Growing up, my sisters and I made a sport out of journal-reading. One or all of us (there are four young Balls) kept a diary; we started, as did most burgeoning female writers still in elementary school, with psychedelic Lisa Frank notebooks. Ah, the '90s.
But the fun was not found in the carthartic writing process, in the measured inking of pre-tween angst. The game was in hiding our diaries from inquiring minds.
Being both a practiced snoop and the oldest, I was pretty good at finding them. They always said things like "TOP SECRET" or "HANDS OFF, SARAH!" on the cover.
Ha. As if that stopped me. I remember reading things like, "I have a crush on 45 08 19 58 29," written in pink gel pen. I'd frantically flip the pages, looking for the code breaker. If I found it, I'd have fuel for a week's worth of sisterly torment.
Or, if I ever found a rant about my bossy-older-sibling nature, I'd write what I believed to be a pithy, smart-ass response on the same page. Heh heh heh.
Yep, I am actually in contention for the Sister of the Year Award-why do you ask?
My sisters still haven't grown out of journal-writing-nor have I grown out of trying to read their secret thoughts. Like our four lives, those thoughts have become increasingly complex and, at times, frightening. I've read about Clare's reaction to watching a very close friend die. I've gleaned that Mary Wells feels pressure to act a certain way now that she's in high school. I know Becca's apathy and above-it-all humor, the same characteristics that make her edgy and cool in the social sense, render her less-than-stellar in the classroom-even if she is whip-smart.
For an attached older sister, it's off-putting to find out that your baby sisters have body image issues, or boy issues, or problems messier and more consuming than your own. Then again, not one of them fits the modifier "baby sister" anymore.
And that is just my problem. I started reading Clare's diary for a good laugh-"Dear Diary, I want to marry Will Kuckro." But now that Clare's legally an adult, now that Will is training to be a Navy pilot and fight overseas, and now that I'm too old to sing the "K-I-S-S-I-N-G" song, I'm supposed to be moving on. But I can't. I worry. I want to know. I want to make sure they're okay-that they aren't on the verge of bulimia, contemplating suicide or secretly addicted to heroin.
The more telling part of this story is that I stopped keeping a detailed journal a while back. I think I was afraid of my younger sisters reading my thoughts and, as I do to them, starting to worry about me.
Now that I'm at school, it's less likely they'll hack into my brain. But a few months ago, I decided that I missed the release of personal writing. When I made that executive decision, I wasn't in the greatest of moods. And the piece of writing that sprang from that moment was, to put it lightly, less than chipper. It was caustic. It was disparaging. You can see my rib cage heaving, my forehead perspiring, my cheeks burning with every epithet-laced sentence.
And I forgot about it-until last night.
Someone close to me read what I wrote by accident. But instead of scribbling a joke back in pink gel pen, she confronted me.
"I think you stifle the way you feel a lot of the time," she said. "It's because you're afraid of appearing vulnerable-you were the oldest, anyway."
My eyes were glued to my lap.
To her immense credit, she didn't fault me. She didn't say it in a judgmental way-she just laid it on the table. So matter-of-fact, so clear, so well-articulated.
But I feel pretty small.
Chronologically, I know I'll never be the baby sister. But if what my friend claims is true-if, dare I say it, I'm not ballsy enough to appear vulnerable, to actually articulate how I feel-then I'm the biggest baby of all.
Sarah Ball is Trinity sophomore and editorial page managing editor for The Chronicle. Her column runs every Thursday.
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.