Evaluate narratives

based on how the

author developed
the elements,
setting,: characters
 Personification
Hyperbole
Simile
Metaphor
Irony
Identify the figure of speech used in the following
sentences.
1. His intelligence is as sharp as the knife.
2. Filipino soldiers are lions in the battlefield.
3. The howling of the wind is heard in the silence of
the night.
4. The visitors ate a mountain of food during
lunchtime.
5. Your thoughtfulness for not remembering my
birthday is very much appreciated.
 exce Which word best complete each sentence?
1. With a ________ movement, Rachel pushed the
pt sweater to the floor.
invisi 2. She could not read the letter because it was
written with ______ ink.
ble 3. No one _______ me knew that it was my
rememb birthday.
4. We _______ to have some chocolate cake at the
er
sudde party.
n
expect
 “ 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 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 school yard fence, or even 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 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 even 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’s 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.
Answer the following questions about the
story.
1. Who are the characters in the story?
2. Who is the main character?
3. Who is the naughty kid from the story?
4. What did they do to Rachel?
5. When and where did the story happen?
6. Did you sympathize with Rachel’s
feelings? Why or why not?
7. What did Rachel think about the sweater?
8. What did Rachel do after she puts on the
sweater?
9. Did Mrs. Price treat Rachel unfairly, or did
she just make an honest mistake? Explain.
10. When Rachel cries, it seems that her 11th
birthday is ruined. If you were a friend of
Rachel’s, what would you say or do to help
her feel better.
11. Did Rachel show politeness to her
teacher? In what way?
12. How did Rachel accept the criticism
from her classmates? Did Rachel argue
with her classmates?
A good story is a work of art. Like a
beautiful painting, it springs from an
imagination. It can be sparked by a
memory, an experience, or even a dream.
Wherever people have lived there is a
story to be told.
-Henry David Thoreau, writer-
Stories are account of imaginary or real
people and events told for entertainment.
Elements of the story includes:
1. Character - each person, animal, or
imaginary creature that appears in a story.
Another character from the story is the Hero,
it is the chief male or female character in a
book, play, or movie, who is typically
identified with good qualities, and with
whom the reader is expected to symphatize.
Villain on the other hand, is also another
character from the story.
This often refer to as the evil from the story
2. Setting – is the time and place in which the
story unfolds. The time could be in the past,
the present, or the future; during the day or
the night; in any season. The place, or scene
may be imaginary or real.
 Mr. Diaz bought a new car. It cost him
much money. On his way to work, something
happened the first time day he drove his car. It
would not start. Mr. Diaz was already late for his
meeting. He called a mechanic to check his car.
The mechanic worked fast. He found some loose
wires in the car which he connected properly.
Mr. Diaz happily drove his car to the office.
1. Who are the character in the story?
2. Where is the setting of the story?
 Jeffrey is in trouble again. His teacher
sent a letter to his parents telling them that
he is very talkative in class. Jeffrey’s parents
gave him another chance to prove his
conduct. Jeffrey promised to talk only when
necessary.
1. Who are the characters?
2. Where is the setting of the story?
 One day, Liza was drawing a picture of
her mother. The picture had plants flowers
and a beautiful house. She made a picture out
of small feathers. Liza’s brother came to see
the picture. Suddenly, he started sneezing.
The feathers started to fly then all of a
sudden, the picture was gone.
1. Who are the characters?
2. Where is the setting of the story?