Eleven
BY SANDRA CISNEROS

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 tippytip 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.

From Woman Hollering-Creek.

The Relatives Came
BY CYNTHIA RYLANT


it was in the summer of the year when the relatives came. They came up from Virginia. They left when their grapes were nearly purple enough to pick, but not quite. They had an old station wagon that smelled like a real car, and in it they put an ice chest full of soda pop and some boxes of crackers and some bologna sandwiches, and they came from Virginia.
They left at four in the morning when it was still dark, before even the birds were awake. They drove all day long and into the night, and while they traveled along they looked at strange houses and different mountains and they thought about their almost purple grapes back home. They thought about Virginia—but they thought about us, too. Waiting for them. So they drank up all their pop and ate up all their crackers and traveled up all those miles until finally they pulled into our yard.
Then it was hugging time. Talk about hugging! Those relatives just passed us all around their car, pulling us against their wrinkled Virginia clothes, crying sometimes. They hugged us for hours. Then it was into the house and so much laughing and shining faces and hugging in the doorways. You'd have to go through at least four different hugs to get from the kitchen to the front room. Those relatives! And finally after a big supper two or three times around until we all got a turn at the table, there was quiet talk and we were in twos and threes through the house.
The relatives weren't particular about beds, which was good since there weren't any extras, so a few squeezed in with us and the rest slept on the floor, some with their arms thrown over the closest person, or some with an arm across one person and a leg across another. It was different, going to sleep with all that new breathing in the house.
The relatives stayed for weeks and weeks. They helped us tend the garden and they fixed any broken things they could find. They ate up all our strawberries and melons, then promised we could eat up all their grapes and peaches when we came to Virginia. But none of us thought about Virginia much. We were so busy hugging and eating and breathing together.
Finally, after a long time, the relatives loaded up their ice chest and headed back to Virginia at four in the morning. We stood there in our pajamas and waved them off in the dark. We watched the relatives disappear down the road, then we crawled back into our beds that felt too big and too quiet. We fell asleep.
And the relatives drove on, all day long and into the night, and while they traveled along they looked at the strange houses and different mountains and they thought about their dark purple grapes waiting at home in Virginia. But they thought about us, too. Missing them. And they missed us. And when they were finally home in Virginia, they crawled into their silent, soft beds and dreamed about next summer. •

My Mama Had a Dancing Heart
BY LIBBA MOORE GREY

My Mama had a dancing heart and she shared that heart with me.
With a grin and a giggle, a hug and a whistle, we'd slap our knees and Mama would say: "Bless the world it feels like a tip-tapping song-singing finger-snapping kind of day. Let's celebrate!" And so we did.
When a warm spring rain would come pinging on the windowpane, we'd kick off our shoes and out into the rain we'd go.
We'd dance a frog-hopping leaf-growing flower-opening hello spring ballet.
High-stepping and splashing, the rain running down our faces, I'd slip-swish behind Mama through the newly green grass.
And afterward we'd read rain poems and drink sassafras tea with lemon curls floating.
And in the summer when the waves would come splash-splashing on the shore, out we'd go into the red-orange morning with kites and balloons tied to our wrists.
We'd do a seabird-flapping dolphin-arching hello summer ballet, with me following Mama, the sand stuck between the toes of our up-and-down squish-squashing feet.
And afterward we'd seashell-pile the windowsill and drink lemonade cold.
And when the cool autumn winds would come puff-puffing through the clouds, and the hold-on-tight leaves would finally let go and float-flutter to the ground, out we'd go into the eye-blinking blue air, with Mama leading in a leaf-kicking leg-lifting hand-clapping hello autumn ballet.
And afterward we'd wax paper-press leaves red and gold and drink hot tea spiced.
And when the winter snows came softly down shawling the earth, out we'd go and do a body-flat arms-moving-up-and-down snow-angel hello winter ballet.
And then we'd stand up, Mama first, and dance in slow motion, like hand-mittened galoshes-galumphing funny old snowmen.
And afterward we'd cut snowflakes paper-white delicate and sip cocoa with marshmallows floating.
And now after satin-ribboning my feet and listening to the violins sing-swelling around me,onto the stage I go air-daring leap-flying wing-soaring letting the spring rain summer waves autumn leaves winter snow carry me along until the music slows and I feather-float down... down to the ground.
And afterward I imagine that I hear my mama saying: "Bless the world it feels like a tip-tapping song-singing finger-snapping kind of day. Let's celebrate!"
My Mama had a dancing heart and she shared that heart with me.

The First Day of School
BY JEAN LITTLE

Sarah and I think that the first day of school makes you feel like everyone is staring at you all day long. It's like they're looking at what you're wearing, and how you comb your hair, and how much you've changed over the summer. They're listening to the way you talk and checking out whether you're pretty cool or whether you're too full of yourself. The teachers are looking to see if you're smart or not. The coaches and gym instructors are looking to see who the good athletes are. Even the people who work in the cafeteria seem like they're looking to see who eats all their lunch.
Sarah and I think the first day of school is like being on stage all day with a big spotlight on you. But then comes the second day and everything's back to normal and nobody cares about all that stuff from yesterday and nothing seems like such a big deal anymore. •


Reference: Summer Instructional Guide: Literacy, Grades 6-8