"I Am Eleven" ... and so was I

    After work today I had a private showing of the film, "I Am Eleven."  Private because no one else cared to spend a Friday dinner hour in a movie theater.  Pity, this is an interesting flick by Genevieve Bailey made at a time in her life when touching base with life's happy days in others would hopefully be a tonic for her own troubled soul.  She took a camera into 15 different countries and talked to 11 year-olds  in all different kinds of circumstances from all over the globe to get their perspectives on their lives. Her camera work - from my professional point of view- is sub, subpar [why do folks think that the ability to hold a camera is the sole qualification of a pro videographer? WRONG , people! ] and she is sometimes editorially heavy handed  but this is an interesting look at what definitely is  a great age. Kids from Sweden to India, the UK to Japan and a few around the edges share their opinions of themselves and their world at large. I recommend it for anyone who is, will be or was eleven.

    But this got me to thinking about Hilary at age 11. So who was I?  What did I have to say?  My best hope for discovery are my own diaries.  I have been keeping diaries (sometimes more off than on) since 1971.  And yes, that still makes me 29 today. ahem.   My first diary was a pink patent leather Five Year Diary with a lock.  My mom inscribed it with "I love you a bushel and a peck"  and I recognize my dad's handwriting in a few entries ("Today Hilary washed her hair.")   What I don't find is evidence of my future destiny and brilliance.  Or I hope not, anyway.  I dutifully marked church choir practices, especially  those when we were afterwards treated to Dairy Queen, and days when I received a letter in the mail.  The appearance and name of substitute teachers also seemed important.  On February 7, 1971  it says "Today I had the bigest (sic) laugh in all my life" but absolutely no clue given as to the source of the merriment.  February 11, 1972 "Nothing really happened today".  And on December 7, 1974, I got word that my elementary school best friend, a gorgeous Argentinian girl named Claudia Levy, died of leukemia. Some long forgotten bullying at a hands of  a few girls pops up, but otherwise not much insight in this book.

    The next couple of books are a bit better. My younger sister's long habit of  thieving and abusing clothes from my closet are well documented.  My lazy and annoying brothers have a long list of grievances to answer for.  Money-and the lack of it-gained great importance and many appearances.  The ebb and wane of relationships well documented. I am startled at how some issues are as much a concern today as then (actually, 'disturbed' is a better word than startled)  and pleased to see that I have moved forward in other issues.

    These diaries will never be made into best selling books.  Anne Frank, John Adams and nannies in the big city have no competition from my direction to worry about.  But they sure to make interesting reading.  I have some saved letters that also track the journey of my time in foreign countries like South Korea and the exchange with longtime pen pal, my German cousin Antje.  I don't call these books and correspondence clutter, but delightful ephemera.  Don't have a journal history?  Start one now. It's easy. Painless.  You'll thank yourself later.