Harvard Wants My Journals, But I Want Them Burned

Every late afternoon, at exactly 4 p.m., my dog Doris and I share the top of my bed as I write in a journal.

Johnny Hartmann, Ella Fitzgerald and Carmen McRae take turns singing to us from the Pandora or Spotify apps on my cell phone. I am drinking 4 ounces of Chardonnay wine mixed with seltzer. The sweet snoring of Doris mixes with old school jazz.

I use a Pilot Razor Point pen with blue ink and a 5 by 8-inch spiral lined notebook to record the happenings of my day. Mostly boring stuff, but I also include feelings. Sometimes anger, hurt and disappointment share my entries. These bitter emotions are like a sudden rainstorm that interrupts a picnic in the park. Who could have predicted this shift from satisfaction to downpour?

Because my intent has been to keep my journaling private, I am free to play the victim and rail against those who have acted as aggressors. Journaling is my therapy. Instead of spilling all these thoughts to a professional, I can save the insurance hassle, transportation and financial burden by being my own shrink. Is my method as effective as the wisdom of an expert, who knows?

Now at 85 years of age, the prospect of demise draws closer. Although I am gratefully healthy, one can never predict the stealth approach of an erroneous cell, or a headlong topple that leaves my brain impacted.

I do not want anyone to read my journals. Some of my lines of penmanship would startle and sadden friends and families. They would be shocked to learn I had these feelings, and angry that they never had a chance to defend themselves.

I want my journals burned upon my death. But the Schlesinger Library, which is associated with Harvard, wants them. They are not really focused on me; it is my children that spurred on the spotlight. I am merely a tag along.

My nonbinary offspring fit this interest of the "preeminent research library on the history of feminism, women's health and women's activism, the Schlesinger collections document the intersectional workings of race and ethnicity, gender, sexuality and class in American history."

And I have recently learned that the Library already contains, from the period 1956 to 2011, my "high school yearbook and reunion material but is mostly daily diaries she kept over a period of eight years. Each diary volume is numbered sequentially, labeled with the first and last dates of entries, and contains handwritten descriptions of daily activities, feelings and family issues. Some diaries include later notes commenting on earlier entries. The series is arranged chronologically."

I smiled when I read "Each diary volume is numbered sequentially." Of course, one as compliant as I would number the pages and date the entries. But my current journals have added an important clue to my obsessions. Along with page number, date and time, my morning weight is tallied. This addition might give you a clue (96.6 lbs. today) of a recent mania. But that's another essay.

I can only blame myself for the Library's treasure trove. In 2014, after my second husband died, I moved to Los Angeles to be closer to my child and grandsons. My boxes of journals went with me. When Schlesinger asked for our family papers, my child included them in the shipment. I'm certain they asked for my permission, on the promise they wouldn't read them. I likely agreed.

I can't do anything about those years, but compared to more recent journals, those already in the Library's possession were bland. They were written pre-revelation that their other parent is transgender, pre-marriage to my second husband, pre-acting as caregiver when this spouse was diagnosed with Frontal Temporal Degeneration, pre-his eventual death and pre-my widowhood. And importantly, pre-return to Chicago after less than a year in Los Angeles. In short, before the juicy stuff, which now is like a crime scene splattering the pages.

Surely, the family papers of my two children are more interesting and vital. Their gift to the Library cites their "creative work as comedians, writers, and playwrights, and contains scripts, song lyrics, posters, drafts, television production files, photographs, awards, diaries, and audiovisual materials."

Fortunately, I have options in my desire for secrecy. My granddaughter is a writer and a keeper of journals. Upon my death, while likely still in mourning, she has agreed to travel from her Boston home to my Chicago apartment and arrange for the fiery deed. Would that dear descendent, unable to resist the piles of juicy tidbits that could spark a plot for her own chapters, still abide by her promise?

I have another alternative. A good friend, whose residence has been blessed with abundant storage space, has offered to race to my closet and capture the journals before a curious child intervenes. Can I count on him to leave the pages undisturbed even though he shows up in some of the pages?

On the other hand, my journals may contribute to studies on ageism. Perhaps, rather than my fear of exposure or bruised feelings, I should consider that my thousands of lines of script could contribute to the worldview of the subject. Maybe readers of the Soloway Family Collection would read my entries and get a clue as to the woman who birthed the creative people at the center of the stockpile. Perhaps I've inadvertently left instructions on the dos and don'ts of childrearing.

Here's an idea: the Library might be amenable to adding sort of a disclaimer placard to our collection. It could introduce my journals with the tranquil scene of Doris, Chardonnay and old school jazz. Maybe researchers and others viewing the collection would then be mollified. Could any view brickbats I tossed within the pages be softened and land instead as grateful hugs and kisses?