(no subject)

In 1987, the year before I was born, Freire said, “Language gives you a glimpse of how people survive,” (p. 137). It’s a cliché, perhaps, but who writes the history books? Whose exploits are recorded, remembered? When looking into the past, who is the default and who, it seems, never lived or did anything of worth at all? If there is no record of your existence, did you? I used to write frantically, skipping words in their entirety, messy and confusing, my opinions and my beliefs, my hopes and my fears, and I imagined that someone, somehow, someday, would find it and read it and know I had existed, that frightened and angst-filled 13-year-old. I wrote and so I would be remembered. I write. I have written and I will write. I will still be writing tomorrow and next week and decades from now. I’ll look back at that diary I kept in middle-school and I’ll remember the girl I was, the girl who couldn’t begin to fathom the woman she’d grow up to be.