Revealing Her True Self
Young writer sees the woman she will become.
wHEN I TURNED 11 IN 1982, I received a truly memorable gift—my first real diary, with a lock and key, “Diary” emblazoned in huge letters, and decorated with a Snoopy. It was a gift from my classmate Dan and his older sister Denise, who both loved the Peanuts gang. It was the kind of gift my parents would not buy for me. As the only child of frugal, first-generation immigrants, I was overprotected, but because this book came from friends, it was allowed.
In fifth grade creative writing at
Villa Victoria Academy, I often got so absorbed in my writing that I wouldn’t hear the bell. Yet as the proud owner of a real diary, I was so excited that I didn’t know what to write—my first bout of writer’s block. The book stayed beneath my bed for months. It was only when I got chickenpox and was home from school for three weeks that I wrote my first entry.
Oct. 11, 1982: “I am home, I cannot go to school because I am sick. I miss my friends and creative writing. Oh, no!”
In 1984, I turned 13 and I felt things changing. Out came the diary and soon I was writing in it daily.
Dec. 6, 1984: “What can I do? I’m upset that my best friends don’t get along with each other and don’t want to sit at the same lunch table! I can’t split myself in half.”
Feb. 3, 1985: “Very rarely do I get into trouble, but I almost did today. I was late for religion class and tried my best to sneak into my seat before she could see me, but it seems that Sister Catherine has eyes at the back of her veil!”
Looking back, I chuckle at my music, TV and sartorial choices: Menudo,
Duran Duran, The Brady Bunch, ScoobyDoo, Gitano and Sergio Valente jeans, Benetton sweaters.
But I’m amazed by my adolescent understanding of who I was inside, which for the most part remains unchanged.
April 27, 1985: “I’m good at writing, piano, reading aloud (which used to come easily for me, but now I stutter more than before), Spanish class. I’m not good at gym (but I do enjoy walking and dancing to my own choreography). I’m shy but I talk a lot when I’m with people who make me laugh. I like science but I’m afraid of lab work and setting things on fire. I get crushes on goodlooking boys quite easily and intensely but I’m not good at flirting because I get tongue-tied and nervous and can’t think of anything to say even though I’m a chatterbox. Why does small talk have to be about small things? I want to talk about the galaxy and constellations.”
Today, I’m in awe of my younger self— so vulnerable, aware, unselfconscious. And I see that my appreciation for fine paper started then, as did the special joy of writing in cursive.
“Why does small talk have to be about small things? I want to talk about the galaxy and constellations.”