus) and a comma afterward if it is connecting two sentences without a coordinating conjunction.  Very helpful tip!

[awolfinmycity]

In the movies there is always one with red red lips who is beautiful and cruel. She is the one who drives the men crazy and laughs them all away. Her power is her own. She will not give it away. I have begun my own quiet war. Simple. Sure. I am one who leaves the table like a man, without putting back the chair or picking up the plate.

Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street

[roseonhissleeve]

Have A Little Faith: Chapter Three

“If you’re not careful, you’ll end up believing this is the world.”

- Antonio Cisneros

Day one of Monaco had been an absolute dream. 

Once I’d agreed to Harry’s proposition he let me go, although I could tell it was taking everything inside of him to stand and watch me leave. His face reminded me of a puppy dog’s as he stood there on the steps, flashing me a smile as I glanced at him over my shoulder. He really wanted to prove his point.

Fate, or whatever.

After leaving him I walked about twenty minutes to the small building where an elderly man and his daughter greeted me at the door. Upon entering the building there was a charming little lobby—the hardwood floor covered in a soft white rug—and the couches were expertly arranged to lead one’s eye towards the large bay windows that overlooked the ocean. Above the fireplace there was a picture of what I assumed was the family that owned the property: the man and young girl who had welcomed me, along with a middle-aged woman holding a small child in her arms.

Once I’d gotten settled into my hotel room I decided to call my mother. My parents had been less than thrilled about my decision to come to Europe on my own, and one of their “conditions” was that I phone home often to let them know where I was and what I was getting up to. 

Five minutes into the phone call, I was already being grilled.

“Mum, I’m fine, I don’t need anybody to come travel with me. It’s already been two weeks, I’ve gotten used to it…No, mum, I don’t need to talk to Dr. King. Yes, I have her phone number.”

I allowed my petite frame to fall backwards onto the soft mattress of the bed, the smell of fresh linens causing me to twist to the side and curl up against the pillows. I twirled the phone cord around my finger as I listened to my mom’s voice, eyes falling shut comfortably. 

My room was small, but just the right size for me—there was a twin sized bed and a desk at the other side of the room that I’d set my small collection of bags on, a mini fridge which had a bag of apricots and peaches that I’d purchased from a local seller. It was decorated with a series of framed pictures of different locations in the city, and I made a mental note to see every one of them.

Clearly the six-hour time difference wasn’t stopping my mother from getting through to me.

It was almost noon for me, which meant that it was almost six a.m. back in Florida where my parents lived.

My mother and I had always been early risers—when I was in high school, she and I would be known to be up and having breakfast by seven-thirty at the latest, sometimes even as early as six-thirty. My mum blamed it on me and my two younger sisters—she’d claim that our own bad sleeping habits when we were younger made her unable to have a regular person’s sleep. 

“Rosie, sweetheart, I worry about you. That’s all. You haven’t been alone since—um, well, you haven’t—”

“Mother,” I exhaled impatiently, sitting up off of the mattress and bringing my hand up to my shoulder. I tugged at a long lock of dark brown hair.

I knew exactly what she was thinking and I wasn’t up for another one of these talks.

“Mum…I love you. You know I love you, I love you and dad so much but I have to do this…hell, I AM doing this. I’m already doing it. I…I can’t him control my life forever.”

The last sentence I spoke came out as a whisper, and I wasn’t sure if she’d heard it but I wasn’t about to repeat myself.

I waited to hear something from the other end of the phone, but I knew that I had her beat. This was a conversation I’d had with my therapist time and time again; just because I was physically free from Eli didn’t mean that I didn’t have any work to do.

I still needed to take back control of my life, my thoughts.

“You’ll be fine, Eli. My parents are going to love you,” I called out to my boyfriend from his living room, waiting as he finished getting dressed for the occasion.

We’d been dating for about four months now and my parents had been nagging me about meeting him for a long time—my family was very close, and the fact that I hadn’t brought Elijah home to yet was strange in their eyes. But we were taking things slow and I didn’t want to freak him out, so here we were, four months later on our way to dinner with my family.

“You’re wearing that?” I heard his voice question me with clear disapproval, which caused me to look up at him with furrowed brows.

I could feel heat rush to my features with embarrassment. He stood in the doorway, his large physique decorated by a pair of dark-wash jeans and a light-grey t-shirt. I had expected him to put a little bit more effort into dressing nicely for dinner with my parents, but something inside me made me bite my tongue.

“You don’t like it?” I cleared my throat softly, standing up off of the couch and lowering my hands so I could grab onto the hem of my navy blue sundress and tug at it uncomfortably. I wasn’t someone who put a lot of effort into looking very nice, and I didn’t often wear makeup, but tonight I thought that I looked nice until he’d said otherwise.

“Well, I mean, it’s okay,” he shrugged, and I could tell that it wasn’t all he’d wanted to say. But he let it go and walked past me to walk into his kitchen, grabbing his keys off of the small countertop of the ratty little room.

I stood still until I finally mustered up the confidence again to grab my black clutch from his couch and wait at the door for him. Once he appeared I offered him a small smile, hoping to elicit some form of a positive response from him.

“Can I have a kiss?” I whispered hesitantly. For a second I wasn’t sure that I’d said it loud enough to hear, because he was too preoccupied with slipping on his dark brown shoes to address me.

I bit the inside of my cheek--were going to go meet my parents and I wanted to give them a good impression,so I decided to let it go and turned around to grab ahold of the doorknob. I suddenly felt a set of cool fingers on my chin.

“C’mere,” he muttered, suddenly at my side, and I allowed him to guide my features upwards so that he could press a kiss against my lips.

It was cold and unmoving, and lasted all of three seconds, but I told myself that that’s how it was supposed to feel.

“I’m sorry. You look lovely.”

I drew my face back in response to his words and was met with a seemingly apologetic expression, which caused me to allow for a small smile of forgiveness.

I looked at my boyfriend—he was glorious. A square jaw that was cleanly shaved, leaving behind a slight scent of the after-shave that I loved. Full lips that rested in a fine line when he was in his own world, but there was always a hint of a smile on it when he slept. His eyes were brown—and I’d never been a fan of brown eyes at all, but after being with him I knew I’d never be able to look at them the same way again.

“It’s alright, babe,” I whispered. “Let’s go.”

I was pulled out of my thoughts by the sound of my younger sisters yelling at each other over the phone.

I rolled my eyes a bit, but a small laugh escaped my lips regardless. My sisters were eleven and fourteen years old—young enough that I’d always felt more like a second mother than an older sister—and they were currently going through a phase where they picked a fight about anything and everything. I didn’t really mind hearing it, though. I’d been absent from their lives for so long that anything I could get nowadays was appreciated.

“Rosie, can you talk to your dad for a bit? I think that April decided to read Caroline’s diary.”

I could hear the stress in my mother’s voice. My mom had me in the first year of her marriage to my father—she’d committed to being a stay-at-home-mother, planning to return to work after I was old enough to take care of myself.

The problem was that they’d waited so long to have another kid, and then another, and my mum ended up trapped in the role of stay-at-home-mom for almost twenty-three years now. She’d often told me that she did not regret her choice and that she felt no resentment, but it still pained me that she’d been stuck in the same place in her life for years.

“Of course, mum. Love you.”

“Love you, sweetheart.”

I waited patiently as I heard my mum’s voice call my father’s name, and I waited a total of five seconds before I heard a familiar voice on the other end.

“How are you doing, bumblebee?” My father’s voice brought feelings of comfort and safety, and the sound of it make me think of the smell of coffee.

“Hi, Daddy. I’m really good. I’m in Monaco, did Mum tell you? Got here yesterday and went to a pretty little cathedral a few minutes from where my train dropped me off.”

My father was an incredibly well-known veterinarian, and he’d travelled all over the world on business trips throughout my life, but I’d never really been able to swap travel stories until now.

“Mhmm? How was it, did you get some drawing done? Since you keep refusing to take pictures, I’ll need something to look at when you come home and tell me all about it.”

My dad and I were similar in a lot of ways, but in a lot of aspects we were also completely different. 

My father took photos as much as he could when he did things like this—often times when he would get back home I’d spent at least an hour sitting with him at the kitchen table looking at the pictures he took on his digital camera, listening to the story behind each frame.

I was more of an in-the-moment person—when there was a sunset, I wouldn’t waste the precious moments I had to look at it by taking a photo.

“I’ve been drawing lots, don’t worry. It’s a good thing you got me the bigger sketchbook.” I heard yelling from the other end of the phone, and I knew that the call would soon be over.

“I have to go, bumbles, gotta help your mother. Do you need me to send money?”

I was my daddy’s girl. Even since I’d been born my father and I were inseparable—we listened to all the same music and made a habit of regularly going to see live bands, and I had skipped right past the phase in middle school where I was supposed to shut my parents out. My father was always my best friend, my number one fan, the most important person in my life—until I started dating Elijah.

“I’m all set, don’t worry about me. I love you.”

My father knew that Elijah was bad news from the moment he met him.

“I don’t like that boy,” his voice boomed across the dining room, loud enough to be heard without fail even though he wasn’t screaming.

“What do you mean? He laughed at all your jokes, which is a tough skill to master on the first night,” I teased, stacking the dirty dishes that had been left from dinner while my mother made her way around the table collecting the silverware.

“I thought he was charming,” my mother chimed in. I wasn’t aware of it at the moment, but she was giving my father a disapproving look from across the table.

“I don’t like him. He’s bad news, Rachel. He didn’t look at you once—not once the entire evening. Didn’t smile. And if you ask me he was a bit too eager to talk about himself. And he didn’t say a single word to your sisters. Did he even speak to you at all?”

My dad’s words struck a chord that I didn’t even know was there. I lowered my gaze to the stack of plates that I now had balanced in my grasp—I had felt like Eli was ignoring me, because every time I looked at him he was looking another direction with absolute disinterest. I’d assumed that it was just my own insecurity getting to my head.

Maybe it was too early to bring him to meet my parents.

“You were probably making him nervous, daddy. You didn’t ease up on him all night.”

“That’s right I didn’t—I want to know exactly the kind of boy that’s taking away my time with my girl.”

His words shouldn’t have bothered me as much as they did, but upon hearing them I couldn’t help the loud exhale that came from my lips. I didn’t want to get into a discussion about the flaws in my relationship with my father. I walked past him to go into the kitchen and dump the dishes in the sink, and from the other room I could hear my father’s voice muttering to my mother.

“Charming, my ass. You have to stop coddling her, that girl always refuses to listen to what she doesn’t want to hear…”

Swallowing thickly, I walked over to April, who was nine years old at the time and playing with her Monster High dolls. I took a seat beside her on the rug and watched for a few moments before interrupting her.

“Hi, munchkin.”

“Hi, Sissy.” She didn’t look up from her dolls, very concerned with the argument that they were apparently having, and I allowed her a few more seconds of peace before speaking hesitantly.

“So, did you like Elijah?”

I watched carefully as April continued to play with her dolls, and after a handful of seconds I assumed that she wasn’t interested enough to reply, but then I heard a little whisper—“Not really.”

I felt a little bit of panic accumulate in the pit of my stomach and I pursed my lips in a tight line, voice laced with patience as I continued, “why didn’t you like him, A?”

“He’s not a Disney prince.”

Brows furrowed with confusion at her words, and I let a couple of seconds of silence linger before continuing.

“Disney princes aren’t real, April.”

“Yes, they are,” she argued without missing a beat, now immensely focused with the task of putting a princess gown on one of her dolls.

“Eli was okay, but I think you deserve a Disney prince.”

Elijah proposed four months later. I said yes.

Have A Little Faith: Chapter Four

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[haeiro]

I have begun my own quiet war. Simple. Sure. I am one who leaves the table like a man, without putting back the chair or picking up the plate.

Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street

[intimatum]

Sara Sutterlin, I Wanted To Be The Knife

[livingasaghost]

read 5 of 2017 | the house on mango street by sandra cisneros

★★★★

“In the movies there is always one with red red lips who is beautiful and cruel. She is the one who drives the men crazy and laughs them all away. Her power is her own. She will not give it away. I have begun my own quiet war. Simple. Sure. I am one who leaves the table like a man, without putting back the chair or picking up the plate.”

[santapescadora]

Madrid, Cairo y Budapest

ay gracias

Madrid: “Describe your aesthetic.”

hot & windy weather, fake gold jewerly, barefoot and sweat covered girls, wet earth, hand-rolled cigarrettes, stolen fruits, latin music, enormous bright flowers, cheap alcohol, dancing on the streets, climbing big trees, herbs and spices, the smell of candles and incense, schoolfight bruises, light and colorful clothing, drunk philosophical speeches, a sea with great waves, writing poetry on the walls, broken windows and barricades.

Cairo: “Whats your favorite quote?”

I have many quotes I hold dear to my heart, literally whole notebooks full of them, but i’ll share the most recent ones:

To fall like a wounded animal into a place that was meant for revelations. - Alejandra Pizarnik

Let it be known: I did not fall from grace. I leapt to freedom. - Ansel Elkins

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.  - Anne Sexton

I have begun my own quiet war. Simple. Sure. I am one who leaves the table like a man, without putting back the chair or picking up the plate.  - Sandra Cisneros

I will be free & entire & absolute & mistress of my life.  - Virginia Woolf

she was tangled in that deep and fatal well, in the revolution of the body. - Clarice Lipector

What would people look like if we could see them as they are, soaked in honey, stung and swollen, reckless, pinned against time? - Ellen Bass

El español vive en mi carne, el lenguaje de ajo y mangos, el cantar de mi poesía, los gestos voladores de mis manos.  - Aurora Levins Morales

born by the Mediterraneanour mothers bathe us in orange-blossom waterolive trees and cedarsstrain to give us shade - Dima Hilal

Budapest: “What tattoo do you want?”

I want to tattoo “coração selvagem” by my clavicle, a rose and a tear on my fingers & a moon behind my ear. maybe something on the hips or the tailbone? but just if i come up with an interesting and meaningful thing to put it there.

[latinxinpublishing-blog]

Celebrate Women’s History Month By Reading Sandra Cisneros!

You probably know that Sandra Cisneros wrote The House on Mango Street (and if you were born in the 90s, you probably read it in school), but did you know that she’s also a FEMINIST BADASS?! Here are 5 reasons to appreciate Sandra Cisneros anew for her contributions to feminism—and maybe reread The House on Mango Street or read one of her other books for the first time.

#1: She was the first Mexican-American woman to have her work published by a major house, and she used that fame to pave the way for the rest of us.

In 1984, the first edition of The House on Mango Street was published by small Texan publisher Arte Público Press. When Vintage Press, part of Random House, reissued it in 1989, Cisneros reached an audience broader than any Mexican-American woman before her. And she used her newly amplified voice to ask the publishing industry to listen to Latinx writers more often. A quote from a 1992 Seattle Times article about her “There are many Latino writers as talented as I am, but because we are published through small presses our books don't count. We are still the illegal aliens of the literary world.”

#2: She started a writers’ group at her kitchen table in San Antonio that has gone on to support the careers of hundreds of writers, including lots of Latinas.

The Macondo Writers’ Workshop is going strong after 21 years and aims to cultivate community among writers from historically marginalized groups—women, people of color, and LGBTQ people. Reyna Grande, award-winning author of The Distance Between Us, is just one of the many acclaimed past attendees.

#3: She made the decision to prioritize her career over marriage and kids, and didn’t let anyone tell her it was “selfish.”

“I wanted to concentrate on creating a book, not a family. . . . I also have many books, and each one is my child.” From http://www.sandracisneros.com/letters/letter_018.php.

#4: Cisneros writes women who empower women. Her characters know who they are and aren’t afraid to break away from what society expects from them.

 “My mother says when I get older my dusty hair will settle and my blouse will learn to stay clean, but I have decided not to grow up tame like the others who lay their necks on the threshold waiting for the ball and chain. . . . I have begun my own quiet war. Simple. Sure. I am one who leaves the table like a man, without putting back the chair or picking up the plate.” –Esperanza in The House on Mango Street

#5: And finally, she wrote these beautifully sassy, beautifully feminist words.

They say I’m a macha, hell on wheels,

viva-la-vulva, fire and brimstone,

man-hating, devastating,

boogey-woman lesbian.

Not necessarily,

but I like the compliment.

From “Loose Woman” in the collection Loose Woman, Knopf, 1994.

[intimatum]

Tracey Emin, Is Legal Sex Anal? (1998)

[intimatum]

Gretchen McNeese, Playboy interview in: Conversations with Erica Jong

[intimatum]

S01E06 “Dirty Laundry”, Firefly Lane (2021)

[intimatum]

Jenny Slate, Stage Fright (2019)