With summertime comes the inevitable seasonal decluttering. With the inevitable seasonal decluttering comes the unearthing of memories and artifacts that we unintentionally buried in the depths of our past — those that serve to remind us of what once was and what is now.
As I settled back into my childhood bedroom after a year at college, I felt like a stranger in what I had once considered my safe space: a sanctuary full of the hopes and dreams of a childhood that now felt very far away. In the spirit of sticking to routine and trying to find some sense of normalcy, I decided to go through with the inevitable seasonal clean up, a tradition I had long maintained throughout summers past. In the blink of an eye, I had displaced three-fourths of the clothes that used to occupy my closet into plastic trash bags, all meant for donation. I reorganized my drawers, my bookshelves and my shoes. I even bought a new bed frame, a premeditated and long overdue change.
What I wasn’t expecting to find, though, was an orange box I used to store physical mementos from my childhood. Hidden away in a very tall corner in my white closet, it was almost impossible for me to reach, given the fact that I’m 5 feet tall. Finding it in such an inaccessible space made me wonder whether past me had put it there on purpose, like she was trying her best to hide it from her future self. Whatever the case, I was instantly sent on a deep dive through childhood pictures, birthday cards, school pins, old notebooks and sleepaway camp schedules, all reminding me of what I was saying goodbye to as I ventured into early adulthood.
After much sulking in my nostalgia, I thought I had finished going through everything I had once secured in my memory box. It was then that I found the journals. Buried in the depths of the box were two lined notebooks. One was simple, white and pretty big in size; the other, purple with a cute cupcake detailing in a size that fit snugly in the pocket of my jeans. I had completely forgotten about them, but seeing them in front of me jump started a flood of memories, surging through my mind with melancholic intensity.
I had found my childhood travel journals.
My family traveled a lot when I was a kid. Wanting to ensure that we had the best memories of our childhood, my parents aimed to curate the most memorable travel experiences for my little sister and me. We went skiing every December to depart from the warm, tropical Puerto Rican weather and experience the cold and snow for a change. We went on RV trips for three consecutive summers in an attempt to travel efficiently, so we could see more of the states in less time. We even rented a boat with family friends to explore the British Virgin Islands and see what our Caribbean neighbors had to offer.
Both my sister and I have very fond memories of our childhood travels, but as we’ve gotten older, my mom has become increasingly worried that we were too young for the travels we went on. She’s convinced herself that we have barely any memories of our trips, that she should’ve waited a while and convinced my dad to take us when we were older. But my old travel journals indicate otherwise.
After finding these journals, I read them from cover to cover. I was surprised to see how much I had documented from my childhood trips. I wrote about the exciting parts, like getting to ride Disney World roller coasters and going to the renowned M&M’s store in New York City, but I also documented the seemingly mundane happenings of my trips. I made note of whenever we went to a random restaurant to get a quick bite to eat, and I glued evidence of my broken hair ties and wrinkled boarding passes.
It was interesting to get a glimpse into the mind of my childhood self. I find it both cute and ingenious how I made the effort to draw, to the best of my little artistic ability, a visual representation of where I was and what I was seeing according to what I wrote in each specific journal entry. It was so endearing to see that I said hi and introduced myself in every entry. I love how I would jot down fun facts I would learn about the most random things, like when I went to Disney’s Animal Kingdom and found out that rhinoceroses can live up to one year without water. All these little quirks made me infer that little me was writing for an audience. She didn’t know who or when, but she knew someone would read these journals someday.
Reading through my journals made me laugh, too. The way I misspelled certain words whose spelling I would never doubt now was hilarious, and it also made me realize the little things about us that change as we grow up. It was fascinating to see how my handwriting evolved from one journal to another, signaling how everything about a person matures as they go through the different stages of life. I even switched languages between journals. One day I was writing in Spanish, the next I was writing in English. The fact that I was making my writing accessible to speakers of distinct languages, and perhaps not even doing it consciously, both amazes and enriches me. Little me was pretty smart.
It’s a bit sad to go back and read through these journals, though. The entries make it seem like documenting my travels for my own safekeeping was once an indispensable activity. No matter where I was, whenever something happened, whether impressive or dull, I would take my journal out and write it down. But somewhere along the way, I just stopped. There’s no formal goodbye written in any of the journals, so I know it wasn’t a conscious decision. But it happened either way.
Whenever I travel now, I’m always so focused on taking pictures of the scenery and the places I visit, but not with the goal of making memories for myself. I notice that my energies are focused more so on the angle at which I take a picture and fixing the lighting for it to look perfectly aesthetic for my Instagram story rather than for my own enjoyment. It makes me wonder whether the audience that little me imagined writing to in her travel journals was destined to be one where 500 people skip through perfectly curated images just so I can add it to my story highlights and make my Instagram profile seem much more effortless and in-the-moment than it is in reality.
I wonder, if I reclaim my old hobby of travel journaling, will it still feel like I’m curating my writing for an audience? Or will it make me stop feeling like I have to document every single one of my travels for social media purposes?
I admire little me. She was so set on remembering her travels that, unintentionally, she made sure to disprove my mom’s fear that my sister and I wouldn’t remember the trips of our childhood. She captured moments genuinely and organically, writing for an audience but capturing the memories just for her. After every trip, she wished she could have more trips like the one she just had. I want to look at traveling like I once did many years ago. I want to be like little me as I keep growing up.
Quiero tener otros viajes como este. “I want to go on other trips like this one.”
Statement Columnist Graciela Batlle Cestero can be reached at gbatllec@umich.edu