Eleven

David & I went to Caleb’s school this evening for “Curriculum Night”.  Usually the teacher explains what and how they will be teaching your child that year in the hope (I believe) that you will understand and won’t have to have so many questions throughout the year.  Last year I was a bad parent (or I think I was supposed to feel that way) and had to miss Curriculum Night due to my work schedule.  This year I knew about it enough in advance I could work around it.  I was pleasantly surprised when this turned into a creative writing event for the parents as a demonstration on how Caleb was going to be taught this year.

 

It started out with Caleb’s teacher, Ms. Struby, reading a short story called “Eleven”.  It was about how the day unfolded for this girl on her 11th birthday (duh, huh?) and how a single mortifying event can shape the rest of the day.  I loved it!  After Ms. Struby was finished reading the story we had to write a “creative” story about a memory this tale evoked.  Here are mine and David’s respectively.  I don’t think you’ll have a hard time determining whose is whose, though.  So…what do these stories remind you of, hmmmm?

 

        When your 11 you want to “fit in” with the crowd.  Dress alike, talk alike, eat alike, watch TV alike…well, you get the idea.  So when I found out where a bunch of “in” girls were getting their clothes I begged my Mom to take me shopping there.  “Please Mom!” I begged.  “All the girls are getting their clothes there!”  I must have sounded really desperate because my Mom said, “Okay, but just two things.”  I could hardly wait.  The next Saturday we headed out and I proceeded to shop and pick out what I thought would be the best clothes, the ones that would surely qualify me as “in”.  When Monday came I dressed with anticipation and excitement.  I could hardly wait for someone important to ask me about my outfit.  The moment finely arrived, I proudly exclaimed “Holly’s Hanger”.  I waited for the appropriate “oooh” and “ahhhh” and the sudden dawning of how cool I really was.  But then came the remark I had not counted on…”Holly’s Hanger!  That is so yesterday!”  I hate school.  I hate not being “in”.  But mostly, I hate Holly’s Hanger.  Do you think Mom would notice if I burned my clothes?

 

        Wow.  It’s amazing that someone obviously so far from 11, since they’ve developed this writing ability, still has such a clear view of being 11.  11.  11.  There was nothing that noteworthy about being 11.  Completely overshadowed by 10, 9, 8, etc.  11.  That was 5th grade.  I never could wait for 5th grade to be over.  When the bell rang I would burst out of the school, run the mile home in 5 ½ minutes and watch the other 24 ½ minutes of Dark Shadows…until I figured out that nothing ever happened on Dark Shadows either.  There never was enough to learn at 11.  I already knew all the bones, muscles, and vessels, but there wasn’t much use for that information at 11.  That was the year they accidentally let me run the ball.  I was supposed to be playing “midget nose guard”, but when they couldn’t find the right guy to go in at running back, the coach literally threw me out there so we wouldn’t get a delay of game penalty.  I didn’t even know the plays.  When I took the fake hand-off from the quarterback I was even more scared, but that was just a startle compared to the terror I felt when the whole defense was two feet in front of me.  Not knowing the plays was an advantage when I turned this drive off right tackle (actually it was a fake handoff) and made it into a reverse just to keep all those big guys from smashing the smallest player on the field.  All that running home to see Dark Shadows was also paying off as I ran away from the dark abyss that waited directly in front of our offensive linemen.  Not one defensive player touched me as I made a 180-degree turn.  Had the coach been smart enough he would have called an end around anyway I figured.  For all I know now, he may have.  I remember the quarterback was still yelling at me for stealing the ball from him as I crossed the goal line at the end of that terrifying 40-yard run.  The next week was our last game and I faked an ankle sprain so I wouldn’t have to play running back.  It would have been better if the coach hadn’t seen me run by his house every day that week on my way to watch Dark Shadows.