芒果街上的小屋
我们先前不住芒果街。先前我们住鲁米斯的三楼。再先前我们住吉勒。吉勒往前是波琳娜，再前面，我就不记得了。我记得最清楚的是，搬了好多次家。似乎每搬一次，我们就多出一个人。搬到芒果街时，我们有了六个——妈妈、爸爸、卡洛斯、奇奇，妹妹蕾妮和我。
芒果街上的小屋是我们的，我们不用交房租给任何人，或者和楼下的人合用一个院子，或者小心翼翼别弄出太多的声响，这里也没有拿扫帚猛敲天花板的房东。可就算这样，它也不是我们原来以为自己可以得到的那样的房子。
我们得赶紧搬出鲁米斯的公寓。水管破了，房东不愿来修理，因为房子太老。我们得快快离开。我们借用着邻居的卫生间，用空的牛奶壶把水装过来。这就是为什么爸妈要找房子，这就是为什么我们搬进了芒果街上的小屋，远远地，从城市的那一边。
他们一直对我们说，有一天，我们会搬进一所房子，一所真正的大屋，永远属于我们，那样我们就不用每年搬家了。我们的房子会有自来水和好用的水管。里面还有真正的楼梯，不是门厅台阶，而是像电视上的房子里那样的楼梯。我们会有一个地下室和至少三个卫生间，那样洗澡的时候就不用告诉每个人。我们的房子会是白色的，四周有树木，还有一个很大的院子，草儿生长着，没有篱笆把它们圈起来。这是爸爸手握彩票时提到的房子，这是妈妈在给我们讲的睡前故事里幻想着的房子。
可是芒果街上的小屋全然不是他们讲的那样。它很小，是红色的，门前一方窄台阶，窗户小得让你觉得它们像是在屏着呼吸。几处墙砖蚀成了粉。前门那么鼓，你要用力推才进得来。这里没有前院，只有四棵市政栽在路边的小榆树。屋后有个小车库，是用来装我们还没买的小汽车的，还有个小院子，夹在两边的楼中间，越发显得小了。我们的房子里有楼梯，可那只是普通的门厅台阶，而且房子里只有一个卫生间。每个人都要和别人合用一间卧房——妈妈和爸爸、卡洛斯和奇奇、我和蕾妮。
我们住在鲁米斯时，有一回学校的嬷嬷经过那里，看到我在房前玩。楼下的自助洗衣店被用木板封了起来，因为两天前刚被洗劫过。为了不走掉生意，主人在木头上涂抹了几个字：“是的，我们在营业”。
“你住在哪里呀？”她问。
那里。我说，指了指三楼。
你住在那里？
那里。我不得不朝她指的地方看去——三层楼上，那里墙皮斑驳，窗上横着几根木条，是爸爸钉上去的，那样我们就不会掉出来。你住在那里？她说话的样子让我觉得自己什么都不是。那里。我住在那里。我点头。
于是我明白，我得有一所房子。一所真正的大屋。一所可以指给别人看的房子。可这里不是。芒果街上的小屋不是。目前就这样，妈妈说。这是暂时的，爸爸说。可我知道事情是怎样的。
The House on Mango Street
We didn't always live on Mango Street. Before that we lived on Loomis on the third floor, and before that we lived on Keeler. Before Keeler it was Paulina, and before that I can't remember. But what I remember most is moving a lot. Each time it seemed there'd be one more of us. By the time we got to Mango Street we were six—Mama, Papa, Carlos, Kiki, my sister Nenny and me.
The house on Mango Street is ours, and we don't have to pay rent to anybody, or share the yard with the people downstairs, or be careful not to make too much noise, and there isn't a landlord banging on the ceiling with a broom. But even so, it's not the house we'd thought we'd get.
We had to leave the flat on Loomis quick. The water pipes broke and the landlord wouldn't fix them because the house was too old. We had to leave fast. We were using the washroom next door and carrying water over in empty milk gallons. That's why Mama and Papa looked for a house, and that's why we moved into the house on Mango Street, far away, on the other side of town.
They always told us that one day we would move into a house, a real house that would be ours for always so we wouldn't have to move each year. And our house would have running water and pipes that worked. And inside it would have real stairs, not hallway stairs, but stairs inside like the houses on T.V. And we'd have a basement and at least three washrooms so when we took a bath we wouldn't have to tell everybody. Our house would be white with trees around it, a great big yard and grass growing without a fence. This was the house Papa talked about when he held a lottery ticket and this was the house Mama dreamed up in the stories she told us before we went to bed.
But the house on Mango Street is not the way they told it at all. It's small and red with tight steps in front and windows so small you'd think they were holding their breath. Bricks are crumbling in places, and the front door is so swollen you have to push hard to get in. There is no front yard, only four little elms the city planted by the curb. Out back is a small garage for the car we don't own yet and a small yard that looks smaller between the two buildings on either side. There are stairs in our house, but they're ordinary hallway stairs, and the house has only one washroom. Everybody has to share a bedroom—Mama and Papa, Carlos and Kiki, me and Nenny.
Once when we were living on Loomis, a nun from my school passed by and saw me playing out front. The laundromat downstairs had been boarded up because it had been robbed two days before and the owner had painted on the wood YES WE'RE OPEN so as not to lose business.
Where do you live? She asked.
There, I said pointing up to the third floor.
You live there?
There. I had to look to where she pointed—the third floor, the paint peeling, wooden bars Papa had nailed on the windows so we wouldn't fall out. You live there? The way she said it made me feel like nothing. There. I lived there. I nodded.
I knew then I had to have a house. A real house. One I could point to. But this isn't it. The house on Mango Street isn't it. For the time being, Mama says. Temporary, says Papa. But I know how those things go.
芒果街上的小屋
我们先前不住芒果街。先前我们住鲁米斯的三楼。再先前我们住吉勒。吉勒往前是波琳娜，再前面，我就不记得了。我记得最清楚的是，搬了好多次家。似乎每搬一次，我们就多出一个人。搬到芒果街时，我们有了六个——妈妈、爸爸、卡洛斯、奇奇，妹妹蕾妮和我。
芒果街上的小屋是我们的，我们不用交房租给任何人，或者和楼下的人合用一个院子，或者小心翼翼别弄出太多的声响，这里也没有拿扫帚猛敲天花板的房东。可就算这样，它也不是我们原来以为自己可以得到的那样的房子。
我们得赶紧搬出鲁米斯的公寓。水管破了，房东不愿来修理，因为房子太老。我们得快快离开。我们借用着邻居的卫生间，用空的牛奶壶把水装过来。这就是为什么爸妈要找房子，这就是为什么我们搬进了芒果街上的小屋，远远地，从城市的那一边。
他们一直对我们说，有一天，我们会搬进一所房子，一所真正的大屋，永远属于我们，那样我们就不用每年搬家了。我们的房子会有自来水和好用的水管。里面还有真正的楼梯，不是门厅台阶，而是像电视上的房子里那样的楼梯。我们会有一个地下室和至少三个卫生间，那样洗澡的时候就不用告诉每个人。我们的房子会是白色的，四周有树木，还有一个很大的院子，草儿生长着，没有篱笆把它们圈起来。这是爸爸手握彩票时提到的房子，这是妈妈在给我们讲的睡前故事里幻想着的房子。
可是芒果街上的小屋全然不是他们讲的那样。它很小，是红色的，门前一方窄台阶，窗户小得让你觉得它们像是在屏着呼吸。几处墙砖蚀成了粉。前门那么鼓，你要用力推才进得来。这里没有前院，只有四棵市政栽在路边的小榆树。屋后有个小车库，是用来装我们还没买的小汽车的，还有个小院子，夹在两边的楼中间，越发显得小了。我们的房子里有楼梯，可那只是普通的门厅台阶，而且房子里只有一个卫生间。每个人都要和别人合用一间卧房——妈妈和爸爸、卡洛斯和奇奇、我和蕾妮。
我们住在鲁米斯时，有一回学校的嬷嬷经过那里，看到我在房前玩。楼下的自助洗衣店被用木板封了起来，因为两天前刚被洗劫过。为了不走掉生意，主人在木头上涂抹了几个字：“是的，我们在营业”。
“你住在哪里呀？”她问。
那里。我说，指了指三楼。
你住在那里？
那里。我不得不朝她指的地方看去——三层楼上，那里墙皮斑驳，窗上横着几根木条，是爸爸钉上去的，那样我们就不会掉出来。你住在那里？她说话的样子让我觉得自己什么都不是。那里。我住在那里。我点头。
于是我明白，我得有一所房子。一所真正的大屋。一所可以指给别人看的房子。可这里不是。芒果街上的小屋不是。目前就这样，妈妈说。这是暂时的，爸爸说。可我知道事情是怎样的。
The House on Mango Street
We didn't always live on Mango Street. Before that we lived on Loomis on the third floor, and before that we lived on Keeler. Before Keeler it was Paulina, and before that I can't remember. But what I remember most is moving a lot. Each time it seemed there'd be one more of us. By the time we got to Mango Street we were six—Mama, Papa, Carlos, Kiki, my sister Nenny and me.
The house on Mango Street is ours, and we don't have to pay rent to anybody, or share the yard with the people downstairs, or be careful not to make too much noise, and there isn't a landlord banging on the ceiling with a broom. But even so, it's not the house we'd thought we'd get.
We had to leave the flat on Loomis quick. The water pipes broke and the landlord wouldn't fix them because the house was too old. We had to leave fast. We were using the washroom next door and carrying water over in empty milk gallons. That's why Mama and Papa looked for a house, and that's why we moved into the house on Mango Street, far away, on the other side of town.
They always told us that one day we would move into a house, a real house that would be ours for always so we wouldn't have to move each year. And our house would have running water and pipes that worked. And inside it would have real stairs, not hallway stairs, but stairs inside like the houses on T.V. And we'd have a basement and at least three washrooms so when we took a bath we wouldn't have to tell everybody. Our house would be white with trees around it, a great big yard and grass growing without a fence. This was the house Papa talked about when he held a lottery ticket and this was the house Mama dreamed up in the stories she told us before we went to bed.
But the house on Mango Street is not the way they told it at all. It's small and red with tight steps in front and windows so small you'd think they were holding their breath. Bricks are crumbling in places, and the front door is so swollen you have to push hard to get in. There is no front yard, only four little elms the city planted by the curb. Out back is a small garage for the car we don't own yet and a small yard that looks smaller between the two buildings on either side. There are stairs in our house, but they're ordinary hallway stairs, and the house has only one washroom. Everybody has to share a bedroom—Mama and Papa, Carlos and Kiki, me and Nenny.
Once when we were living on Loomis, a nun from my school passed by and saw me playing out front. The laundromat downstairs had been boarded up because it had been robbed two days before and the owner had painted on the wood YES WE'RE OPEN so as not to lose business.
Where do you live? She asked.
There, I said pointing up to the third floor.
You live there?
There. I had to look to where she pointed—the third floor, the paint peeling, wooden bars Papa had nailed on the windows so we wouldn't fall out. You live there? The way she said it made me feel like nothing. There. I lived there. I nodded.
I knew then I had to have a house. A real house. One I could point to. But this isn't it. The house on Mango Street isn't it. For the time being, Mama says. Temporary, says Papa. But I know how those things go.
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