Writing, something we all do, one way or another. It may be as simple as a shopping or to do list, or a text to a friend, it may be a journal to share or a diary of private thoughts to keep to ourselves, an academic paper, research, book report and the list goes on. We may write for ourselves, to help us understand what is in our minds, or maybe to remember what happened- our side of the story. We may write for others, an article to educate, a letter to inform or to connect. Whatever we write, no matter how simple or how complex; writing something down has consequences. For women who are abused or closely monitored the consequences can be hard to understand. Even for those who are not in this situation, the basic oppression of women within a field of study or in an organization can make writing an act of courage.

In this program at Evergreen College, In Search of Lost Time, we will be studying memories, reading Proust and other novels, and writing. This will be difficult for me, especially writing about personal memories. I do have a memory project in mind for this class, just a portion of my history, but some of the other tales are already coming to the surface. I know the assigned journal is to be a mix of academic studies and personal stories, and that some of them will be made public.

Many people keep a journal, or diary. Sometimes like this one, journals are assigned as a learning tool in the academic setting. They can be a place to try on ideas, to dream about the future, to acknowledge our thoughts about assigned or even unassigned readings. They can also be dangerous. Even if we never intend to let another person read our thoughts, there is no absolute guarantee of privacy, once they are written down.

I kept a diary throughout my teen years and into early adulthood. I wrote in in whenever life threatened to overwhelm me, a problem even as a young girl. It contained dreams of college, of independence, of an Olympic medal. It also contained my reactions to being punished for my behavior and my refusal to do some of the things expected of me as a female in my family, my rebellion. For years, no one even knew I wrote things down. Then one day they found out- It became the family’s dinnertime reading story. They laughed at the dreams I had of a future, made fun of the possibility of college and planned for my punishment for thinking I might have different plans then they did.

Surprisingly, my compulsion to write was not squashed, but I did learn to never, never let anyone see what I really wrote, or thought. I’ve done academic writing of one sort or another throughout my schooling, writing without giving too much of myself away. Now, I am at a point in my life that I am compelled to tell part of my story, and let it be heard.

I’ve already been warned that if I do, if I tell anything about my family life growing up, there will be consequences.