Memoir Mentor 1

Quietly Struggling
Kelly Boland Hohne

I’ve always struggled with putting myself out in the world. When I was little, my mom would go to parent-
teacher conferences and every year she would come home with the same comment from my teachers: “Kelly is very
quiet.” My mom would ask me if I could make a goal to speak up once a day in class and I would try but I didn’t
always succeed. Even today, there are times that I am not outgoing. It is hard for me to be outgoing for many
reasons. It can be hard for me to be outgoing because observing helps me to feel more comfortable, I need time to
organize my ideas before speaking up or acting, and I don’t want to look foolish.
The first reason why it can be hard for me to be outgoing is because observing helps me to feel more
comfortable. In middle school, when I went to dances, I stood back before going out on the dance floor. Other kids
just dove right onto the middle of the floor and starting moving to the music but I couldn’t do that. Even if I am on
vacation, I like to take some time to watch before I jump in and start doing things. Like the time I went on a cruise.
The minute I got onboard, I was surrounded by people. There were people asking questions and carrying suitcases
and blocking hallways and crowding into the elevators. I stood back and found a seat by a window and gave myself
time to watch. It was hard for me to be outgoing and just jump into the middle of the action. Observing makes me feel
more comfortable.
Another reason why it can be hard for me to be outgoing is because I like to have time to organize my ideas
before speaking up or acting. When someone asks me, “What do you think?” it can be hard for me to answer right
away. How should I start? What should I say first? Sometimes there are so many ideas buzzing in my head that I am
not sure which one to follow. Like the time I was in fifth grade and my class went on a trip to Washington D.C. My
friends were arguing about what to do first. “We have to go to the Smithsonian!” my friend Jenny said.
“No, I want to see the White House,” Kim insisted.
“Or we could go to the Lincoln Memorial, that would be cool,” Amy said.
“The White House first!” Kim put her hands on her hips.
They turned to me. What to do? We were only there for one day. We wouldn’t be able to do everything.
What was best to do first? “Whatever you guys think,” I said. I couldn’t give my own opinion because I needed time to
think and figure it out. I need to organize what I’m going to say. I realize now that when I didn’t say my own opinion
or speak up, that meant I had to follow what Jenny and Kim and Amy wanted to do. If I don’t speak up, I’ll have to
follow what others say. But speaking up is not always easy.
Another reason it can be hard to be outgoing is because I don’t want to do or say the wrong thing and look
silly in front of others. I hate to make mistakes in front of people. Like, the time I was in class and our teacher asked,
“So what did everyone think of the book you read?” Even though I had read the book and taken lots of notes, I never
raised my hand. What if I said an answer that everyone thought was silly? I kept my hand down. My worst nightmare
is having no choice but to risk making mistakes in front of others. I remember being in fifth grade and having to do
“math races.” My teacher, Mr. Birch, would call out a problem and one kid from each team would race to the board.
Whoever solved the problem correctly first would win a point for his/her team. I remember watching some kids run to
the board grinning. How do they do that, I wondered. How do they not care that everyone might see them make a
mistake? I would sit doing all the problems at my seat, trying to convince myself that I could get the answer right
when it was my turn. Each time I ran to the board, I felt tears at the back of my eyes and all I could think in my head
was: “Please don’t let me be wrong.” Sometimes I took too long to solve the problem on purpose so the other kid
would shout the answer out first and I wouldn’t have to be wrong. Being forced to put myself out in the world made
me so nervous because I was constantly worried about what others would think.
When I think about being shy, I am reminded of Naomi from Becoming Naomi León by Pam Muñoz Ryan.
She didn’t have an easy time of speaking up either. When boys at school make fun of her brother, she can’t speak up
to them. “Why couldn’t I speak up and defend Owen or myself?” she wonders (p. 68). Yet, as the story goes on she
starts to develop more confidence in herself. At the end of the story, she is able to speak up and take control of her
own life. We know she has changed because her teacher, Mr. Marble tells her, “Before you were a mouse, but now
you have the countenance of a lioness” (p. 243). In fact, the author uses Naomi’s name “León” which means “Lion” as
a symbol for how strong Naomi becomes. When I think about Naomi’s story and how developing greater confidence
in herself allowed her to speak up, I see that what matters most is having inner strength that is lion-strong. Having
strong inner strength can help you to push away what other people say. This is easier said than done, but I’m starting
to see that being quiet is a choice. I can decide when I want to be quiet and when I need to speak up, just like Naomi
did. I don’t think I’ll ever be a loud voice in the world, but maybe that’s okay. The world has a lot of voices that are
loud and don’t say much. I think what matters most is that I am proud of what I say and do. I have to be okay with my
choice of when to be quiet and when to speak. I have to put myself out in the world when it matters. My mom used to
ask me to make a goal of speaking up at least once. I think my new goal will be to not worry about how many times I
speak up but to know when doing so matters most and to be proud of what I say once I speak.
Memoir Mentor 2
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 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 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.

Memoir Mentor 3
A Very Short Date
Simon Rich

Brad Pearl and I had very little in common. He was the most popular boy in our seventh-grade class, a five-
foot-nine-inch giant, who could play "Wonderwall" on guitar and was rumoured to have kissed seven girls.
I was the shortest kid in the middle school, including all the sixth graders and a boy named Arlo
who'd been born missing part of his spine. Brad and I weren't friends; in fact we'd never spoken. So I was
pretty surprised when he walked up to my locker after school and invited me to go with him on a double date.
"There's this girl from Sacred Heart," he told me. "And Courtney thinks you'd be perfect for her."
I shook my head in disbelief. Courtney was Brad's latest conquest, a shockingly-developed
eighth grader from a nearby all-girls school. It was incredible she knew my name, and downright
unbelievable she thought I would be "perfect" for someone.
"This date sounds very dope," I told him, using a slang word I'd learnt recently from MTV.
"Great," he said. "Let's go."
I followed Brad to Courtney's house, moving quickly to keep up with his gargantuan strides. Courtney
answered the door in a tank top that was so low-cut it caused me to audibly gasp. She French-kissed Brad for
several minutes. Then she looked down at me and smiled.
"I'm so glad you came!" she said. "Come on in – Gretchen's waiting."
I smoothed back my hair, stepped inside and looked around for my date. She was hiding behind a
sofa, a stooped, pale girl, with wild, fearful eyes.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," I said.
I stared at her for some time, trying to discern why Courtney thought I'd be "perfect" for her.
Eventually, it dawned on me: we were exactly at eye level.
"You guys look so cute together!" Courtney squealed, taking out a camera. "Stand back to back."
"I don't want to," I mumbled, my face flushing.
"Do it," she commanded.
I looked at Gretchen. She had already turned her back to me, her knobby shoulders slumped in
resignation. Her pose looked practiced. I wondered how many of these 'dates' Courtney had subjected her to.
"Gretchen's four-eight," Courtney told me between snaps. "How tall are you?"
"Four-nine," I muttered.
"Are you going to get the shots?" Gretchen asked me.
"What shots?"
Gretchen swivelled around and stared at me.
"Hormone shots," she whispered. "My parents want me to get them. But they give you weird hair. On
your back and legs and all over your butt."
"Oh my God," I said.
"Want snacks?" she chirped.
Brad gave me a thumbs-up and I reluctantly followed Gretchen into the kitchen. There were some
granola bars on top of the fridge. I watched as she stood on her toes, struggling to reach them.
"Here," I said, grabbing the box for her.
She smiled at me brightly, batting her tiny eyelashes.
"You know what?" she said. "I don't think you need the shots. I think you're tall enough the way you
are." She peered up at me nervously. "Do you think I should get the shots?"
I was thinking about how best to respond when I heard Brad laughing in the next room. I wondered how long it
would be until he brought Courtney's mortifying snapshots into school.
"I need to go," I blurted.
"What?" Gretchen said, her mousy face crinkling with disappointment. "Already?"
I ran out of the house, leaving her standing there, a pair of granola bars in her tiny hands.
 I didn't go on any more dates in seventh grade, but I spotted Gretchen that spring at an inter-school
dance. I could tell she'd passed on those hormone shots. She hadn't grown an inch. Still, it took me a moment
to recognise her. Her posture had become less stooped. She looked calm, composed – even a little bit
confident. When the DJ played a slow-song, I figured out why. She'd found a boyfriend.
I watched with amazement as her date wrapped his arms around her waist. He was very short, but wasn't
embarrassed by it. It was like no one had told him. She rested her head on his chest and ran both hands
through his hair. At the end of the song, he whispered in her ear. Her cheeks crimsoned alluringly and I
realised, with shock, that she looked beautiful.
I thought about saying hello to her. But I knew that it was useless. I'd set my bar too high – and now
it was too late.