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ELEVEN
by Sandra Cisneros 1 What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell 2 you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and 3 seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when 4 you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you 5 don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s 6 today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you 7 are—underneath the year that makes you eleven. 8 Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of 9 you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your 10 mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. 11 And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry 12 like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad 13 and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three. 14 Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings 15 inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, 16 each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is. 17 You don’t feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks 18 even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. 19 And you don’t feel smart eleven, not until you’re almost twelve. That’s the 20 way it is.
21 Only today I wish I didn’t have only eleven years rattling inside me like 22 pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two 23 instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I’d have known 24 what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would’ve 25 known how to tell her it wasn’t mine instead of just sitting there with that 26 look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth. 27 “Whose is this?” Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in 28 the air for all the class to see. “Whose? It’s been sitting in the coatroom for a 29 month.” “Not mine,” says everybody. “Not me.” 30 “It has to belong to somebody, ”Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody 31 can remember. It’s an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar 32 and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It’s 33 maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn’t say 34 so. 35 Maybe because I’m skinny, maybe because she doesn’t like me, that 36 stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, “I think it belongs to Rachel.” An ugly sweater like 37 that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the 38 sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing 39 comes out. 40 41 “That’s not, I don’t, you’re not…Not mine.” I finally say in a little voice 42 that was maybe me when I was four.
64 “Rachel, ”Mrs. Price says. She says it like she’s getting mad. “You put 65 that sweater on right now and no more nonsense.” 66 “But it’s not –“ 67 “Now!” Mrs. Price says. 68 This is when I wish I wasn’t eleven because all the years inside of me— 69 ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at 70 the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater 71 that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other 72 and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, 73 all itchy and full of germs that aren’t even mine. 74 That’s when everything I’ve been holding in since this morning, since 75 when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a 76 sudden I’m crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I’m not. I’m 77 eleven and it’s my birthday today and I’m crying like I’m three in front of 78 everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid 79 clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth 80 because I can’t stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until 81 there aren’t any more tears left in my eyes, and it’s just my body shaking like 82 when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink 83 milk too fast. 84 But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid 85 Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers 86 the red sweater is hers. I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. 87 Price pretends like everything’s okay.
88 Today I’m eleven. There’s a cake Mama’s making for tonight and 89 when Papa comes home from work we’ll eat it. There’ll be candles and 90 presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, 91 Rachel, only it’s too late. 92 I’m eleven today. I’m eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, 93 three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was 94 anything but eleven. Because I want today to be far away already, far 95 away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny-tiny you have to 96 close your eyes to see it.
