桑德拉·希斯內(nèi)羅斯（ Sandra Cisneros），1954年生，當(dāng)代美國墨西哥裔著名女作家、詩人，30歲時憑借《芒果街上的小屋》（The House on Mango Street）一書成名。另著有短篇故事集《喊女溪及其他》（Women Ho//ering Creek and Other Stories）和詩集若干。

希斯內(nèi)羅斯的早年生活對她后來的寫作有很大影響：作為家中唯一的女兒她有著強烈的孤獨感，而作為墨西哥裔的她徘徊于墨西哥和美國文化之間，卻又感覺不屬于任何一種文化。這種孤獨感和文化游離感在她的作品中都有所體現(xiàn)。

下面這個短篇《十一歲》選自桑德拉的短篇故事集《喊女溪及其他》，作品延續(xù)了《芒果街上的小屋》風(fēng)格，以女性作家特有的敏感筆觸，述說了小女孩成長過程中淡淡的憂傷。作品風(fēng)格清新，親切易懂，極具感染力，讓讀者有一種“言已盡而意無窮”之感。

What they dont understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when youre eleven， youre 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 dont. You open your eyes and everythings just like yesterday， only its today， And you dont feel eleven a tall. You feel like youre still ten. And you are-under neath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid， and thats the part of you thats still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mamas lap because youre scared， and thats the part of you thats five. And maybe one day when youre all grown up maybe you will need to cry like youre three， and thats okay. Thats what I tell Mama when shes sad and needs to cry. Maybe shes feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunkor like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other， each year inside the next one. Thats how being eleven years old is.

You dont feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days， weeks even， sometimeseven months before you say “Eleven” when they ask you. And you dont feel smart eleven， not until youre almost twelve. Thats the way it is.

Only today I wish I didnt have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tinBand-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two Id have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would have known how to tell her it wasnt 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？ Its 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. Its an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. Its maybe athousand years old and even if it belonged tome I wouldnt say so.

Maybe because Im skinny， maybe because she doesnt like me， that stupid SylviaSaldivar says， “I think it belongs to Rachel.” Anugly 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.

“Thats not， I dont， youre not… Not mine，”I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.

“Of course its yours，” Mrs. Price says. “I remember you wearing it once.” Because shes older and the teacher， shes right and Im not.

Not mine， not mine， not mine， but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two， and math problem Number four. I dont know why but all of a sudden Im feeling sick inside， like the part of me thats 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 that today I am eleven， eleven. Mama is making a cake for me tonight， and when Papa comes home every body will sing happy birthday， happy birthday to you.

But when the sick feeling goes away and open my eyes， the red sweaters 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 Im thinking how long till lunchtime， how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyardfence， or leave it hanging on a parking meter， or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it across the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody， “Now， Rachel， thats enough，” because she sees that Ive shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tipcorner of my desk and its hanging all over theedge like a waterfall， but I dont care.

“Rachel，” Mrs. Price says. She says it like shes getting mad. “You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense.”

“But its not-”

“Now！” Mrs. Price says.

This is when I wish I wasnt eleven， because all the years inside of me-ten， nine， eight， seven， six， five， four， three， two， andone-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 arent even mine.

Thats when everything Ive been holding in since this morning， since when Mrs. Priceput the sweater on my desk， finally lets go， and all of a sudden Im crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but Im not. Im elevenand its my birthday today and Im crying like Im three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in mystupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I cant stop the little animal noises from coming out of me， until there arent any more tears left in my eyes， and its 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 bellrings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez， whois even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar， says she remembers the red sweater is hers！ I take it off right away and give to her， only Mrs. Price pretends like everythings okay.

Today Im eleven. Theres a cake Mamas making for tonight， and when Papa comes home from work well eat it. Therell be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday， happy birthday to you， Rachel， only its too late.

Im eleven today. Im eleven， ten， nine， eight， seven， six， five， four， three， two， and one， but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish 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.

關(guān)于生日，他們不明白也永遠(yuǎn)不會告訴你的是，當(dāng)你十一歲時，你也是十歲、九歲、八歲、七歲、六歲、五歲、四歲、三歲、兩歲和一歲。十一歲生日那天，你醒來，盼望有十一歲的感覺，但是沒有。你睜開眼睛，一切恰如昨天，只是它確是今天。你完全感覺不到自己十一歲了。你覺得自己還是十歲。而你——形式上處在讓你十一歲的那一年。

譬如，某天你可能說一些蠢話，那是只有十歲的你。又或者某天你覺得害怕， 想要坐在媽媽的膝頭，那是五歲的你。又或者在你完全長大后的某一天，也許你會哭得像三歲時那樣，那也沒關(guān)系。媽媽難過得想哭的時候我就是這么和她說的。也許她那時覺得只有三歲。

因為我們長大的方式就像洋蔥，像樹干里面的年輪，像我那些一個套一個的木娃娃，一年包裹著一年。十一歲也是一祥。

你不覺得自己十一歲了。不會立刻覺察。那需要時日，或許幾天，或許幾個星期，又或許得好幾個月，然后在人們問你的時候你才會回答自己十一歲了。而甚至那時，你還是不覺得自己有十一歲的智慧，直到你快十二歲。事情就是這樣。

但是今天，我希望我的身體里不止區(qū)區(qū)十一年在那里叮當(dāng)響，像錫儲錢罐里的便士。今天我希望我不是十一歲，而是一百零二歲，因為如果我有一百零二歲的話，我就會知道當(dāng)普萊斯夫人將那件紅色毛線衣放到我課桌上時該說些什么。我就會知道該怎么告訴她它不是我的，而不是僅僅坐在那里，臉上露出那樣的表情，嘴里卻什么也說不出來。

“這是誰的？”普萊斯夫人問，將那件紅色毛線衣舉得高高讓全班人都看得到，“誰的？都在更衣室里放了一個月了?！?/p>

“不是我的?！泵總€人都在說“不是我的”。

“它肯定是你們當(dāng)中誰的?！逼杖R斯夫人不停地強調(diào)，但沒有人記得。那是一件難看的毛線衣，紅色的塑料紐扣，領(lǐng)子和袖子長得都可以用來做跳繩。1日的就像是幾百年前的了，就算它是我的，我也不會說出來的。

或許是因為我瘦，又或許是因為她不喜歡我，那個愚蠢的西爾維婭·薩爾迪瓦爾說道：“我想那是瑞切爾的?！蹦敲措y看的毛線衣，又破又舊，但是普萊斯夫人信了她。普萊斯夫人把毛線衣拿過來，放在我的課桌上，我張開了嘴，卻說不出什么話來。

“那不是，我不，你不……不是我的?！蔽医K于說了出來，聲音小得像我四歲的時候。

“當(dāng)然是你的。”普菜斯夫人說，“我記得你還穿過一次呢?！币驗樗挲g大，又是老師，所以她是對的，而我錯了。

不是我的，不是我的，不是我的，但是普萊斯夫人已經(jīng)在翻到第三十二頁第四道數(shù)學(xué)題了。我不知道為什么，只是突然覺得心里很難過，感覺三歲的那部分我想從眼睛里跑出來，但我使勁地閉上眼睛，用力地咬緊牙齒，想著今天我十一歲了，十一歲了。媽媽在為我做晚上的蛋糕，等爸爸回來了，大家就會一起唱生日快樂，祝你生日快樂。

當(dāng)那股難過勁過去了，我睜開眼睛時，那件紅色毛線衣還在那兒，像一座紅色的大山。我用尺子將它推向課桌的一角，將我的鉛筆、課本、橡皮擦移到離它盡可能遠(yuǎn)的地方。我甚至將我的椅子向右移了一點。不是我的，不是我的，不是我的。

我在心里默默地計算著還有多久到午餐時間，到那時我就可以將那件紅毛線衣扔到學(xué)校操場的柵欄外去，或者把它搭到停車場的計時牌上，或者把它卷成一小團，丟進哪個小巷里。但是，數(shù)學(xué)課一結(jié)束，普萊斯夫人——當(dāng)著所有人的面——大聲說道：“夠了，瑞切爾?！彼匆娢乙呀?jīng)把那件紅毛線衣擠兌到課桌的邊緣了，它像瀑布一樣掛在邊上，但我不在乎。

“瑞切爾，”普萊斯夫人喊道，看樣子已經(jīng)生氣了。 “你立刻把那件毛線衣穿上，別再做那沒用的事了。”

“但那不是——”

“穿上！”普萊斯夫人說道。

我希望我不是十一歲，因為我身體里的所有年齡——十歲、九歲、八歲、七歲、六歲、五歲、四歲、三歲、兩歲和一歲——都擠到了我的眼皮后面，我將一只胳膊伸進了毛線衣的一只袖子，那聞起來像農(nóng)家鮮干酪，又將另一只胳膊伸進了另一只袖子，然后站在那兒，兩只胳膊撐開著，就像那件毛線衣會傷著我似的，它的確會，它讓我渾身都癢，凈是不屬于我的細(xì)菌。

這時，我整個早上，從普萊斯夫人把那件紅毛線衣放到我課桌上開始就憋著的委屈全都釋放了出來，我突然哭了起來，當(dāng)著所有人的面。我希望別人看不見我，但不可能。我十一歲了，而且今天是我的生日，但我在所有人面前哭得像三歲時似的。我趴在課桌上，臉埋在套著那愚蠢的、小丑般的毛線衣的臂彎里。我的臉憋得通紅，唾液從嘴里流出來，不停地發(fā)出像小動物一樣的嗚嗚聲，直到眼睛里再也沒有了眼淚，只剩下身體在那里像打嗝似地抽噎，整個頭疼得像喝牛奶喝得太快了一樣。

但是最糟糕的是，就在午餐鈴快要響的時候，那個愚蠢的菲利斯·洛佩茲，比西爾維婭·薩爾迪瓦爾還蠢的菲利斯·洛佩茲，說她記起來那件紅毛線衣是她的！我立刻把它脫下來給了她，只是普萊斯夫人卻裝作沒事人似的。

今天我十一歲。媽媽在給我做晚上的蛋糕，等爸爸下班回家我們就會吃它。還會點蠟燭，會有禮物，大家會唱生日快樂，祝你生日快樂，瑞切爾，只是一切都晚了。

今天我十一歲。我十一歲、十歲、九歲、八歲、七歲、六歲、五歲、四歲、三歲、兩歲、一歲，但我希望我有一百零二歲。我希望我自己是任何年齡，就是不要是十一歲，因為我希望今天已經(jīng)遠(yuǎn)去，遠(yuǎn)得像只飛掉的氣球，像天空中的一個小圓點，小得你必須閉上眼睛才能看得見。

文章賞讀

從芒果街走出來的希斯內(nèi)羅絲用第一人稱將我們帶到了墨西哥某個小學(xué)的教室里，在那里，一個即將邁入十一歲的小女孩在生日當(dāng)天蒙受冤屈。在成人看來，或許只是一件小事，但是作者對小女孩的心理活動的細(xì)致刻畫將矛盾沖突一步步推向高潮，讓讀者產(chǎn)生共鳴，對小女孩心中的委屈感同身受。

小說還道出了一個我們或許都沒意識到的道理：“我們長大的方式就像洋蔥，像樹干里面的年輪，像我那些一個套一個的木娃娃，一年包裹著一年?！薄爱?dāng)你十一歲時，你也是十歲、九歲、八歲、七歲、六歲、五歲、四歲、三歲、兩歲和一歲?！?/p>

是的，或許我們成長的方式不是從一個年齡段邁向另一個年齡段，不是將原來的那個年齡段拋在身后，而是在原來的基礎(chǔ)上，再增加一個年齡，所有的年齡都還在我們的身體里，所以當(dāng)我們堅強的時候，我們就是那個較為成熟的年齡，當(dāng)我們脆弱的時候，我們只是回到了年幼的時候。那么，作為讀者的你，現(xiàn)在幾歲呢？