Identity in Crisis: The Evolution of Diaries
TRIGGER WARNING: The following story mentions Domestic Violence, Sexual Assault, Self Harm, Trauma and Mental Health of a minor.
NOTE: The names of minors will NEVER be used without permission. It is not my place to share your story. If you were an adult that was involved in inappropriate relations with a minor...well...that's a different story.
The concept of a diary has evolved over time. Long before the birth of the internet, blogs, the introduction of smartphones, and the explosion of social media, people were keeping records and documenting their lives in journals, through the lens, capturing memories and moments that they wanted to hold on to, reflect upon, reliving our adventures, family gatherings, special events, shows, and even sex tapes. But they were usually intended to remain private, or shared with friends and family. I mean unless you were an explorer, a writer, a film maker or something.
Even though Diaries are not generally written with the intention of being published, they can be a great source of information for a memoir, autobiography or biography, and have provided an invaluable importance for social and political history, offering firsthand, relatable, and deeply personal accounts of historical events. One of the most popular examples of this might be, “The Diary of Anne Frank”. She did not start writing her diary with the intention of sharing it publicly.
According to http://www.annefrank.org, Anne Frank decided to write in a diary because she felt lonely, lacked a true confidant, and believed that “paper has more patience than people,” giving her a safe, non-judgmental space to express her innermost thoughts.
There are some people that go public with the intention of self vindication (dead or alive), and these days…it seems that most people do it simply for attention, notoriety, and/or money. Anne Frank decided to publish after hearing a 1944 radio broadcast from a Dutch government official urging citizens to save their wartime diaries and letters. She decided to rewrite and edit her personal diary into a cohesive novel title, Het Achterhuis (The Secret Annex) https://www.annefrank.ch
My life has always been a roller coaster. I have been fighting to be heard, to be loved and to be seen as more than a face, a body, an object, a race…to be bought, sold, used, abused…and for what? Why? No one could even place me in a category, because it didn’t exist at the time. What are you? For years, I didn’t even have a box to check in school, or on government forms. Was I Black, White, Native American, or Other? My identity was in crisis. I didn’t fit any mold. But… I was pretty. This is something that I was always told. Who doesn’t want that right? This box should have a disclaimer that reads something like “you are so much more than just this.”
I changed schools three times before I reached the end of middle school. First was a Catholic School, in which my mom removed my little brother and I for discrimination and racial issues. There were only three non white students in the school and both the students and facility reminded us of this on a regular basis through their lovely words and actions. The second school was a public school, where on the first day I was approached by a group of black girls that said they were going to fight me after school. I had pronounced one of the girls' names wrong and that was somehow translated into that I thought I was better than them. Luckily, I had an older brother who knew some of the kids, and the fight never happened. This was not the reason that I changed schools AGAIN. The third and final change was due to a shift in school zoning after they had finished building the new middle school in our area.
Changing schools so frequently wasn't ideal, but I was used to it. We moved a lot growing up. The only time that I had spent consecutive years with other kids was at my babysitter Darlene’s while we lived in California. This was on and off from maybe 3 until about 7 years old when we moved to Virginia. Making new friends wasn’t difficult for me. But keeping them and maintaining relationships was a completely foreign concept.
There was a lot happening at home. And we were raised that what happens at home, stays at home. There were some teachers that noticed behavioral changes, bruises, etc. It was hard to know who to trust, especially when grown men started to take notice…or show a special interest. One time I was sent to the Vice Principals office because a teacher said that my dress was too short. He told me to walk for him and do a turn, so that he could see for himself whether or not it was actually too short.
I entered high school with what you could call daddy issues, abandonment issues, trauma, self harm, self loathing, confusion and my identity was centered around, “well, at least I’m pretty”. I couldn’t wait to be “grown up” enough to escape, move away from the drama and the pain. Somewhere, there had to be someone, something to make it better. Young girls are often told by older men how “mature” they seem and how we don’t look our age. At home I was taught by example that self medicating was how to cope with my problems. So I started to drink sometimes. Lots of kids do. Even while sober, I was rarely in a healthy state of mind. I couldn’t escape. I would hide in my closet, behind the clothes and other junk. This tiny space brought me comfort somehow. The world was too harsh for me. How could I ever be good enough?
How can you focus in class after some asshole looks you directly in the eye and calls you a fucking nigger? It was my brother’s friend that saved that guy that day, cause I was over this shit and ready to attack. People that I would have considered “friends” would tell a nigger joke, realize I was there, and be like, “Oops, Sorry, Heather. We forgot.”
Around this same time is when I started to learn that race doesn’t really matter if you’re pretty and the guy just wants to see what a nigger’s tits look like. But DON’T YOU DARE cross the line and make anything official. I know. I know, I should’ve remembered from middle school when they told me that “black and white don’t mix”. But, how do you keep it all straight?
I am originally from the “Valley” in CA, and people would give me shit for acting or talking “white”. But, it was my Black father that made us speak the “Queens" English in HIS house. Ie: I had to answer the landline with, “Thank you for calling the Walker residence.” The whole race dynamic I dealt with both inside and out of the home was ridiculous. My dad, a Vietnam Veteran, who had marched with Martin Luther King, was even a Black Panther at one point, would listen to Malcolm X preaching about the white devil, and my white mom would have to say, “Come on, really?!” There were a lot of things my dad tried and failed at the time to teach me about race relations in the world. I don’t think he was fully prepared to have mixed race children. Remember, there wasn’t even a box for us back then. He would simply tell me, “One drop is all it takes…and you’re Black in America.” But then, what about my mom? I didn’t get it. One thing people could always agree on though, is that us mixed kids sure were pretty.
I wasn’t sure if this "beautiful" gift was a blessing, or more of a curse. I longed to be more than this body, this skin, and tried to find myself…in all the wrong places. It amazes me when I think back to just how much people were willing to overlook, and how easy it was for them to justify their actions. Especially when I see pictures of myself at that age, and can’t understand why it was okay for them to do what they did. Was I asking for it? Was it because I was pretty, because I was a girl, or both? Did I deserve it? Well, I was just a kid…the first time, void of any control, power, or ability to consent legally, or otherwise. I really started to act out. I was spiraling out of control. I was desperate for answers, dying for a reason, an excuse, a purpose, a deeper understanding. You know…the meaning of life. Then, one day, I heard that these girls had brought vodka to school. Maybe I thought the answers were somewhere in that bottle cause well, we drank it all. I can still remember sitting in the office and overhearing someone in the faculty saying to a colleague, “I don’t know. She just keeps saying, “Please don’t call my dad over and over.” This very reasonable fear stemmed from his previous reaction to the first time I was caught drinking. Let’s just say, it wasn’t pretty, and neither was I afterwards. Guess who picked me up?
I was grounded of course, but that was business as usual. I spent a lot of time grounded in my room growing up. Just me, my journals, my art, my stereo and the closet. Due to this incident, I was also suspended from school, and had to go to a program for troubled kids during that time frame. I don’t know if therapy was a part of that program, or if my parents decided on their own to find me a therapist. I do know that I was not interested in speaking with this person. I didn’t feel safe talking about things that I wasn’t supposed to be talking about, because what happens at home, stays at home. And I wasn’t sure how to discuss the other mounting issues, because I was embarrassed, ashamed, and felt it was either my fault, or I had deserved it somehow. Once the program was over…I was done with that school too.
At the moment, I do not have access to all of the diaries, and work from this time period. So I cannot say for sure the exact sequence of events that led to this final decision of me going to this new school. I know that I had a friend go there, and that I’d heard about it before. But my dad says it’s because he knew the Principal, and other faculty and thought that this would be the best option for me. He was ABSOLUTELY RIGHT!
Open High is a top rated, alternative public school in Richmond, VA. The focus is independent, self-directed learning, college preparation, and community responsibility. I don’t know if they still have the same acceptance policies now, as they did when I was there. My grades at the time weren’t strong at all. I know that we had to write a paper somewhere along the lines of explaining why we wanted to go there, or why they should accept us…I can’t recall exactly. I know that my paper had a lot to do with race relations. The final decision would be made by the “community” which included both faculty and the students. I was sooooo happy when I got accepted, because I had heard such amazing things about the school. Maybe I had something to offer afterall. Fast forward to one of the “Community Meetings”. The Seniors were leaving “gifts” to the remaining students. The gift that was given to me was a brain. Ouch! That obviously didn’t feel good, and I was embarrassed. But, it was a major wake up call. These people didn’t give a shit if I was pretty or not. They wanted to know what book I was reading? What did I believe in, and why? How was I gonna make a difference in the world?
We didn’t have teams, and clubs, we were a community. We couldn't even graduate without a certain amount of Community Service credits.
I was still 100% “damaged” or broken…whatever you wanna call it. I wasn’t “well” and that’s for certain. But this school provided me with the foundation I needed so that I could finally start to grow and build on something more than what I was used to. The encouragement of free will and critical thinking opened my mind. I even got to select Yoga as an elective gym credit. This school didn’t just teach me, the community actively showed me the power of knowledge and the importance of action behind your words. I would later incorporate this philosophy with my company Model101, where I would teach the students/models that with great power comes great responsibility. We did charitable events and P.S.A’s (public service announcements)
This is also where I discovered the book, “The Artist’s Way” which shaped how I write and express myself creatively to this very day. I will be forever grateful to each and everyone in that community.
Now, despite my love for this school, I still wanted to get the fuck out of my house.
I was modeling at the time, and studying acting, but wanted to graduate first. I was dreaming of schools like Julliard or NYU. And since we were able to create our own schedules, this meant that I would have the opportunity to graduate early. I filled my schedule with every course that I could and even did summer school on purpose. I was get-ting out!
Well, I did get out eventually. But it didn’t work out as planned. There was just a bit more trauma to add to the mix. I won’t go into too much detail, because a lot happened. Remember what I said before about the attention from MEN? You can click here, just to give you an idea.
That journal entry covers a vague explanation of the sexual assault of a minor. This caused years worth of unresolved trauma. It was at the top of my list for my first EMDR therapy sessions that I did back in 2022. But that wasn’t the reason that things didn’t work out. You see, one of the few, but firm rules at the school was attendance. If you missed more than a certain number of days per semester, you immediately got cut credits. My parents found out that I was in what I considered at the time to be a “real” relationship with a grown man in his 30’s…Yes 30’s. This guy maybe you know him.
We met when I was 15. We met at the beach during a family vacation and then somehow he ended up living right around the corner from my high school. The full details of this “relation-”…wait let me google the proper term for this,
“What do you call it when a 32 year old has a relationship with a 15 year old child?”
A relationship between a 32-year-old adult and a 15-year-old minor is called statutory rape or child sexual abuse/exploitation in legal terms, because a 15-year-old is below the legal age of consent and cannot legally agree to sexual activity with an adult. Socially, it is also referred to as child grooming or an abusive power-imbalance relationship.
Just for fun, I googled this next: "What do you call it when an adult tells an underage child to put ice on their nipples so that they can see it in the photographs?"
This behavior is called child sexual exploitation (CSE) / Legal and Safety Classifications
When an adult manipulates, instructs, or coerces a minor into performing a physical action to make a photograph sexually suggestive, it falls under specific legal and protective definitions:
Child Sexual Exploitation (CSE): An umbrella term for any situation where an adult uses power, deception, or coercion to exploit a minor sexually. [1]
Grooming: The process by which an offender builds a relationship, trust, or emotional connection with a child to manipulate them into complying with sexual requests. [1, 2]
If you were wondering, this is actually a reference to this guy's “bestie”. I was still building my portfolio and he was a photographer. My barely there clothes weren’t enough. He had ice ready for me and told me to rub it on my nipples. He said that “everybody does it in the industry.” I’m not sure anybody really knew that part except for the two guys. I can’t recall if I ever told one of my close friends at the time. All of whom were very against me being around this guy, and his friends. I found the “besties” Instagram account and he’s still shooting young models. https://www.instagram.com/chipthegrip/
My parents took me out of school because he lived right around the corner and they were concerned that we would still see each other. I was so upset. He was telling me about places we could run off to, where it was legal and he wouldn't get in trouble etc etc. In my attempts to have my parents just leave him alone, I confided in them that I had actually been assaulted by someone and that if they were going to go after anybody for it to be him and not this guy that had been so nice, and given me so much attention. No one was listening to me. But how could they understand? I can imagine that was a lot to take in.
Cut credit meant that I could no longer graduate early. All that hard work was for nothing. I couldn’t do this for another year. I was done. Fuck! I had to get my GED. My dad was able to get a letter in writing that stated my accomplishments or something so that the whole “GED” thing wouldn’t appear so bad and I ended up enrolling in Community College…which was a joke!
I’ve often wondered over the years if he ever considered the damage this caused and how it completely changed the trajectory of my life. He’s lucky that my dad only showed him the shotgun and didn’t use it. He was EXTRA lucky, because he told me what to say to the magistrate lady and they let the whole thing go. He was a free man. This would not be on his record. AND he was still able to continue communicating with me. Mother fucker! I found his Instagram too. The statute of limitations has long passed for me. But these patterns of behavior rarely change. If anyone else was abused, I’m sorry that I didn’t come forward sooner. Click here for Diary Entry
This was not one event, situation, or circumstance that was affecting me. I was always in a constant state of survival, always looking for someone, or something to take away all of the pain. Remember…This is just a few snippets of trauma and I’m still only 16.
I am so grateful for my journals. I got my first diary when I was six years old. Like many others, pouring out all of my personal thoughts and feelings onto the pages and into a secret place, a safe place to say everything I was told to keep to myself. Your deepest, sometimes darkest, brightest reflections, hopes, dreams, fears and memories.
I am not sure when these writings became something more for me. But they did…
It could have been the trauma and the inability at the time of not being able to comprehend what happened, what I was feeling or how to process the traumatic events. I know that I started to reference my journals for better understanding, searching for behaviors, patterns, the “WHY is all of this happening?!” At some point I started to believe that these things were happening to me specifically because I was able to “handle it”, a sort of preparation for my life's purpose you could say, and at the same time, giving me the ability to help others in a unique kind of way. Like, if they had gone through something similar, I could tell them that they are not alone. That it wasn’t their fault. I wanted to help others so that they wouldn’t have to go through the same things that I went through. That’s what inspired me to create Model101, MWA MGMT, Industry Uncovered and now…The Creative.
They say that everything happens for a reason. Not everything “had to” happen...but it did and I can’t change the past.
If I say nothing, do nothing, then everything I went through was for nothing. And that is simply not how this story ends.
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