Who Am I?

Summer 2024

I cradle the sturdy little green book in my hands. On the front it says “DIARY” with a heart next to it. This diary is protected by a red heart shaped lock that has kept unwanted invaders from trespassing and reaching the defenseless interior. The lock’s red paint is chipping off on one corner—perhaps a sign that someone had taken a hammer to try to break it open. I pull on it, but it stays securely shut. The outside of the diary shows signs of wear, natural age for a nearly thirty-year-old book. The exposed pages on the sides are yellowing. Little orange dots freckle the pages, expected wear after years of being buried in the bedroom closet. My hands slightly tremble—a mixture of excitement (what did the eleven-year-old me have to say?) and nervousness (do I even have the key?). I feel gratitude to have this journal after so many years.

This tiny package holds much significance—my grandmother Mary, my dad’s mom, gave me this diary on my eleventh birthday. She was always happy to see me as I was growing up and praised my artistic talents. Grandma Mary was a classy, educated woman, who echoed the charm and grace of Elizabeth Taylor. A beloved substitute teacher for decades, she retired by the time I was born. Every year for my birthday and Christmas, she’d give me children’s books signed by the author or the illustrator, planting another seed that reading was important. She and her partner, Herb, organized annual children’s book festivals which were well attended by authors and illustrators, many of them quite famous. She had a passion for reading, and always had another book ready to be devoured.

My dad, Chris, also liked to read, and I frequently remember him reading books on the velour brown floral chair in our living room. He came from a wealthy family, and his childhood was spent attending a private Catholic school and at the local country clubs. He and his family also took domestic and international trips. I remember seeing the pictures of him as a boy, visiting San Francisco and England. His father was an architect and business owner. My dad, being the only son, had a more pampered and privileged life that his two sisters didn’t enjoy. As an adult, he didn’t project his status or what he knew to others. Some people might have judged him for his perceived lack of responsibility, but that was part of his playful, youthful energy. Once you got to know him, you could find out that he was clever and well-read: a man of a certain depth and mystery.

At six foot four, he had a gentleness that contrasted with his stature. He was a patient, quiet, and caring father; my mother was the more of the disciplinarian, but she, too had loads of patience and was a natural peacemaker. Had I been a “convenient” kid who rarely talked back or rebelled? Looking back, I did have a strong will, but was also eager to please. I wanted the approval of others. The church school that I attended encouraged respect and obedience—which contrasted with my tenacious desire to do things differently.

Somehow, my dad just “got” me. We were in sync. We shared a father-daughter chemistry that felt rare. He’d pick me up after school and we’d have countless adventures: sipping on root beer floats at Netty’s ice cream, competing against each other at Putt-Putt mini golf, feeding the ducks at the pond, and going for long walks at Wildwood metropark. I never had a shortage of the happy memories we shared. But there was something surreptitious surrounding our family that I couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Perhaps my Grandma Mary knew of the upcoming changes that would impact my life forever and that I would need an outlet that could only be found in the empty, listening, blank pages of a trusted diary. This diary started my lifelong love of writing and journaling; I wrote at least twenty-two more diaries over the next twenty years of my life. As an only child who was more extroverted, I was lonely at times. I turned to writing to be my friend— my constant companion. Over the years, it became my safe space, my place for solo journeying, depth of reflection, and the place to discover insights that would be unavailable to me otherwise. I had high hopes for this particular journal and what I might find.

The key: I need to find the key.

Think, think, think.

I scan my mind for pictures of the key, like a slideshow rotating through my mind. Where did I see it last?

Ah ha, yes. If I have the key, there’s one place it would be.

I rummage through my drawers and find the box that I see in my mind—An old box with a folk art cat design, repurposed to store my assorted mementos from childhood and my teenage years. I lift up the lid. Inside are a few outdated digital video disks from high school, colorful bracelets and rainbow rings that indicate my past rave party days, stickers and pins from Indiana University, my alma mater….and tiny keys tied up on strings. I take them out, hopeful but still doubtful.

Could I really have the key to my very first diary after almost 30 years, safely tucked away?

I try the silver key first. I slide it into the long slit of the lock. I twist it left, then right. Nothing. I take it out and try again. Nope. This key appears too skinny for this lock. I put it aside and try the gold key. Insert. Twist. I hear the slide of metal on metal. Nothing. I push harder, more demanding of the lock to work with me. Twist. Click. The silver arch opens up, and I, the rightful owner, am granted access.

I got in! Yes! After all these years.

I carefully remove the lock, place it to the side, and gently open up the forgotten, treasured pages that chronicled my past. Like reacquainting with an old familiar friend, I take time for immersed connection without distraction. I read this diary, page by page, looking for clues. Clues of who I was, clues of who I am.