Eleven 11岁
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're—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 wood 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 she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Sald抳ar 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 parting 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 runway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny-tiny you have to close your eyes to see
大人们不明白而且也不会告诉你的是，当你到了11岁生日时，你也同时是10岁，9岁，8岁，7岁，6岁，5岁，4岁，3岁，2岁，1岁。你11岁生日那天醒来，期望能感到自己已11岁了，但没有。你睁开双眼，一切宛如昨日，只是已到了今天，你根本感觉不到你已经11岁了，相反还觉得自己是10岁——确实也是，还没过完11岁这一年呢。
比如有些时候你可能会说些傻话，那是还只有10岁的你。或者什么时候你吓坏了，得到妈妈腿上坐着，那是5岁的你。也许哪一天你已经长大了，却想要像3岁时那样地哭，这没什么，当妈妈觉得悲伤想哭时我就是这样对她说的，也许那时她感觉自己像个3岁小孩。
因为你长大的过程就像一个洋葱，像树干上的年轮或者像我那个一个套一个的小木偶玩具一样，一年套着一年，那就是你11岁的样子。
你感觉不到自己已11岁，至少不是马上就会感到。你得花上几天、几周，有时甚至几个月才能在别人问你多大时回答说已经11岁了。你只有在快到12岁时，才会感觉到11岁的可爱，就是这样。
只是今天我真的不希望我只有11岁，就像11枚硬币在一个锡制邦迪罐里乱蹦一样。今天我希望自己不是11岁而是102岁，因为要是102岁，那普赖斯夫人把那件红毛衣放到我桌上时我就会知道该说什么了。那样我就会知道该怎样告诉她毛衣不是我的，而不是坐在那儿，一脸惊愕，却什么也说不出来。
“这是谁的？”普赖斯夫人问道，在全班面前举着红毛衣。“谁的？它扔在衣帽间里整整一个月了。”
“不是我的，”所有的人都说。“不是我。”
“肯定是谁的吧。”普赖斯夫人接着说，但谁也想不起来。这是一件丑丑的毛衣，钉着红色塑料纽扣，领口和袖子松松垮垮地耷着，都可以拿它来跳绳。也许它已经有1000年历史了，就算真是我的，我也不会承认。
也许因为我太瘦了，也许因为她不喜欢我，呆头呆脑的塞尔维亚·萨尔蒂娃说：“我觉得是莱琪的。”这么丑的一件毛衣，那么破那么旧，但是普赖斯夫人相信了她的话，她拿着这件毛衣径直放到了我桌上，我张了张嘴但什么也说不出来。
“那不是，我没有，你不是……不是我的。”我最后小声地用也许是4岁时的声音说道。
“就是你的，”普赖斯夫人说，“我记得你还穿过一次。”因为她是长辈又是老师，所以她是对的，错的是我。
不是我的，不是我的，不是我的，但是普赖斯夫人已经把书翻到了32页的第4道数学题。不知为什么，我心里突然觉得很难受，3岁的那个我要哭出来了，但我强忍住眼泪，咬紧牙关，努力提醒自己今天11岁，11岁，今晚妈妈会给我做一个蛋糕。爸爸回家时，每人都会对我唱“祝你生日快乐，祝你生日快乐！”
但当难受暂隐时，我睁开双眼，那红色毛衣还在那儿，像座红色大山，我用尺把红毛衣推向书桌的一角，把铅笔、书和橡皮移得离它远远的，我甚至把椅子也向右移了一点点。不是我的，不是我的，不是我的。
我正想着还有多久到中午，还有多久我可以把它扔出校园栅栏或者把它挂在一个停车计费器上，或者把它卷成一个小球扔进胡同。这时数学课结束了，普莱斯老师在全班同学面前大声说：“喂，莱琪，够了吧。”因为她看见我把红色毛衣推到了书桌的尖角，它挂在那儿像个瀑布，但我不在乎。“莱琪！”普莱斯老师说，她似乎发火了，“别再废话，你马上把那毛衣穿上！”
“但它不是——”
“马上穿好！”普莱斯老师说。
这时我真不希望是11岁，因为所有的年岁——10，9，8，7，6，5，4，3，2，1都在争相想从我眼中流出。我两手套着散发着乡村干酪气味的毛衣袖子，两臂张开，站在那儿，就好像它伤着了我，确实已经伤着了我，痒极了，满是细菌，而这压根不是我的。
今天早上当普莱斯老师把毛衣放在我桌上时，我什么都一直忍着，现在终于再也忍不住了，一下子我在全班面前大哭起来，我希望我能够消失，但这不可能。我11岁了，今天是我生日，而我却像3岁的小孩一样在大家面前大哭，我一屁股坐了下来，把头埋在傻傻的小丑般的两只毛衣袖子下。脸发烫，口水也流了出来。我实在忍不住抽搭，我一直哭到了眼泪流干。不停地抽泣就像打嗝一样，头疼极了就像牛奶喝得太快时的感觉一样。
但是在午餐铃就要响起来的时候，最糟糕的事情发生了。 那个比塞尔维亚·萨尔蒂娃还蠢的菲莉丝·络帕兹说她想起来了，那件毛衣是她的。我马上脱下来丢给她，普莱斯老师装着什么也没看见。
今天我11岁了，这时妈妈正在为我做今晚的蛋糕，爸爸下班回来时，我们都会享受它的美味，会有生日蜡烛和好多礼物，每人都会唱“莱琪，祝你生日快乐，祝你生日快乐。”只是这一切都太迟了。
今天我11岁了，我11岁了，10岁，9岁，8岁，7岁，6岁，5岁，4岁，3岁，2岁，甚至1岁。但我希望我是102岁，我希望我什么年龄都行，只要不是11岁，因为我希望今天快点结束，像一个脱手的气球飞向远方，像空中的一个小圆圈，越来越小，以至于你只有闭上眼睛才能看见它。 |