Post date: Sep 22, 2016 11:5:26 PM
Hairs by Sandra Cisneros, House on Mango Street
Everybody in our family has different hair. My Papa’s hair is like a broom, all up in the air. And me, my hair is lazy. It never obeys barrettes or bands. Carolos’ hair is thick and straight. He doesn’t need to comb it. Nenny’s hair is slippery – slides out of your hand. And Kiki, who is youngest, has hair like fur.
But my mother’s hair, my motherʻs hair, like little rosettes, like little candy circles, all curly because she pinned it in curls all day, sweet to put your nose into when she is holding you, holding you and you feel safe, is the warm smell of bread before you bake it, is the smell when she makes room for you on her side of the bed still warm with her skin, and you sleep near her, the rain outside falling and Papa snoring. The snoring, the rain, and Mama’s hair that smells like bread.
Definition: Vignettes are brief descriptions, accounts, or episodes. As a genre, they are meant to evoke pictures in the reader's mind. I liken them to poetry in prose. They hold their own message and meaning, but they are not constrained by other elements.
Cisneros incorporates strong imagery ("My Papa's hair is like a broom, all up in the air" - can't you just doodle it?), repetition for importance ("But my mother's hair, my mother's hair. . .") and plays with sentence length to create rhythm. The first paragraph is fairly short, staccato, but the second paragraph is one very long sentence, meant to evoke the urgency and longing and breathlessness that comes when Esperanza thinks about her mother.