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
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.
From
Woman
Hollering
Creek
Copyright
©
1991
by
Sandra
Cisneros.
Reprinted
by
permission
of
Susan
Bergholtz
Literary
Services,
New
York.
All
rights
reserved.