Week Two: Hide Ya' Kids, Hide Ya' Diary

If someone today asked you to remember something specific from sixth grade, could you visualize a clear memory?

Probably not. Unless something significant or traumatic happened at a specific age, or on an exact date, the concept of time can get misconstrued. For example, I vaguely remember passing out during lunch period when I was in elementary school. It might have been third grade (or fourth grade? …or fifth grade?) when that happened, but I cannot be 100% certain. Therefore, I would group evident memories into four specific time periods: elementary school, middle school, high school, and college. Time moves too quickly, and it almost seems bizarre to think about things that happened in a precise grade once someone grows older. Although, this journal prompt forced me to think about a particular time that I went through someone else’s diary, and I classify this memory to my middle school era. 

Hold onto your diaries, folks: this is the story of how I went through someone’s private journal. 

It was a sticky, summer day. My grandmother picked me up from my house, and excitedly exclaimed that I was going to have a sleepover at her house. It was Labor Day weekend, so she informed me that we would stop into Kohl’s on Saturday to do some back-to-school shopping. It was a long, boiling car ride to her house; the air-conditioning was not working in the van. The wind from the outside smacked my face, and I was debating on rolling the windows up. Considering that my shirt was plastered to my body from sweat, so I refuted the idea. We pulled up to Margaret Street; I knew it was my grandma’s street because of the store on the corner, Wallie’s (they served the best Slurpee’s). As we headed down the street to her house, I remember smelling a foul odor. It burned my nostrils, so I searched to find the source. Behind Wallie’s stood a group of teenagers smoking cigarettes. Two teenagers leaned against the fence, and were making out. I was pretty immature at that age; I did not truly take interest in the concept of drugs, sex, or anything a teenager could be tempted with.

“That’s disgusting.” I groaned to my grandma. 

“That’s why you’re never going to do any of it!” She replied with a stare. 

Once I got into the house, I asked my grandma about a good place to hunt for school supplies. My mom still hadn’t taken me to purchase anything from my teacher’s lists, and it was giving me middle-schooler anxiety. My grandma told me to search in Matthew’s old room; he had a bunch of unused notebooks, and binders from recently graduating college. Matthew was my only uncle on my mom’s side, and I adored him. As I dug through bins and drawers of his old stuff, I played dress up. I posed in the mirror wearing his purple senior graduation cap, and a neon tie from Prom. The final drawer in his desk consisted of socks (that was odd). I thought to myself: why would there be socks in a desk drawer? Digging through the mismatched greys, whites, and yellowish-whites a small black journal toppled into my hands. 

Uh-Oh.

I opened the cover, it read: Matthew McMillian’s Journal. The phrase “DO NOT READ” was written in red ink pen at the bottom of the page. I was too excited, I couldn’t believe that I was getting the chance to read all my uncle’s thoughts. Besides, my uncle never would have done anything bad, right? I skimmed pages, he mostly wrote about school, sports, and if my grandma or mom was “pissing” him off. Mid-way through the journal, I hit gold—he was writing about his crush! I was day-dreaming if he would be writing about my future auntie. When I stopped to think about it, my uncle never brought anyone to Christmas; he was always alone. This made me more intrigued; did my make-believe auntie break his heart in high school? I couldn’t wait for the answer, my eyes hung on every word that he wrote about this mystery person. The way he wrote about their blonde hair, and blue eyes—the y’s were all written with significantly curly tails. He wrote a smiley face after he described what they were wearing on the first day of school. It didn’t hit me until six pages later, but my uncle was not describing his crush as female. I don’t think a girl would have been described as having a “sexy, muscular back”. And I don’t think a girl would have smiled at my uncle in the men’s room after first period. That was the moment when I realized I had messed up by reading his diary. Did my grandma know? Did my mom know? Why was I never told? My mind was racing, and I quickly shed myself of his clothes; I violated him. I realized, in that tiny room of my grandma’s house, that my uncle was gay. My uncle is gay, and that is how I found out. At that time, I didn’t even know what being gay meant, or if being gay was okay. It didn’t make me upset with my uncle, or make me love him any less; I was just a distraught middle-schooler trying to make sense of the situation.

Years passed, and I never said a word to anyone. I was skeptical about everyone in my family. In my freshman year of high school, I finally felt mature enough to understand what I actually read in Matthew’s journal that day, so I decided to ask my mom about him when she was driving me home from school:

“Is Matthew gay, Mom?”

She seemed perplexed, but not angry. 

“Yes, he is. How do you know?” She replied. 

“I read his diary at Grandma’s house.” I confided to her. 

“Yeah, he is. Do not say anything, though. Your grandpa does not know.” She focused on the road. 

After the conversation about my uncle, my mom and I had an even longer discussion about what being gay meant, and how everyone is entitled to love whoever they want. 

***

To this day, the only people in my family that know my uncle is gay besides myself, are my mom, grandma, and brother. My grandpa still does not know, or acknowledge the fact that my uncle does not have kids, or has never been married. My uncle does have a boyfriend, and I have never told him that I read his private diary. I felt ashamed after I read it, but I felt more ashamed having to keep a secret for years. The thoughts made me feel isolated from my family. Therefore, I would suggest people burn their diaries (or hide them better). This reminds me of a quote from the weekly reading, in Burning the Diaries, Dominique Browning said: 

“Diaries are irresistible. And I am an unregenerate snoop. I will read any diary left in my path. I’ve even bent my path toward diaries carelessly left lying around. I know it is horrid of me, but I can’t help it.”

I lock my diaries in a small safe that I own; I keep them, so I can look back, and read them for laughs, or reminiscence purposes. I would not want other people reading my diaries unless I allowed them to (especially not my family members). Often, I will write about extremely personal thoughts. My diaries should be categorized in the Not Safe for Work (NSFW) edition. If someone were to break into my safe because I were to pass, and read my diaries I would want them to burn them immediately. Especially if I have children, I would not want them reading my dark, personal thoughts. 

P.S. Names have been changed in the story to hide identities, I do not know anyone named Matthew McMillian.