I remember before I came to the U.S. to join my mom and my new dad, I was already reading (Chinese) newspapers-- at least the kids' portion! I don't remember having a diary until later though, living in Portland Maine.
It was black with lime green hearts -- yup-- and of course, a little metal key. That I would hide and occasionally lose. Yup. That was little Shiuan.
Most of my daily entries were pretty innocuous.
"Today I played with Vi after school."
"Today mom cooked chicken drumsticks --- sooo good!" (Vegan self now cringing.)
It was black with lime green hearts -- yup-- and of course, a little metal key. That I would hide and occasionally lose. Yup. That was little Shiuan.
Most of my daily entries were pretty innocuous.
"Today I played with Vi after school."
"Today mom cooked chicken drumsticks --- sooo good!" (Vegan self now cringing.)
I love Santa Monica!
But there's one I will always remember. I was 8. We had rented our basement bedroom to a Chinese middle-aged man. One day I was down there playing and mom was there too. Then she left the room. And it was just me and our 'tenant.'
Suddenly he started laughing and mocking me, trying to stomp on my feet. I was naturally shocked and confused and terrified. I started crying and he kept mocking me more.
Nothing else came of it, but that was enough for a little girl.
I ended up never telling my parents. I don't know why. But I did journal about it -- or rather 'diary'd.' I wrote that I "hated hated hated hated....." him!!! It was so good that I could find my voice there, where I couldn't with a stranger or even my parents.
Many of us find our voices in the quiet space of pen and paper. I urge you to give it a try.
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