Literacy Learning Throughout History has Always Required Permission

On a small desk wedged between my bunk bed and the door to my room, lies a little purple diary. Outside the trees brush my window and the skies are a somber gray. I sit at my desk where I face blank white walls, look back at my dresser to see a black collared shirt and plaid skirt laid out. I’ve never had the freedom to choose what I wear, I’ve never had the freedom to choose anything, really. Number #2 pencils roll off my desk as I reach for one; it’s beyond dull so I dutifully grind it through a hot pink pencil sharpener. The woody scent of pencil shavings fills the air. Flip open the stiff lined pages, I take pencil to paper and my handwriting doesn’t fit between the lines. I’m eight years old and I just want to write something meaningful. I decide to start a list, lists are easy I think. In my best attempt at decorative writing I title the page “Life Gols.” Satisfied enough with the idea of accomplishing anything, I turn the page. Hand blocking the page as I think, my sisters run in and out of the room. They’re screaming and shouting and I wish I could lock the door.

“Why so secretiiiiive?” My sister, Allison, teases me.

Defensive, I turn farther away, mumbling, “None of your business.”

“Whaaaaaaaat?” She presses on and I push her out of the door threatening to tell Mom on her if she doesn’t leave me alone. She leaves the room groaning that ‘I always do this.’

Alone at last, I rack my brain for something to hide in this little purple diary of mine. I think of my Mom, how carelessly she agreed to buy it for me when I saw it smiling at me on that high shelf. She doesn’t grasp what it means to me. She lays out my clothes in the morning and my Dad hides my v-necks in his closet. He says I shouldn’t wear blue jeans, that they don’t look any good. My classmates disagree, and they tell me so, too.

“Do you like wearing dresses?” Shelby Kassman asked me as we walked from our Homeroom to Fine Arts. Her voice was laced with mockery and I didn’t know how to answer. Behind her I heard snickers and muffled laughs. I said nothing and someone muttered, “She’s weird,” as they walked ahead of me. Maybe I was meant to hear it, maybe not. But I did.

I try to shake the thought but realize instead that I’ve filled three whole pages with the lackluster gray of my pencil, detailing my experience. It’s not something I want to remember. I reach for my heart-shaped eraser just as my mom walks into the room.

“Are you being mean to your sisters again?” She asks me, giving me her special stern eyes. I shake my head quickly, too nervous to speak.

“Be nice, or I’ll have to hold onto that precious diary of yours,” she warns. Instinctively I draw the journal closer to me and nod my head diligently. She leaves the room and I exhale a sigh of relief.

I look back down at my writing and decide to keep the embarrassing story, after all, who knows how many more I’ll get to write before I get into trouble.