At the beginning of my 70^th year, I have started going through the journal I kept as a fifteen-year-old. This last year I have dealt with some major life transitions, and then of course there’s the world that is falling apart and coming together all around us. It seems like a good time to take stock of where I’ve been and where I am going.

The summer of my 15^th year, I begged my father to pay for me to go to a summer program in Andover, Massachusetts. I knew I was asking for a lot, but I kept at it. He finally relented, and I spent one of the most magical months of my life at Phillips Academy at Andover, one I now see as pivotal in my understanding of myself and the world. My major course was an Encounter Group (this was the 70’s after all), my secondary was Journal Writing, and my electives were Photography and Madrigal Singing. At home in Tarrytown, New York I lived in an upstairs duplex with three sisters and a brilliant but troubled mother with whom I often clashed. At Andover, I somehow managed to end up with my own room with its own entrance from the backyard, a ramshackle add-on at the back of a faculty residence. I was gloriously alone and felt like I had landed in heaven. It was there that I began my first journal, something I have kept going, off and on, throughout my life. This is the year I will revisit them.

Within the year that followed, I would leave the home I shared with my mother and sisters in Tarrytown to briefly live with my father and his new family in Hollywood, Florida. There I had one of the best high school experiences of my life and made lots of new friends. In August of 1972 I left for college. The journal captures my teen-aged thoughts from that year. It is such a gift to see a glimpse of who I was at that early age. I see themes that have been carried throughout my entire life in that little wire bound composition book. I actually like this kid! My fifteen-year-old self has a few lessons for my going-on-seventy self!

Parents – I encourage you to support your kids in documenting their lives in some way, be it through the visual or the writing arts, so that they will have a treasure chest to open at some point in the future. With that said, here are a few recollections of a fifteen-year-old girl hell bent on exploring the world.

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Man blinked. “What is the purpose of all this?” he asked politely.
“Everything must have a purpose?” asked God.
“Certainly,” said man.
“Then I leave it to you to think of one for all this,” said God.
And He went away.” ― Kurt Vonnegut, Cat’s Cradle

July 6, 1971: Encounter Group

In our group today the people came together for the first time as a whole. We were trying to help one member of the group who was having problems in her relationship to the rest of us. In doing so, we came together.

Physical support is one of the most reassuring and secure kinds of support I have encountered. It feels beautiful and comforting for the one giving the support as the one receiving it. We underestimate the value of our bodies as communication mediums. It is a beautiful feeling to be surrounded by a pair of understanding arms, and it is equally satisfying and beautiful to be those arms.

I felt like crying today, because it felt so good to break through to each other.

“We’ve come up against a wall. . . and now we’re asking for some ladders.”

July 10, 1971: Some are guilty; all are responsible

“Some are guilty; all are responsible.” It is so true, this statement. If we do not try to stop something that we know is wrong from happening, then we too are responsible for its happening.

I did not cause the Vietnam War. Certain politicians and citizens of the United States are directly the cause, if the cause were to be traced. Yet if I do nothing about it, in terms of working to end it, then I too am responsible for the continuation of the war.

July 18, 1971: The Janitor

Last week I was in my room playing my guitar when a knock sounded at the door, and I heard an old, Italian voice say, “This is the janitor. May I come in?”

I opened the door, and he walked across to the guitar, picked it up, and scrutinized it. “Eh, fair,” he said. “Fair. May I play?”

“My guitar is at your disposal,” said I.

He sat down on the only chair in the room and began some very stiff playing. He obviously knew many chords but was unable to execute them because of the stiffness of his hands, caused by many years of hard work.

As he played my guitar, I gradually learned quite about this old man’s life. He had been a shoemaker in his youth, whence came the state of his hands. He also worked in a music store and sang for several years. His voice was stiff with age and cracked often. There were only a few tattered remnants of what might have once been a voice like a rich brocade.

He was a connoisseur of fine music, and apparently had a rather large collection of records. He especially enjoyed classical guitar and Tchaikovsky.

I learned many things from the old man that day, among them how to smuggle a fine guitar out of Mexico, Spain, France, and various other countries. He also showed me how to determine a fine guitar from a poor one. He sang arias from several operas, and finally after nearly an hour of continuous talking (with much enjoyment on my part), handed me a roll of toilet paper and bid me “Adieu.”

July 8, 1971: Growing Younger

This summer has really helped me to grow in understanding of myself and others. I feel so much younger, so much more aware than I did when I first got here. I feel myself to be becoming more like a child every day, more open, more questioning, more delighted with my people and my earth. I realize the very grave faults our civilization has, and sometimes it really depresses me. But there is so much happening and so much to hope for, that I cannot be pessimistic for very long.

This experience has helped me to become more aware of my own existence, of myself as a person, a member of many groups, and as a woman. Not totally secure or comfortable yet, but at least aware that I must search, always finding better ways of living. We would have to go very far to reach that point where no improvement is needed. I must continue to seek until I find the means and ideals that are the more natural and productive for me and my people. My people? I mean the world. My human counterparts.

July 30, 1971: On Childhood

I can’t say that I have been dissatisfied with my childhood, because if it had been any different, I would not be what I am today. Of course, mine was not the most typical or consistently happy childhood around, but it served me well.

I think that because my parents fought so loudly and often, and never got anywhere by doing it, I have come to view that method of resolving one’s problems as useless. That is one thing to be thankful for. Also, since both parents worked, I learned how to be dependable and responsible, which has been extremely useful to me. I have become very independent and can very easily take care of my own, and also other’s needs.

Although my childhood was not a typical one, and although I have had many more hurts and upsets than a lot of children, I also think I have had more diversity and more incidents of happiness. Sort of like concentrated doses of joy. Living in Sumatra for a year and being able to run around without many rules and supervision added, I think, to my self-sufficiency. Somewhere along the line I learned how to really enjoy myself – although this achievement may only have been attained in the past two years.

The sum total of my experiences has made me a person whom I basically like, although she has quite a few faults – the most major one right now being too critical of herself, and even more so of others. Therefore I have no regrets about what my childhood was like, and cannot see any changes I would make.

August 3, 1971: Walden Pond

We packed off today in a great blue rally wagon to see Walden Pond and the area from which Thoreau, Emerson, Alcott, and so many others got their inspiration. At first look, Walden Pond was anything but an inspiration, unless to bemoan the commercialization of nature that has taken place there. We wandered around the place disgusted and sad that something as beautiful as Walden could be turned into a money-making device.

Then, tiring of our disgust, we decided to wet ourselves with the same water that once blessed Thoreau’s body.

We carefully made our way over to the other side of the pond, away from all the screaming tourists, all by ourselves. The guys shucked their shirts, and as we were not so isolated from the hordes of people that we could enjoy the pond as undoubtedly Thoreau once did, we kept the rest of our clothes on.

I ran and jumped into the water after Mark, who had already swum a little ways out. Despite all the people who must have polluted it, the water was still delicious and fresh. It got very deep very quickly. The water was a beautiful dark green, but clear, like no water I have ever had the pleasure to jump into before. Ducking my head under, I could see my friends around me through a cooling green-blue haze, with sunlight dancing on their bodies. I tried swimming, but because of the weight of my clothes, I got tired quickly and had to be content with jumping up and down and floating. I laughed like I have never laughed before. A completefully (sic) beautiful feeling of freedom.

By that time, Mrs. R, our teacher and co-conspirator, had also jumped in – fully clothed. After we had been playing and laughing for about 20 minutes, a mean old nasty miser came up yelling “What the hell do you think you’re doing!! Get the hell out of there! You’re not supposed to be here!”

As he said this, I was thinking that I certainly had every right to be there. This lake was my lake. My water. My joy. But as the old bastard (he wasn’t an old bastard really: I feel sorry for him) could have had us arrested and lots of other mean and nasty things, we decided it best to take our leave of Walden Pond.

Today will be a day I never will forget. I even enjoyed being evicted from my pond. I have never jumped into a more inspiring pond in my life. I thank you Thoreau for having previously introduced me to it. And I thank you, pond, for your cooling, soft, green blue water, and your fish that nuzzled at my feet, and for buoying me up when you could have let me sink. And for your inspirations.

August 4, 1971: Fantastic Story

Somebody told me today that I always have these fantastic stories of my childhood and that I should write a book they are so interesting. But when it comes to putting down those fantastic stories I can’t think of a damn thing sometimes.

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It was starting again. “I won’t have that goddamn woman looking after my kids!” my father bellowed. But I knew that wasn’t the real reason he was yelling, or the reason that my parents were fighting again. I think the reason was they just enjoyed fighting.

“You knew she was coming two nights ago. If it bothered you that much, why didn’t you mention it then? Mrs. Smith has babysat for us lots of times and you never complained. How come all of a sudden it’s a problem?” My mother started to cry.

I walked upstairs to my room where the shouting was not as loud. The shouts and the language I was never supposed to use continued downstairs.

Then I heard my father coming up the stairs. His footsteps sounded really mad. My door opened.

“Get a dress. You’re going to the opera with me tonight. Your mother doesn’t want to go.”

I felt really happy for a few seconds. I was going to go all the way to New York City to see a really good opera! The first American opera I’d ever seen! To a nine-year old kid, this was a rare opportunity. But then I thought of the fight again.

“Why doesn’t Mommy want to go?”

“She just doesn’t want to be with me, that’s all.”

 It took me a few minutes to find the right dress to wear. My feelings were an unhappy mixture of excitement and guilt. It wasn’t right for me to take her place. She’d be mad at me.

I walked downstairs. My father yelled at me to hurry up. I went over to my mother so she could check my dress, but she was crying. I said goodbye, but she didn’t hear me at first. Then she realized I was standing there and turned around and kissed me goodbye.

As I walked out the door and crossed the street to the car, my parents were still shouting at each other. Then my father walked out, slammed the door, and stood on the steps for a few seconds. He crossed the street, got into the car, put the keys into the ignition, and we drove off.

October 22, 1971: Empathy

I don’t even know what to write. I feel so sad and wishing I could be with Dr. P to help her. And even though every word I say seems to be not what I want to say, it still helps me to write it.

When people reach out and touch each other with their thoughts and emotions. . . I don’t know. It’s just a beautiful experience. Even when it hurts. I wonder why, like today, I try to fill the spaces of someone else’s emptiness with words, when a touch, or just a glance could fill it so much better.

I feel like Dr. P is my charge now; like I’ve got to see her through this crisis. I just want to help. We begin to love people when we share their feelings. I have come to love so many people this year.

(Background: That fall, my math teacher from my sophomore year invited me to spend the weekend with her on her land in upstate New York, where she had a tiny trailer parked. I think it was the first time she’d been there since she and her husband had divorced, after a long marriage, and she didn’t want to be alone. I don’t recall the conversations we had, but I know there was both beauty and sadness in them. She taught me how to bushwack across her land using a compass – the first time I had ever gone off trail or sighted from point to point. We saw wild turkeys and deer. And we cooked simple food and spend a good bit of time in silence.)

April 1, 1972: The Shot

I gave my first shot yesterday, which was kind of scary and neat at the same time. The office was a sort of pleasant madhouse yesterday, and we were all running around doing all sorts of things at once. I had just given this guy – I think his name was M.L. – an X-ray and had put him in surgery to await my father the doctor. As I went to get my father to come see M.L., Dad suddenly rushed past me with a syringe in his mouth.  He grabbed another syringe and put some Vitamin B-12 in it and something else that I don’t remember, then shoved it toward me along with an alcohol-soaked piece of cotton and said, “Go get the guy in surgery, and be sure to retract,” and was off to some other patient. Feeling sort of nervous and a little weak at the knees I walked into surgery with the shot in hand. I walked over to M.L. who had already raised his shirt sleeve for me to give him the shot. I rubbed the doomed spot with alcohol, a little longer than I needed to because I was kind of chicken. Then I figured I better get it over with, so I took the syringe in hand, held his shoulder, and shoved it in. It went in! Didn’t bounce off or bend or anything! Then I retracted the plunger to make sure it wasn’t in an artery or vein, pushed the liquid in, and pulled the needle out.

My first shot was a success! Not only that, it didn’t bleed or anything!  When I came back with the band aid, M.L. lifted the cotton from his arm and said, “It already stopped bleeding.” And I said, “It didn’t start bleeding. My shots never bleed.” Now I will have to do more till I get proficient at it.