“Eleven” by Sandra Cisneros (1991)
What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.
You don’t feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don’t feel smart eleven, not until you’re almost twelve. That’s the way it is.
Only today I wish I didn’t have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I’d have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would’ve known how to tell her it wasn’t mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
“Whose is this?” Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. “Whose? It’s been sitting in the coatroom for a month.”
“Not mine,” says everybody. “Not me.” “It has to belong to somebody,”
Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It’s an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It’s maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn’t say so.
Maybe because I’m skinny, maybe because she doesn’t like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, “I think it belongs to Rachel.” An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.
“That’s not, I don’t, you’re not…Not mine.” I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.
“Of course it’s yours, ”Mrs. Price says. “I remember you wearing it once.”
Because she’s older and the teacher, she’s right and I’m not. Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don’t know why but all of a sudden I’m feeling sick inside, like the part of me that’s three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you. But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater’s still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right.
Not mine, not mine, not mine. In my head I’m thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, “Now, Rachel, that’s enough,” because she sees I’ve shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it’s hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don’t care.
“Rachel, ”Mrs. Price says. She says it like she’s getting mad. “You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense.”
“But it’s not –“
“Now!” Mrs. Price says.
This is when I wish I wasn’t eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren’t even mine.
That’s when everything I’ve been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I’m crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I’m not. I’m eleven and it’s my birthday today and I’m crying like I’m three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can’t stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren’t any more tears left in my eyes, and it’s just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.
But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers. I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything’s okay.
Today I’m eleven. There’s a cake Mama’s making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we’ll eat it. There’ll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it’s too late.
I’m eleven today. I’m eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven. Because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny—tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
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I think this is an interesting perception in regards to age because when we have a birthday we do not feel different immediately. Nothing seems to have changed except it is a different day but things like routine are the same. The author is saying that the reason for this is because we are still all of our previous ages underneath our current one.
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I can relate to this. Every year growing up when my birthday came close I was expecting it to be a big deal, but then the day finally came and I didn’t feel any different.
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Within the first paragraph I found a very important deeper meaning I believe the writer was trying to make. She makes mention to the expectance of feeling older on ones birthday, but one never feels any older. I believe this to be true since one can only truly feel older when the world around them has changed from what they remember, which usually does not become recognizable to the person until it has been decades.
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There is one point in the book where Morrie says, “part of me is every age… I am every age, up to my own.” I found a connection here with this line because they’re very similar. Sandra says she is also 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…10, 11.
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This is an interesting take on aging, but one I have always identified with. I believe the first sentence is speaking on the fact that you are a sum of every experience you have had. You are the sum of every age you have ever been. This is the only way you could have gotten to where you are now: growth. Not necessarily bad growth or good growth, but growth in general. This reminds me of the quote,“We are the sum of all of our parts,” from the novel Flipped.
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This theme of collective age is prominent throughout the entire piece. When you turn 11 you are all your past ages and selves in a sense, when you cry you become 3 again and when you get to the smart 11 is only when you’ve turned 12. As one might progress past age 11 you will consistently also hold these past years and ages.
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The first paragraph of Rachel’s story talks about growing up physically, but not mentally and emotionally. This part of being a kid is one of the hardest, because you feel like you should automatically “feel” older as soon as your birthday begins.
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Do we see the comment on aging that is happening here? “Don’t you see, Mitch? I am every age up to my own. How can I be jealous of where you are when I have been there myself?”
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Although I knew I had heard it before I had forgotten where it had come from. The age thing really sticks with me though.
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This thought by Sandra Cisneros is very relatable because I have had many people ask me if I feel older on my birthday, and I always tell them I don’t.
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In the first paragraph, Sandra Cisneros talks about waking up and not feeling like your eleven years old on your birthday. The sadness of never experiencing that feeling on your special day can make someone feel down. It can make someone feel like it’s not going to change from one year to another, like it said in the last line of the paragraph.
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As we are getting older and rounding the corner towards adulthood, we are all looking towards our guardians for guidance and reassurance.
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You grow up and yet you don’t, you do still stay the same person as you grow. I’m 17 but really I am just 16. WE all still cry like we are young, and get our feelings hurt like we are 7. It’s how life is.
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Right here the author is trying to say that life is like the rings of a tree, you grow older but you keep the knowledge and the ages you have already past. growing older is just like adding to a collection of past years, like a new achievement reached in life.
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This is very insightful and a great way to look at life.
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Look how the simile becomes a part of that “figurative language set.” The figure presented here is an “onion” or “tree trunk.”
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It is just like each year inside of the next one. You are still 1,2,3,10 and so on. That dose not leave you, its just a number change.
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Even if I am currently sixteen, I feel nothing like sixteen, both mentally, emotionally, and socially. I’m short but i still look sixteen. The reason why I say this is because it takes time. With time you grow older, wiser, and much more intelligent. That’s why we do not see the results from the workout we just had a day ago.
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The feeling of turning a year older hits you when you have another birthday. Sometimes we forget that we grow old.
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The narrator wishes she were older so she would have had a comment or an approach to a recent conflict. Does this wisdom come with age?
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Like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box.
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Watch Mrs. Price attempting to solve the mystery of a red sweater that has been in the coatroom for a month.
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This comment made by Rachel’s classmate Sylvia is a common example of verbal bullying. Sylvia knew full well that the sweater was not Rachel’s, but she said that to give her issues.
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Evidence should always be accurate, relevant, and sufficient. Even in the claim that a red sweater belongs to someone.
Watch how Mrs. Price takes the bait on this. All rules of evidence fall apart and bias takes over.
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Rachel thinks that since Mrs. Price is older than her, and is the teacher, then she cannot argue with her. Even though it is not her sweater, she does not feel capable of proving the teacher wrong.
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I find this piece interesting as it relates to the SOCIAL category, as well as SOCIETY/COMMUNITY. Today, many see some in certain positions and due to their age they believe that they are always in the right and are omniscient. Though, in reality that is not the case. All too often, humans are judged by their occupation and social status, rather than the character of them, or even when determining who is right in a scenario, the so-called “better” is considered correct. As society, this view needs to change, and compassion needs to be shown for one another, and assistance between people needs to become more prevalent, just as Luella Bates Washington did with the young boy, as she invested in his future.
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Assumed power given over the teacher. This is positional power of which our protagonist has none.
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I often see this in society, with people simply not listening to someone because they are younger. People may not realize the impact of hearing that you should not be listened to because of your age. Everyone should listen to everyone and give them fair chances, despite what you may personally think.
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Yes, I agree it could even put some kids in danger when adults will not listen to their problems.
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She just assumes that it is the kids sweater. What if it isn’t, the teacher won’t listen to her. I understand the feeling of always being wrong. We are always told that we are wrong and our parents or teachers are right. That’s how it has always been anymore.
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We all have moments where we want to cower down or just go home and let the situation be over with. This is what is occurring here with Rachel. She is in a situation she is extremely uncomfortable in and is counting down the minutes until it is over.
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“Eleven” presents the idea that age is not something new, rather it is a buildup of things. Every experience does not go away when you turn eleven, it just brews inside. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes.” This shows that emotions are not linear, each experience helps us lean into an emotional response. What it all boils down to is that she’s still a kid trying to act older to forget how awful her day was. It’s an interesting piece on the though of age.
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Rachel, at the beginning of the text describes how when you wake up on your birthday, you might not feel the age you are and it can take time to “grow” into your age. However, at the end of the text, still on Rachel’s birthday, she says she’s eleven, representing how her experience with the red sweater has made her feel both as a child, but also older, as she wishes time to pass to escape the memory
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I did not notice this idea until reading your comment. This part makes much more sense now.
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Sandra Cisneros’s “Eleven,” presents the idea to the readers that age is just a number, writing you aren’t just 11, you eight, you’re five, etc. Sandra Cisneros writes similes to compare age as an onion or rings inside of the tree, but our past ages stay with us. Morrie, for example, in “Tuesday’s With Morrie,” does not envy Mitch for his strength, good health, or age because he was once that age too and will always be in spirit. Mitch also experienced being a child again, needing help walking and using the restroom. Age is just a number.
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I believe that age is just a number and to bounce off of what Flora said, in our own lives, history repeats itself. Morrie had to experience being treated like a baby again at the end of his life, which is just a repetition of when he was actually a baby. And when we write, we can be any age we want. We can be five, we can be “Eleven”, we can even be 22 if we want. The depth and the beauty of what we write is not determined by age, but rather who we are inside, and how the spirit if what we are writing moves us.
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Another psychological theme seems to be coming out here. We don’t magically becoming wiser and bigger and stronger when that special date rolls around. We’re still scared and young, growing and new to the world. The child inside us will always be there, if only we listen to the knocking. (Shane Koyczan reference)
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An overarching theme of the two pieces could possibly be seen through the lens of both psychology and domesticity. They both center around growing up, going through growing pains and trials.
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Sandra Cisnero, through her work “Eleven” presents growing up as a continuing process that includes growing pains and self-felt setbacks.
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