Aside from this blog I've never been very good at keeping a journal, although I've made sincere attempts at it most of my life. Since I was a little kid, I always find myself inexplicably drawn to pretty notebooks in bookstores, so I will often buy one with the best intentions of keeping a regular journal. Inevitably, I'll write in it for a few weeks and then abandon it, and this is something that I've done since I received my first diary as a 5th birthday present (Strawberry Shortcake was on the cover, and I dictated my entries - which were mostly about kindergarten and my mommy and daddy and trips to McDonalds - to my mother, and yes I still have it, and yes it is awesome).
I say all of this because for some reason I pulled one of my old journals off the shelf today while giving myself a break from grading my research papers. I started this particular journal when I was thirteen, and although it contains entries that I wrote in high school and even into college, by far most of the entries were written by my eighth grade self. The entries are unintentionally hilarious, at times a bit pathetic, thoroughly embarrassing, and there is absolutely no way that I will ever let you read it so don't even ask. Most of it was about boys, my best friend/worst enemy, and worrying about leaving Ohio and moving to Michigan, which was apparently much more traumatic than I remembered it being. But even though I'm opening myself up to ridicule, I still feel compelled to share at least part of one entry. Don't ask me why. I must find some sick pleasure in humiliation. Anyway, here is what was on my mind on January 14, 1992:
...school is really getting to me. I can't stand all the pressure of having to ace every test, being horrified of what nightmares my grade card will tell, all of it. Especially French. See, we only had one quiz and Sister Barbara didn't warn us about it before hand. I got a 45%. I think I'm going to die. I even had a dream about my French grade. It went like this...I was at school and Mrs. Larrison told us we were going to get our French mid-terms, only the grade on our mid-terms cannot be changed before report cards. When I got mine, it read F - right there in hard red pen. Not C. Not D. Not even D-. Just F. I was petrified.
The entry goes on for awhile detailing the rest of the dream, the climax of which involved a conversation that I had between myself and Mrs. Larrison about my report card. Apparently the conversation didn't end well, because I wrote that "I began crying uncontrollably and started to hit her, over and over again. And then I woke up."
So, what has this experience taught me? Apparently:
I say all of this because for some reason I pulled one of my old journals off the shelf today while giving myself a break from grading my research papers. I started this particular journal when I was thirteen, and although it contains entries that I wrote in high school and even into college, by far most of the entries were written by my eighth grade self. The entries are unintentionally hilarious, at times a bit pathetic, thoroughly embarrassing, and there is absolutely no way that I will ever let you read it so don't even ask. Most of it was about boys, my best friend/worst enemy, and worrying about leaving Ohio and moving to Michigan, which was apparently much more traumatic than I remembered it being. But even though I'm opening myself up to ridicule, I still feel compelled to share at least part of one entry. Don't ask me why. I must find some sick pleasure in humiliation. Anyway, here is what was on my mind on January 14, 1992:
...school is really getting to me. I can't stand all the pressure of having to ace every test, being horrified of what nightmares my grade card will tell, all of it. Especially French. See, we only had one quiz and Sister Barbara didn't warn us about it before hand. I got a 45%. I think I'm going to die. I even had a dream about my French grade. It went like this...I was at school and Mrs. Larrison told us we were going to get our French mid-terms, only the grade on our mid-terms cannot be changed before report cards. When I got mine, it read F - right there in hard red pen. Not C. Not D. Not even D-. Just F. I was petrified.
The entry goes on for awhile detailing the rest of the dream, the climax of which involved a conversation that I had between myself and Mrs. Larrison about my report card. Apparently the conversation didn't end well, because I wrote that "I began crying uncontrollably and started to hit her, over and over again. And then I woke up."
So, what has this experience taught me? Apparently:
- I was every bit as neurotic and anal retentive at thirteen as I am today,
- I was just as prone to exaggeration and fits of hysteria as I am today,
- although I have absolutely no other memory or record of it, it seems that I briefly studied French in the eighth grade,
- and finally, nuns are every bit as scary as I remember them being.
Labels: french class, journals, nuns
3 Comments:
Can I throw my many and very horrible one-act plays from high school, college and (gulp) grad school onto your bonfire? Please?
Dear god, I have some old journals to throw on there too. Paul seems to be the one who ends up packing them every time we move, and sits and mocks the sketches and poems in them. Horrible, horrible poetry...
My god, I was filled with some serious angst in high scool, and I can't really remember why. Because my dad wouldn't let me stay out late?
Steve, I completely forgot about the awful poetry phase I went through when I was sixteen so thanks (?) for reminding me. And yes, feel free to add fuel to the fire. Oh, and enjoy New Yawk. Oh, and feel free to buy me a pashmina. :)
Carrie - first, I can't believe that you let Paul read your journal. No one has or will EVER read any of mine. Second, I can't believe he laughs at it! Paul, I'm sure that YOU only thought and wrote about high art and critical global issues when you were in high school, but some of us were mostly worried about boys and bitchy friends and sincerely thought that the movie Heathers was written solely for us. (Or was that just me?)
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