Welcome! And thank you. You’ve taken this moment to read my words – rough and stumbling across the page – which means more than you can know.
Already I am pausing, asking myself if this is really worth our time. [Note to self: you have class in 52 minutes]. OK, I’ll give myself 52 minutes. I’ll pretend to write for 52 minutes. In reality, I’ll just twist my hair around my finger and dubiously re-read the lines above.
Before I quit, though, let’s begin.
My sixteenth birthday was particularly momentous, as it signaled my inheritance of a marble collection. My father’s marbles were cherished by both of us, as were those golden afternoons of my childhood, spent sitting on the floor and playing games of our own invention.
Ten years prior, I had asked my father if he would give me his collection. For my birthday, I reasoned, even as my tiny arms trembled with the jar’s weight. Tipping the vessel over, I’d watched marbles pour on to the hardwood floor. Their sound reminded me of rain on a metal roof, all clicks. The clatter of a glass hurricane. Let’s wait until your sixteenth birthday instead, my father replied.
On the eve of six, the prospect of turning sixteen felt entirely abstract. An age turned blue and hazy by the distance, sixteen felt seemingly unreachable. But then, suddenly, it appeared. And the living memory of playing marbles with my dad collided shockingly with the fact that I was now to inherit these marbles. Without noticing it I had traversed a great distance; the strange had become familiar and the familiar had grown faded by time.
Trembling on the edge of sixteen, I reached for something unexpected: a black journal.
Blowing a layer of dust from its cover, I slowly filled the first page, beginning with the line: “Tomorrow morning at 3:28am, I will turn 16 years old.” My fingers were timid, but they grew braver traveling down the page. And then the journal was closed and a history was written.
Every night that year, I picked up my journal and wrote about something that happened. I filled four journals, cover to cover. And I just didn’t stop. I haven’t stopped. My journals sit in a neat stack in my bedroom––next to my jar of marbles.
For me, birthdays still come with heavy feet. They hold too much expectation. But as my journals show, I am no longer floating through the current of time. Instead, I am claiming a piece of each day for myself. Writing has made me feel empowered in the inevitable business of growing up.
Those who write histories cannot simply be washed-up products of them.
Speaking of history. I waver in saying this––you’ve made it this far, and I’d hate to turn you away now––we are living in unprecedented times. Behind the comical overuse of the term, is a very true reality. I can feel this year being pressed into the pages of textbooks, like the flattening of a slow explosion.
The thing about living through history (as it seems universally accepted we are), is that the future feels more uncertain than ever before. Things are changing, certainly, but changing into what? Without the privilege of hindsight, all we can do is muddle through.
And here I am, offering words. Those pockets of time worth reaching into, worth lining with ink. If there were ever a time to start sharing pieces of ourselves, 2020 would be it.
[Note to self: Ok, get to class]
Quiet Histories 
I really enjoyed this. Great post.
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