The Hidden Politics of Home: Crash Course Latin American Literature #8

What makes a house a home? For me, it's photos of my ancestors, anything to do with La Gualupe, and of course, food.

Busas, mano, yukafita. But I go off topic. Houses can be more than just a place to decorate, sleep, and eat your mom's and bananas. Hi, I'm Krilly Velasquez, and this is Crash Course Latin American literature.

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A person's home can tell you a lot about them. Their art, their knickknacks, the way they arrange the furniture. It can all give you hints about their innermost self. So, it makes sense that in literature, where characters live can be key to who they are. But not only that, houses in Latin American literature are portals into diverse identities, cultures, and even political conflicts.

The trick is knowing how to read them that way. Let's look at Sandra Cisneros's 1984 novel, The House on Mango Street. It tells the story of a 12-year-old Esparanza Cordiero and her family in a working-class Chicago neighborhood. Having grown up in an apartment, Espiranza is thrilled to put down her roots in her family's new home.

I knew then I had to have a house, she says. A real house, one I could point to. But her family's dilapidated house is not the vibe. And also, it's not really about the house. Or at least not only. See, Esparanza's discomfort in her house mirrors her discomfort with her own identity. Like Cisnerto herself, Espiranza Chicana, which means she comes from a Mexican family but was born in the US.

So her identity exists somewhere between the two places and cultures. She

tells us at school they say my name funny as if the syllables were made out of tin and hurt the roof of your mouth.