NOTES:
Read the short story Eleven by Sandra Cisneros. Be sure to
discuss at least three of the following literary techniques and devices
AND how these techniques/devices add to the understanding of
Rachels character. Remember to write in present tense and do not
refer to the author, writer, or reader after the introduction of your
essay. DO NOT DEFINE TERMS IN YOUR ESSAY!
Terms to choose from:
Imagery
Diction
Simile
Repetition
Point of View
Turn this paper in with your essay!!
ELEVEN
by Sandra Cisneros
What they dont understand about birthdays and what they never tell you
is that when youre eleven, youre 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
dont. You open your eyes and everythings just like yesterday, only its
today. And you dont feel eleven at all. You feel like youre still ten. And
you areunderneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and thats the part of
you thats still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your
mamas lap because youre scared, and thats the part of you thats five.
And maybe one day when youre all grown up maybe you will need to
cry like if youre three, and thats okay. Thats what I tell Mama when
shes sad and needs to cry. Maybe shes 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. Thats how being eleven years old
is.
You dont 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 dont feel smart eleven, not until youre almost twelve. Thats the
way it is.
Only today I wish I didnt 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 Id have known
what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I wouldve
known how to tell her it wasnt mine instead of just sitting there with that
look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
NOTES:
Whose is this? Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in
the air for all the class to see. Whose? Its 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. Its an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar
and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. Its
maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldnt say
so.
Maybe because Im skinny, maybe because she doesnt 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.
Thats not, I dont, youre notNot mine. I finally say in a little voice
that was maybe me when I was four.
Of course its yours, Mrs. Price says. I remember you wearing it
once. Because shes older and the teacher, shes right and Im not.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page
thirty-two, and math problem number four. I dont know why but all of a
sudden Im feeling sick inside, like the part of me thats 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
sweaters 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 Im 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, thats enough, because she sees Ive shoved the red sweater to
the tippy-tip corner of my desk and its hanging all over the edge like a
waterfall, but I dont care.
Rachel, Mrs. Price says. She says it like shes getting mad. You put
that sweater on right now and no more nonsense.
But its not
Now! Mrs. Price says.
NOTES:
This is when I wish I wasnt eleven because all the years inside of me
ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and oneare 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 arent even mine.
Thats when everything Ive been holding in since this morning, since
when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a
sudden Im crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but Im
not. Im eleven and its my birthday today and Im crying like Im 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 cant stop the little animal noises from coming out of
me until there arent any more tears left in my eyes, and its 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 everythings okay.
Today Im eleven. Theres a cake Mamas making for tonight and when
Papa comes home from work well eat it. Therell be candles and
presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you,
Rachel, only its too late.
Im eleven today. Im 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 tinytiny you
have to close your eyes to see it.
