Twenty Years of Diary: Part One

It all began in 1988. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” was on the radio, George Bush Senior was still only vice-President, and my favorite movie was “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?” I was ten.

Few people kept diaries, child or adult. It was simply a cliched and somewhat old-fashioned hobby for young girls. I’d learned to write early, and was able to carefully inscribe “cat”, “dog”, “love”, and all my cursewords on the letter-A worksheet I was given in kindergarten. I read everything, composed silly little poems, made up involved and long-running storylines for my dolls. By eight, I supposedly had the vocabulary of a college student. I read so far ahead in my reader in school, that I’d usually finish the textbook in the first weeks. And I couldn’t shut up during class. I had nowhere to put my ideas.

Nowadays, I’d be drugged.

Back then, I was just given the run of the library. In those days, diary-keeping girls usually fell into two camps: the Anastasia Krupnik girls, and the Harriet The Spy girls. Harriet was tough, but I didn’t like her because she seemed almost doltishly insensitive. I found it hard to sympathize with the outcomes of her dumb decisions. Her notebook was all about boring observations of other people, and it got her ass busted. What’s to admire?

At the library one day, I picked up a copy of Anastasia, because she had a weird name like me. In that book, Anastasia kept a notebook of lists, describing her likes and annoyances, things she wanted and things she feared. Her diary was her own portrait, not her attempt to gain power over others. I could relate to that.

And so it began. On a trip into Miami, to visit the newly-opened Bayside, I bought a notebook. My first entry was a complaint about my parents. Some things never change.