Keys
My first diary was a clunky purple thing, made of plastic and squeaky hinges and lilac stripes. I knew the TV jingle by heart – Girl Tech! So cool and connected! – and you bet I felt cool and connected when I spoke and the cover swung open. It had no key – only unlocked to the sound of my voice. I spent quiet nights under the sheets, whispering passwords and writing about my day, as if I had secrets to keep locked away.
I didn’t. There were too many questions that needed asking, too many unsolved mysteries and all the tickling curiosities of second grade. No time for keeping things to myself. The biggest secret I had was the diary’s password, my quiet voice that unlocked blank pages. I learned I had keys in my throat.
Dear Diary,
Sometimes, I think I will run out of questions like I think I will run out of books, but I raised my hand most of the day. My arms are getting very strong. Did you know that John Adams was the second president? And that bees pollinate flowers? And that my teacher thinks I’m enthusiastic? I have so many questions I jingle like a keychain, and I just keep finding new ideas to open!
I don’t remember when curious became obnoxious, and enthusiastic became overbearing, but I remember the sighs and the eye rolls. I started sitting on my hands and clenching keys between my teeth, the metallic taste of wondering under my tongue. So many days I left the classroom clanking.
Dear Diary,
There is brass in my stomach. I’m beginning to believe I am too much.
After a class discussion, my teacher pulled me aside and told me I’d contributed too much. I said I’d do better next time. Doing better meant being quieter. Next time, I counted my contributions, made sure I talked only twice, listened as four boys talked four times each, listened as my teacher praised their enthusiasm. Keys started sliding down into my chest, sharp and heavy in my rusted ribcage.
Dear Diary,
Girls with voices are forces indeed. I think my teacher has metal in her stomach, too. She knows it is too easy to dismiss our voices as “bossy” without ever actually being called “boss.” She doesn’t want me unlocking the same doors she did, opening up to rooms full of sighs and eye rolls. Much better, she thinks, to take these keys away from me now.
But now, I have seen too many locks to keep silent. My missing words have left some keyhole in this world empty, and I have been clanking for far too long, so instead, I am speaking. I can see how my words make everything swing open. And there are blank pages everywhere.
Poem featured in a lesson plan -- here