Today, I feel
four years old. I’m not a complete
crybaby like a three year old, and I’m not as smart as a five year old, nor as
independent—if you would every consider a five year old to be independent. No, today I feel exactly four years old. Every boo-boo, snarl, word, and action is
making me cry; my emotions are running ramped, and I want nothing more than to
run into my mother’s arms and have her make all the evil in the world that is
trying to kidnap and hurt me go away. I
want to throw my arms up in the air, dramatically cross them over my chest, and
throw my bum onto the ground. I want to
give up. I want to whine and scream and
cry and yell. Life is just not fair! Why me, why me, why me? Will someone please hand me a juice box, a
fruit snack, and put on a cartoon so that I can completely zone out frustration,
my adult years?
I just finished
reading and discussing Sandra Cisnero’s “Eleven” with my AP students. We read that text to better understand what
voice is and how it is established. We
concluded, as a class, that age is merely a number, and a person rarely acts or
feels their age all the time. Instead, a
person really embodies a myriad of ages, ranging from four to ten to sixteen to
twenty two to forty to sixty, because of their experiences. To act four or forty when you really aren’t
that age is completely acceptable and expected; humans are complex beings!
So, with that
said, lately, my four year old self has been making an appearance. I feel overworked and underappreciated, and,
because of that, I want to find comfort in my mother and the simply joys in
life all the while I scream, cry, and throw a huge temper tantrum. I know I can’t do that. I can’t let my four year old self burst out
of my tear ducts whenever I want it to.
No, I must wait to expose my four year old self when I am away from my
students, when I have finished grading all that needs to be graded, when I have
planned and made copies for the next work day, when I have attended all of the
many meetings before, during, or after school, when I have driven an hour home
from work, when I have cooked dinner, when I have tended to my cats, when I have
made my husband feel like he does exist.
As I reflect on
one of the ages I have been feeling lately, I can’t help but think of my
students. I’m always thinking about my
students, even when I don’t want to. I
imagine while I am feeling four, some of them feel like they are forty because
of the amount of responsibility they are forced to have at an early age, or the
hardships they are facing outside of school—maybe at home. “Eleven” is a nice reminder that no human is
perfect, and we all need to empathize with others and consider how they might
be feeling and why.