The Writing Workshop

Raising the Quality of Narrative Writing

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 areunderneath 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 BandAid 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
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The Writing Workshop

Raising the Quality of Narrative Writing

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 meten, 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 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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The Writing Workshop

Raising the Quality of Narrative Writing

Owl Moon
By Jane Yolen
It was late one winter night, long past my bedtime, when Pa and I went owling.
There was no wind.
The trees stood still as giant statues.
And the moon was so bright the sky seemed to shine.
Somewhere behind us a train whistle blew, long and low, like a sad, sad song.
I could hear it through the woolen cap Pa had pulled down over my ears.
A farm dog answered the train, and then a second dog joined in.
The sang out, trains and dogs, for a real long time.
And when their voices faded away it was quiet as a dream.
We walked on toward the woods, Pa and I.
Our feet crunched over the crisp snow and little gray footprints followed us.
Pa made a long shadow, but mine was short and round.
I had to run after him every now and then to keep up, and my short, round shadow bumped after me.
But I never called out.
If you go owling you have to be quiet, thats what Pa always says.
I had been waiting to go owling with Pa for a long, long time.
We reached the line of pine trees, black and pointy against the sky, and Pa held up his hand.
I stopped right where I was and waited.
He looked up, as if searching the stars, as if reading a map up there.
The moon made his face into a silver mask.
Then he called: Whoo-whoo-who-who-who-whooooooo the sound of a Great Horned Owl.
Whoo-whoo-who=who-who-whooooooo.
Again he called out.
And then again.
After each call he was silent and for a moment we both listened.
But there was no answer.
Pa shrugged and I shrugged.
I was not disappointed.
My brothers all said sometimes theres an owl and sometimes there isnt.
We walked on.
I could feel the cold, as if someones icy hand was palm-down on my back.
And my nose and the tops of my cheeks felt cold and hot at the same time.
But I never said a word.
If you go owling you have to be quiet and make your own heat.
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We went into the woods.

The shadows were the blackest things I had ever seen.
They stained the white snow.
My mouth felt furry, for the scarf over it was wet and warm.
I didnt ask what kinds of things hide behind black trees in the middle of the night.
When you go owling you have to be brave.
Then we came to a clearing in the dark woods.
The moon was high above us.
It seemed to fit exactly over the center of the clearing and the snow below it was whiter than the milk in
a cereal bowl.
I sighed and Pa held up his hand at the sound.
I put my mittens over the scarf over my mount and listened hard.
And then Pa called: Whoo-whoo-who-who-who-whoooooooo.
Whoo-whoo-who-who-who-whooooooo.
I listened and looked so hard my ears hurd and my eyes got cloudy with the cold.
Pa raised his face to call out again, but before he could open his mouth an echo came threading its way
through the trees. Whoo-whoo-who-who-who-whooooooo.
Pa almost smiled.
Then he called back: Whoo-whoo-who-who-who-whooooooo just as if he and the owl were talking
about supper or about the woods or the moon or the cold.
I took my mitten off the scarf off my mouth, and I almost smiled, too.
The owls call came closer, from high up in the trees on the edge of the meadow.
Nothing in the meadow moved.
All of a sudden an owl shadow, part of the big tree shadow, lifted off and flew right over us.
We watched silently with heat in our mouths, the heat of all those words we had not spoken.
The shadow hooted again.
Pa turned on his big flashlight and caught the owl just as it was landing on a branch.
For one minute, three minutes, maybe even a hundred minutes, we stared at one another.
Then the owl pumped its great wings and lifted off the branch like a shadow without sound.
It flew back into the forest.
Time to go home, Pa said to me.
I knew then I could talk, I could even laugh out loud. But I was a shadow as we walked home.
When you go owling you dont need words or anything but hope.
Thats what Pa says. The kind of hope that flies on silent wings under a shining Owl Moon.

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The Writing Workshop

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METEOR
Many years ago, when my brother and I were small, Mom let us spend the summer with
our Gramma and Grampa Gaw on their farm in Michigan. One night, far above that little
farm, a star sputtered and flashed and started to fall.
As it fell through the night sky, the geese honked their alarm, the chickens cackled, and
the goats bleated and jumped wildly about.
The bright light with a long fiery tail streaked through the sky unnoticed by my family.
Grampa was reading the Herald. Gramma was correcting school papers, Cousin Steve was
tinkering with his wireless, my brother Richard was practicing the piano, and I was reading
a storybook.
Suddenly, without warning, the house started shaking. Plaster came loose from the
ceiling. Dishes fell from shelves. Rugs curled on the floor as if they had a life of their
own.
The flaming object made a terrible sound as it went shrieking over the roof of the house.
Then it crashed into the ground with a horribly loud BOOM. It landed with such force that
glass broke, chairs overturned, windows rattled, and walls shuddered.
The front door was laid open by the blast and through it an eerie light could be seen
glowing from a big hole in the front yard. We were stunned. But soon curiosity overcame
caution and we timidly made our way outdoors for a look-see.
Why, its a fallen star! Grampa gasped.
Of all the places on earth a meteor could have fallen, it landed smack-dab in the middle
of our yard. Gramma exclaimed.
Grampa and Cousin Steve pounded stakes all around the meteor and roped it off.
The next morning Gramma called Uncle Carl. Thats what I said, Carl, a real falling star,
right in my front yard.
Carl called Bertie Potter. Did you hear, Bertie, a falling star, out by the Gaw place in
Mudsock Meadow. Came in do low it almost hit the house.
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Bertie called Mayor Hatch. Thats right, Howard, it took off the roof, and almost hit the
clothes line. That poor family.
Mayor Hatch called Pearlie Beach. Unbelievable! Took the roof, the power lines, and hit a
cow!
Pearlie called Vera. I tell yait flattened the Gaw place, took the power lines, water
mains, killed the stock, and its still smoking.
Vera called Mr. Titus at the hardware store. The whole place is gone, the barn, the
animals, and theres poison smoke a-comin from it.
Mr. Titus called Officer Washburn, who called the Fire Chief. Sounds like theyll be
needin us, Chief Quisle exclaimed. He started up Engine 23, turned on the siren, and
headed out. But news traveled through town faster than the engine could leave the
firehouse
and Union City was A-BUZZ with what had happened in Mudsock Meadow. Merchants
closed their shops, school was let out before noon, and just about everyone in town
headed for the Gaw place to see the mysterious meteor.
I wonder how big it is?
Just think, it came from way out in space!
Isnt this the most excitin thingI cant wait to see Carlie, George, and the kids.
This is more excitin than when Bertie Felspaw got her elbow caught in the revolving door
at the library over Coldwater way!
As the crowd jostled, trotted, rolled, and bumped through the countryside, bystanders and
onlookers joined in and came along to see the meteor. Dr. Trotters Medicine Wagon, the
Coldwater Chautauqua Circus, and the Union City Ladies Lyceum fell in with the parade of
citizens. They were soon joined by the Union City High School band which hooted,
boomed, and jingled their instruments and they ran down the hillside.
As more and more people arrived, Gramma and Grampas farm soon became a carnival of
meteoric events. Meteor basket lunches were auctioned, meteor popcorn was popped,

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meteor lemonade was made, meteor liniment was sold, and the Chautauqua Circus was
going to give a meteoric performance.
But most folks simply stood and stared at the wondrous meteor. To think, Gramma
repeated to everyone, of all the places on earth it could have landed, it came smack-dab
in the middle of our yard! She beamed with pride and was truly happy to see friends
that she usually only saw once or twice a year.
Heleo the Great, Master of Stratospheric Maneuvers and Atmospheric Acrobatics (while on
his way to the Ionia State Fair) landed his hot air balloon and offered special meteor
rides. These included an ascent of approximately forty feet and a slow descent in order
to take in the full panorama of the farm and the meteor. The Union City High School band
gave a meteoric concert.
In the middle of all the festivities a group of scientists arrived from Battle Creek College,
the University of Michigan, and Michigan State University science departments. They set
up all their buzzing, testing equipment and put on strange-looking protective suits. The
turned on all of the machinery. CLICK..CLICK..POP..WHIZZZZZZZ< PEWPRY..PEWPRY,
it went.

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The scientists looked thoughtful, scratched their heads, and wrote down lots and lots of
data. They measured, pondered, quizzed, and figured. The crowd leaned closer as their
chief finally spoke.Yes, sir! That there is a genuine meteorite! The crowd clapped and
cheered. Charlie Lake struck up the band, and the circus began a meteoric performance.
Ling Po and Ping How, the jugglers, threw little golden balls and shiny silver rings around
and around in the air, while Tilly and Lilly, the dancing elephants balanced on one foot as
the Leaping Luckies, The trained dogs, jumped about and did somersaults.
The Union City Lyceum dance troupe performed a special number of interpretive
movement depicting both the falling of the meteor and the last days of Pompei.
I touched the meteor, Tommy Enderby said to Marietta Krimmel, and as soon as I did, I
could play my trumpet better than ever before!

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Raising the Quality of Narrative Writing

Marietta told Cecile Potter that after she touched the meteor, she thought up the best
recipe for pie she ever did have. Im gonna enter the pie contest at the next fair, she
exclaimed.
Cecile told Dr. Trotter that since shed touched the meteor she had more energy than
shed had in years. I tell ya, I could feel something coming right up into my finger from
that there fallen star. Its magic, I tell ya.
Dr. Trotter claimed that ever since he touched the meteor, his liniment had acquired supermysterious healing powers. Hollis D. Lonesberry, in turn, was convinced that his best hog
was going to become a prize winner. Im gonna enter him in the Ionia State Fair, he
chirped to Gladys Pardee.
Gladys was positive that since she touched the meteor her eyesight improved instantly.
Im tellin yer, Leonard, she said to Mr. Pinehurst, I can see all the way across the
barnyard!
Extraordinary, he sighed, as he stared at his forefinger. I touched it too, and I feel
special, REALLY SPECIAL!
As folks lest the Gaw farm that day they all felt special. They were changed somehow,
inspired by the act of touching something that had flown across the galaxy. It seemed
like magic all right. The Union City High School band went on to win the State
Championship that year, thanks to a trumpet solo played by Tommy Enderby, and
Mariettas currant-blueberry pie took first place at the county fair. Hollis D. Lonsberrys
best hog, Herman, won Best-of-Show at the Ionia State Fair.
Maybe these things would have happened anyway-but who can say for sure? All I know
is that for three generations the meteor was a source of wonder to the little town of
Union City, Michigan, and especially to my family. It remained on the very spot where it
landed until it was moved to a lovely green hillside overlooking the St. Joseph River to
become my grandmothers headstone. It is there to this day!

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The Writing Workshop

Raising the Quality of Narrative Writing

Papa Who Wakes Up Tired in the Dark

Your abuelito is dead, Papa says early one morning in my room. Esta
muerto, and then as if he just heard the new himself, crumples like a coat and
cries, my brave Papa cries. I have never seen my Papa cry and dont know
what to do.
I knew he will have to go away, that he will take a plane to Mexico,
all the uncles and aunts will be there, and they will have a black and white
photo taken in front of the tomb with flowers shaped like spears in a white
vase because this is how they send the dead ways in that country.
Because I am the oldest, my father has told me first, and now it
is my turn to tell the other. I will have to explain why we cant play. I will have
to tell them to be quiet today.
My Papa, his thick hands and thick shoes, who wakes up tired in
the dark, who combs his hair with water, drinks his coffee, and is gone before
we wake, today is sitting on my bed.
And I think if my own Papa died what would I do. I hold my Papa
in my arms. I hold and hold and hold him.
Sandra Cisneros 1989 p. 56

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