
By reading the first two pages of ‘Only Daughter’ by Sandra Cisneros, her writing hit so close to home. We both are Mexican-American; the only daughter; grew up and spent a lot of time alone; studied English in College; and most importantly, wanted a parent’s approval very badly. I’ve read a good amount of both fiction books and novels about the Mexican-American experience as a Latina. Still, for some reason, Cisneros has always seemed to understand and live similar experiences that I either went through or currently am going through. Maybe, her books and writing hold such a special connection for me because my mom was the one to have introduced me to her by buying me, ‘The House on Mango Street’. Just like how Cisneros and her father were able to bond over her book being published and translated into Spanish, my mom and I were also able to bond over her book. In some Latino households –mine in particular– being affectionate towards each other isn’t portrayed or received. Instead, they raise us with ‘tough love’. We rarely get a ‘te quiero’ (I love you) or ‘estoy orgullosa de ti’ (I’m proud of you), so when Cisneros and I were able to have this one moment of being able to laugh and smile with our parent, it felt so amazing to finally have a moment where being affectionate wasn’t put into question. A moment where it felt ‘normal’, a moment we’ve waited so long to experience.
Another part that stood out to me was when Cisneros writes, “[…] everything I have ever written has been for him, to win his approval” (Cisneros 158). As I mentioned before, Cisneros and I desperately wanted our parent’s approval. Every piece of work or accomplishment we’ve made was for them. For them to say, “hija, lo hiciste” (daughter, you did it) or something within those lines. I can’t speak for Cisneros, but for me, I’ve wanted my mom’s approval because I wanted to know if what I’ve accomplished was worth all the sacrifices she had made. I wanted to know if I was able to fulfill the dreams that she had to push to the side in order to come to America and make sure I didn’t live in a struggling household like she did. I wanted to know if the work I had done was enough to satisfy her. I feel like many of us who are first-generation children of immigrant families, not just Latino families, often question our accomplishments or think they’re not good enough for the sacrifices our parents have made. And when we try to explain this to them, they don’t seem to understand. They tell us that they are proud of us, yet, the way they say it or show it says otherwise. For instance, when Cisneros writes, “I wanted my father to […] introduce me as ‘My only daughter, the writer.’ Not as ‘This is only my daughter. She teaches.’ Es maestra— teacher. Not even professora” (Cisneros 158). Even something simple as introducing us as a writer doesn’t seem to satisfy them, so they dial down our title into something that sounds less than what it is.
As I’m writing this, I think now I know why Cisneros’s writing means so much to me. It’s because even though she did experience stuff similar to what I’ve experienced, she writes to me, to other Latinas with similar living situations or identities, that we should be proud of ourselves, that, although our parents might not directly say ‘I’m proud of you’, they are proud of us but in their own way. Cisneros sees this and uses her writing to tell us and many Latino parents too.