I translate a LOT of shorthand. Occasionally, I am reminded that people often express their most intimate thoughts in shorthand simply because the writer felt like no one else would be able to read it. To their mind, it was under lock and key, safe, for them alone to reflect on later – it was a vehicle to secretly express it outward.
What a privilege it is to be given a window into those lives decades later – and what a gift is the translation to those the writers have left behind, those who seek insight into their predecessors who are long gone, either via death or dementia.
I want to share with you this single page from the diary of a young girl in her first year of college. Her boyfriend is going to another college an hour or so away. The year is 1967, and Vietnam War and the draft are looming large. The impact of those world events lands squarely in the middle of their lives and plans for the future. (Spoiler alert – I’m going to provide the translation afterwards):
