I turned eleven in 1955, during the third year of the Cold War. In school we had drills teaching us what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. I had a vivid imagination. Later I wrote a poem about it:
Fifth Grade Air Raid Drill, 1955
I tell Mr. Carter there's a crack in the ant farm,
but he has more important things to talk about today.
After the bomb, trees will wither, milk will glow.
I can relate to this in so many ways. Like you, I was a shy, awkward, book-toting eleven year old, but instead of becoming bossy, I went for a kind of knowing superiority. It played as well as I played sports- really badly lol.
Also, I have a twelve-year-old, and in my experience as a mom, eleven really is different from twelve. It’s the difference between crushing on a famous person versus a kid in your class. Between reading the Babysitters Club versus whatever you find in the Teen section of the library that your mom doesn’t immediately deem “inappropriate.” It’s not better or worse but I can tell you, there are days I want to turn back the clock.
Eleven was a huge year for me. My ever-moving family settled down in San Diego, where my grandmother lived. I went back to sixth grade again, after having missed so much of it the previous year that I felt it didn't count.
I'd skipped second grade so, at 11, I was also with kids exactly my age for the first time in years. They hated me, because I was a smart ass who loved to read, could remember what I'd read, and always raised her hand. I spent my lunch money on Hostess goodies and told the kids my dad worked at Hostess, and suddenlyI had friends.
But when my mom found out we were poor enough to get free school lunches, there was no more lunch money.
Cathy was the one girl who stayed friends with me when I had nothing to offer but friendship. She and I are still friends 50 years later!
I was obsessed with baseball when I was 11. I was one of the best pitchers in my little league at that age and, of course, thought I was destined for the big time. It took about six more years until I realized I wasn’t quite good enough to make it very far in the sport.
I was 11 in 1988. This was the perfect year to be a baseball-loving boy in Los Angeles because the underdog Dodgers ended up winning the World Series. To this day, I’m convinced that there’s a magical time, around 11, when you’re old enough to start to see the world and all of its challenges, but still young enough to believe in heroes. That was me and my friends throughout the spring, summer, and fall of 1988. If we weren’t watching the Dodgers, we were playing baseball and pretending to be our favorite players. My favorite was the ultimate utility player, Mickey Hatcher, who I believe played every position, including pitcher that year.
Your question brought back a flood of good memories. Here’s one. In the fall, the Dodgers had a few playoff games that took place during school hours. A 4pm game on the east coast is rough for west coast fans. Anyway, my friends and I tried to convince our teacher to let us watch the game. That went nowhere. But one of my friends had a very small radio. He listened (secretly), then flashed us signal and passed notes for updates. Worked great, until the Dodgers scored at a critical moment and my friend yelled out “holy shit!” We got in trouble, but it was worth it.
I was a tomboy. I rode my bike all day (pretending it was a horse), hit tennis balls with my friends, went fishing and spent all day outside. It was the last time I felt unselfconcious and truly didn't care about fitting in or what other people thought. I didn't return to that feeling that way until I was in my late twenties.
Wow, 11 was awful! Wanting to fit in so badly, being socially awkward and not knowing what to do. I remember being terrified that my body was changing and being much taller than all of the boys made me feel self-conscious. I didn’t want to get my period but the girls talking about it fascinated me as well. I just felt like I was suddenly pushed to became an adult and be interested in kissing boys and acting older. Trying cigarettes and what-not. I just wanted to watch cartoons and play videogames. The internet had just started and it felt like this amazing new thing. And the new millennium felt filled with possibilities. That was 2001.
11: I had a lot of zits and was the first girl in the class to get breasts. I was taller than every other girl and I wanted to be a fiction writer. I read so much that they moved me up a grade for reading and then I got really bullied for my zits and for being of Jewish descent when everyone else was Christian. So eventually I retaliated and was punished. I went from bullied to bullier.
A teacher also made me stay in detention and talk it out with my nemesis. None of it would have taken place in present day due to awareness around bullying.
One girl involved later found me as an adult and told me the events that year had traumatized her for a decade, which totally caught me off guard because I’d long ago moved on.
I just saw this and I have to tell you about the things going through my mind when I try to remember what stood out for me at that age. There was only one thing that mattered. It was a Golden year for me, in hindsight. Some things you don't understand until years later. 1969 was the year of Apollo 11. We sat in front of the TV on a hot morning--summer holidays, who knows what day it was--refusing not to watch it because we understood it was something important. We tried to tell her that it was history in the making; we might never see anything like it again. They were going to put a space station in orbit and a colony on the moon. My mother just wanted to clean the house.
But the thing that really stood out for me was when I was in the neighbour's yard, standing in the shade under two tall trees. He was an old man of about 75, and grew up on a farm in Northern Saskatchewan. My first question, of course, was to ask him if he'd fought in the First World War. He said he was exempt because they lived on a farm and it was deemed essential. He asked me if I watched them land on the moon, and told me when he was 9 years old, they drove into the big city and went into the new "odeon", and saw a film of the Wright Brothers flying for the first time. He said, "To think that I live in a time where I got to see the first manned flight, in one of the first movie houses, and got to see the first man landing on the moon." I'll never forget that year. I thought it would be something I'd be able to share with my children, and grandchildren--(I got the children, but they don't want any of their own)--but they don't care about landing on the moon...
I have to pull back the weeds to find 11 year me, partly because as Cisneros says, they’re jumbled with the years before. It was 1995 and a teacher I admired told me I was a good writer. I had started collected poems in my pockets on scraps of paper from then on. The summer saw a cousin and I buying matching outfits and strutting around her neighborhood, doing nothing in particular but being outside in the sun. I started watching X-Files that year and decided I would go into pathology. The theme song became an anthem. I even stood with my hand on my heart and whistled the tune.
I was studious, loved R. L. Stine books that I devoured on nights I couldn’t sleep, and was lost in imagination. It was a good time.
I love the metaphor of scattering the change of memories Betsy. 11 was middle school, feeling like my body was wrong, being told it was indeed wrong by boys who were allowed to play lacrosse while we played pickle ball. 11 was my first real best friend who I confessed everything to, who made me laugh and loved me for me.
My son is 12 on the cusp of no longer being a child. He is learning independence - taking the bus places- making plans- but also close to us in a way that I know won’t last forever- it will still exist but it will change. He spends most days playing basketball and still enjoys Marco Polo in the pool.
I became eleven on January 19, 1955. At the time, my five-year-old sister and I were commuting to town (riding in with my mother who worked in the factory, staying with her mother-in-law until time for school). I was in the 6th grade, and I was the popular new girl. I had a new boyfriend, new girlfriends, and some pretty dresses I was still wearing from when I was ten. Before school let out in May, we had moved into town, the first time we lived in town since I was born. We had the only brick house in town, and we were proud of it. I finally had a library card, was making E's in school (for excellent), and happier than I had been since my dad died when I was seven. Life with our second step-father wasn't easy, but it wasn't as hard as it would be within a year. Eleven was a good year for me.
All angles and elbows, I was thin and fleet of feet, but with no other sports skills, I was always picked last for teams at recess or for sandlot sports. It was the year I discovered "talking to your neighbor" in class. A great sixth-grade teacher who relished history and infused it into me, along with aspirations to travel. I lived many lives outside of my small town - in books!
I loved being 11. In 6th grade I fell omnipotent. I was sassy and smart, my aunt made me an outfit with gaucho pants and a matching light blue velvet cape with a plaid lining (wish I still had that). I was in a little singing group called The Forget-Me-Nots. We had a great teacher. All was good. Then.....middle school came. And I had to rediscover myself. I was never 11 again.
I turned eleven in 1955, during the third year of the Cold War. In school we had drills teaching us what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. I had a vivid imagination. Later I wrote a poem about it:
Fifth Grade Air Raid Drill, 1955
I tell Mr. Carter there's a crack in the ant farm,
but he has more important things to talk about today.
After the bomb, trees will wither, milk will glow.
You might live a year before the insects get you
but first you must survive the blast.
Duck under your desks
and stick your heads between your knees.
I pretend to do as I'm told.
When he turns his back I crawl away
on six legs, triumphant.
I can relate to this in so many ways. Like you, I was a shy, awkward, book-toting eleven year old, but instead of becoming bossy, I went for a kind of knowing superiority. It played as well as I played sports- really badly lol.
Also, I have a twelve-year-old, and in my experience as a mom, eleven really is different from twelve. It’s the difference between crushing on a famous person versus a kid in your class. Between reading the Babysitters Club versus whatever you find in the Teen section of the library that your mom doesn’t immediately deem “inappropriate.” It’s not better or worse but I can tell you, there are days I want to turn back the clock.
Eleven was a huge year for me. My ever-moving family settled down in San Diego, where my grandmother lived. I went back to sixth grade again, after having missed so much of it the previous year that I felt it didn't count.
I'd skipped second grade so, at 11, I was also with kids exactly my age for the first time in years. They hated me, because I was a smart ass who loved to read, could remember what I'd read, and always raised her hand. I spent my lunch money on Hostess goodies and told the kids my dad worked at Hostess, and suddenlyI had friends.
But when my mom found out we were poor enough to get free school lunches, there was no more lunch money.
Cathy was the one girl who stayed friends with me when I had nothing to offer but friendship. She and I are still friends 50 years later!
I was obsessed with baseball when I was 11. I was one of the best pitchers in my little league at that age and, of course, thought I was destined for the big time. It took about six more years until I realized I wasn’t quite good enough to make it very far in the sport.
I was 11 in 1988. This was the perfect year to be a baseball-loving boy in Los Angeles because the underdog Dodgers ended up winning the World Series. To this day, I’m convinced that there’s a magical time, around 11, when you’re old enough to start to see the world and all of its challenges, but still young enough to believe in heroes. That was me and my friends throughout the spring, summer, and fall of 1988. If we weren’t watching the Dodgers, we were playing baseball and pretending to be our favorite players. My favorite was the ultimate utility player, Mickey Hatcher, who I believe played every position, including pitcher that year.
Your question brought back a flood of good memories. Here’s one. In the fall, the Dodgers had a few playoff games that took place during school hours. A 4pm game on the east coast is rough for west coast fans. Anyway, my friends and I tried to convince our teacher to let us watch the game. That went nowhere. But one of my friends had a very small radio. He listened (secretly), then flashed us signal and passed notes for updates. Worked great, until the Dodgers scored at a critical moment and my friend yelled out “holy shit!” We got in trouble, but it was worth it.
I was a tomboy. I rode my bike all day (pretending it was a horse), hit tennis balls with my friends, went fishing and spent all day outside. It was the last time I felt unselfconcious and truly didn't care about fitting in or what other people thought. I didn't return to that feeling that way until I was in my late twenties.
Wow, 11 was awful! Wanting to fit in so badly, being socially awkward and not knowing what to do. I remember being terrified that my body was changing and being much taller than all of the boys made me feel self-conscious. I didn’t want to get my period but the girls talking about it fascinated me as well. I just felt like I was suddenly pushed to became an adult and be interested in kissing boys and acting older. Trying cigarettes and what-not. I just wanted to watch cartoons and play videogames. The internet had just started and it felt like this amazing new thing. And the new millennium felt filled with possibilities. That was 2001.
There's so much rich material in childhood, if we can remember it. I wrote about 1975, my 11th summer, here: https://www.thelitpub.com/blog/summer-child-lisa-renee
11: I had a lot of zits and was the first girl in the class to get breasts. I was taller than every other girl and I wanted to be a fiction writer. I read so much that they moved me up a grade for reading and then I got really bullied for my zits and for being of Jewish descent when everyone else was Christian. So eventually I retaliated and was punished. I went from bullied to bullier.
A teacher also made me stay in detention and talk it out with my nemesis. None of it would have taken place in present day due to awareness around bullying.
One girl involved later found me as an adult and told me the events that year had traumatized her for a decade, which totally caught me off guard because I’d long ago moved on.
I just saw this and I have to tell you about the things going through my mind when I try to remember what stood out for me at that age. There was only one thing that mattered. It was a Golden year for me, in hindsight. Some things you don't understand until years later. 1969 was the year of Apollo 11. We sat in front of the TV on a hot morning--summer holidays, who knows what day it was--refusing not to watch it because we understood it was something important. We tried to tell her that it was history in the making; we might never see anything like it again. They were going to put a space station in orbit and a colony on the moon. My mother just wanted to clean the house.
But the thing that really stood out for me was when I was in the neighbour's yard, standing in the shade under two tall trees. He was an old man of about 75, and grew up on a farm in Northern Saskatchewan. My first question, of course, was to ask him if he'd fought in the First World War. He said he was exempt because they lived on a farm and it was deemed essential. He asked me if I watched them land on the moon, and told me when he was 9 years old, they drove into the big city and went into the new "odeon", and saw a film of the Wright Brothers flying for the first time. He said, "To think that I live in a time where I got to see the first manned flight, in one of the first movie houses, and got to see the first man landing on the moon." I'll never forget that year. I thought it would be something I'd be able to share with my children, and grandchildren--(I got the children, but they don't want any of their own)--but they don't care about landing on the moon...
Thanks so much for the feature! Much appreciated.
I have to pull back the weeds to find 11 year me, partly because as Cisneros says, they’re jumbled with the years before. It was 1995 and a teacher I admired told me I was a good writer. I had started collected poems in my pockets on scraps of paper from then on. The summer saw a cousin and I buying matching outfits and strutting around her neighborhood, doing nothing in particular but being outside in the sun. I started watching X-Files that year and decided I would go into pathology. The theme song became an anthem. I even stood with my hand on my heart and whistled the tune.
I was studious, loved R. L. Stine books that I devoured on nights I couldn’t sleep, and was lost in imagination. It was a good time.
Thank you, Betsy. In his mind, the wildly imaginative eleven-year-old narrator is transformed into an insect--just in time!
I love the metaphor of scattering the change of memories Betsy. 11 was middle school, feeling like my body was wrong, being told it was indeed wrong by boys who were allowed to play lacrosse while we played pickle ball. 11 was my first real best friend who I confessed everything to, who made me laugh and loved me for me.
My son is 12 on the cusp of no longer being a child. He is learning independence - taking the bus places- making plans- but also close to us in a way that I know won’t last forever- it will still exist but it will change. He spends most days playing basketball and still enjoys Marco Polo in the pool.
I became eleven on January 19, 1955. At the time, my five-year-old sister and I were commuting to town (riding in with my mother who worked in the factory, staying with her mother-in-law until time for school). I was in the 6th grade, and I was the popular new girl. I had a new boyfriend, new girlfriends, and some pretty dresses I was still wearing from when I was ten. Before school let out in May, we had moved into town, the first time we lived in town since I was born. We had the only brick house in town, and we were proud of it. I finally had a library card, was making E's in school (for excellent), and happier than I had been since my dad died when I was seven. Life with our second step-father wasn't easy, but it wasn't as hard as it would be within a year. Eleven was a good year for me.
All angles and elbows, I was thin and fleet of feet, but with no other sports skills, I was always picked last for teams at recess or for sandlot sports. It was the year I discovered "talking to your neighbor" in class. A great sixth-grade teacher who relished history and infused it into me, along with aspirations to travel. I lived many lives outside of my small town - in books!
I loved being 11. In 6th grade I fell omnipotent. I was sassy and smart, my aunt made me an outfit with gaucho pants and a matching light blue velvet cape with a plaid lining (wish I still had that). I was in a little singing group called The Forget-Me-Nots. We had a great teacher. All was good. Then.....middle school came. And I had to rediscover myself. I was never 11 again.