Twenty-four

I just finished a very short children's story called Eleven by Sandra Cisneros (author of House on Mango Street) in which she describes a seemingly minor incident in a school day of an 11 year old girl.  On the day of her birthday, her teacher mistakenly hands her someone else's lost sweater convinced that it belongs to her.  The girl is too nervous and tongue tied to say no, so she goes along with it although everything inside her is rejecting this old, stretched out thing.  The feelings of disgust, the looming responsibility of yet another year of life, and her resentment of the teacher's reaction culminate in her bursting out into tears in front of the whole class, only to have the rightful owner sheepishly remember that it was her sweater in the first place.  The incident and the tearful outburst are instantly forgotten by everyone, but the narrator.  She does not feel 11, but instead 10, and 9, and 8, and 5, and 3... 
Perhaps 11 is a significant age for many people.  When I was 11 girls tried to get me to say that I was gay (gay = happy, and if I'm happy I must be gay, right?).  Let's not get into the ramifications of "gay" being an unpleasant word to be called.  At 11 I wasn't exactly concerned with being politically correct.  Learning english, not being suckered into making fun of myself, and fitting in were plenty for me to worry about.  So there too, I tried to be 11 and hold my own. But as I remember stepping out of that 6th grade math classroom with tears welling up in my eyes, I was not 11, I was 5.
Today I peek over this computer screen to check on my classroom (for the next 3 days), and I hope with all my heart that what they see is 24.  The moment I get flustered, I'm 18.  Lose control and raise my voice? 15.  Get tricked into turning the music on for the class? 11.  Let them get to me and start crying? About 5.  I haven't turned 5 in any of the classrooms I've been to yet.  And perhaps I have those mean 6th grade girls from math class to thank for that.