Of Diaries and Blogs
I began writing my memoir when I was 8 years old. Of course I didn’t realize it then. My grandmother had given me a diary for my birthday. It was a navy-blue leather bound book that closed with a wrap-around clasp and could be locked with a key. It had gold lettering on the front that said A Line A Day and each page was edged in gold that felt soft and smooth when I rubbed the closed pages with my thumb. A little satin ribbon would mark my last entry. I asked my grandmother what to write in it and she told me to put down anything that happened to me each day.
My first entry:
July 1, 1964 — Friday
When I went to the World’s Fair I saw a boat ride and inside, toyland was there. I saw duch girls and there were more dolls from different countries and every doll sang the same song. The name of the song was It’s a Small World.
The New York World’s Fair, the start of recording my life’s experiences. I remember that ride so well. Every doll was dressed in the costume of their native land and they sang the song in the native language. I remember writing to Mr. Walt Disney, hoping for the transliteration (phonetic lettering) of the song so that I could sing it in Hebrew. I think I got a letter back too.
In the early years, my entries were few and far between.
May 20, 1966
Miss Massachusetts drank from my cup at the Caldor store in Framingham. She had long blonde hair and blue eyes. Nice figure. I also got an autograph of her hand writing. It said “To Andrea, A lovely little girl. Fondly, Carol Ann Kennedy, Miss Massachusetts. I love her.
By 1968, about 12 years old, my writing had a bit more structure and length. I added the day of the week and year to the date already printed at the top of each page. I wrote about my day at school, boys I liked, things I got in trouble for, scholastic achievements, sleepovers with girlfriends and what we ate for dessert. I tried to capture everything that happened in a single day on a single 4 x 5 ½ inch page. I would often rate the day as “the best in my life” or “boring”. I was starting to share how I felt as much as what was happening.
Monday, February 26, 1968
Today we had square dancing in gym. The nerve of all those mean cruel boys. Only one stood next to me and even he became partners with Cindy. So unfortunately I was a partner with Margaret. Cheryl had our gym teacher, Mr. Hall. He’s a doll. Well today we got report cards in Hebrew School. I made it on the Rabbi’s list for the second time. Also tonight I watched Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In with Connie Stevens and Larry Storch. It seemed long but funny.
There were pages reserved at the end of the month called Memoranda. I had no idea what they were for. So I used them to summarize the entire month.
By my senior year in high school, my diary had become my closest friend. In one entry I shared the relief I felt after talking with my dad about an argument we’d had. I don’t remember what it was about, but likely it was part of my adjustment to becoming a stepdaughter after he remarried.
November 25, 1973
What another gloomy day. Diary, sometimes you’re the only friend I have and yet I neglect you so often. What kind of a friend is that? You’re the kind of friend I need. Someone who agrees with everything I say and who’ll stand behind me no matter what.
I finally got everything off my mind and told it all to Dad. I never realized how loving and caring he can be. He reassured me that all would be well as long as I did my part. Sounds fair. Now if it’ll work! Love, Andi
Looking back, I can see the beginnings of a compendium of written thoughts and feelings, escapades and traumas. The daily life of a little girl, adolescent and young woman. Like a medical record capturing every “first”, every illness, vaccination, growth spurt and interruption, my diary provides an extraordinary window into the person I was and woman I am. Formative moments captured on the exact date.
February 4, 1974
I can’t believe it. The most important day of my life. On this day I lost my virginity. Of course I was scared. But John and I have been going out for almost two months, and I love him. It wasn’t dirty or gross. He cared about me the whole time!
Knowing now how complex and often disappointing sexual experiences can be, I’m grateful for this gentle, first encounter.
The entries continued in other books, on and off again, for years. I filled the pages with more and more feelings, opinions, and longing.
I wrote for myself, to travel to places I could not reach any other way. Diaries gave way to journals. Journals to blogs. There are hundreds of typed pages saved on hard drives and clouds. But reading my inked entries in hardcover books, entries that couldn’t be erased, is like performing an autopsy that tries to discover what happened and how I came to be the woman that I am.
For years, on Yom Kippur, I would drive to the top of a local mountain with my journal and pen in hand to sit and remember my mother who died in 1970.
October 1, 1979 — Yom Kippur
It feels good to hunger for writing as I hunger for food. I will feed myself with this pen — nurture these pages with my words — tend to my needs with these thoughts. Again, time has passed between writing.
It’s grey today. Mist on the mountaintop reminds me of nature’s power. She rests for no one, she has her own purpose, her own meaning. I have only questions.
What is my search? For my mother, the mother in me, in others? Eternal. This search feels eternal.
This is our day to be together. Yes, I’m with others. But they are appendages, not the whole. It’s only you and me, up here, overlooking my house miles away. Tell me, what have you learned from your death? I struggle to remember. I imagine your beauty. No grey hair or wrinkles. Still tall in my imagination though were you still alive, I’d probably be your height. Remind me. Remind me. I will always love you.
