I’m channelling Anne Frank’s spirit in lockdown

Illustration by Rachel Wada

It had been nearly 50 years since I read The Diary of a Young Girl. What a timeless piece of writing; especially during a global pandemic with its restrictions, anxiety and isolation.

Rereading the book, I was reminded that Anne Frank was contained with seven others in space less than 400 square feet for 761 days. She never went outdoors. 761 days! And … still … there was hope, gratitude, peace, loving interactions, humour and a yearning to write.

As my COVID fatigue has gotten the better of me in recent weeks I started to say to myself, “What would Anne do?” or “How would Anne describe this time?” and “How would she cope?”

Story continues below advertisement

Like Anne, from the time I was young I have wanted to experience and explore life soulfully. I have no idea where this stemmed from as my family were neither spiritual or storytellers and never lived in-the-past. I grew up with a heavily instilled, get-on-with-it attitude, where reflection was not encouraged or supported.

When I was 11, a little blue book with lock and key, titled “Dear Diary” came into my possession. I do not know if it was a gift or I purchased it with my own money but from that first page, I was hooked. I was detailing events of my prepubescent life in a very “chit-chatty” fashion with questionable English-language skills. I still have it. In big bold letters, I had written KEEP OUT on its cover. My first entry relates to a newscast about Ted Kennedy and the crash at Chappaquiddick. My parents had to explain the word scandal to me. I also enthusiastically noted that Michael Jackson and the rest of the Jackson 5 would be on The Ed Sullivan Show and my sister, Christine, and I were allowed to watch it on Sunday night.

As I wrote that first entry, in December, 1969, I thought that, maybe, Anne Frank had been a distant relative. When I looked in the mirror or at the women in my life, I saw her: We all had similar thick brunette hair, strong facial features and weak yet determined smiles. I, too, had a fraught relationship with my mother and, like Anne, was self-aware, sensitive and easily hurt. We were both diarists with no friends recording our boredom, fear and struggles.

Although we were not hiding in an Amsterdam annex, my family also had secrets. There had been rumours that my grandparents had been Polish Jews who had changed their identity to survive the atrocities of war. Grandpa Schiller (or was it really, Schmonsky?) would never discuss and we will never know. My mother, now in her 80s, remains silent on this subject. The Holocaust was elusive and fascinating for me to learn about as a teenager. Throughout my life, at various times, I have wondered if Anne, had she lived, would still resemble me … or me her … would she have continued to write? Would she have transitioned, like I have, to reflect upon past entries? Would there now be, The Journal of an Older Woman, published for millions to read?

I have written and lived for 47 years more than Anne. Would Anne have learned similar lessons through her writings as I have done? Primarily, that writing about your life can do what time and therapy and lovers never can. Through these writings there are some things about myself that I know for sure, some which I can never understand, some that I am still discovering and some that I can’t hide from.

My diaries, now journals and detailed yearly daytimers, have been my constant companion and greatest friend. Would Anne have felt the same way? At the latest count, there are 88 and include almost 15,000 pages. They tell me who I am, where I’ve been and what I have cared for in my life. They are restorative and healing: Extracting old memories has softened old hurts while still remaining painful in remembering.

Not all of what I learned about myself is happiness and light. Many harsh realities have been brought to the surface – a tsunami of memories of all those conversations that could have been handled differently. What stands out is how my separation and divorce from my first love, 26 years ago after a seven-year union, was a catalyst for significant change in my life. Even with the despair and emptiness one feels at the end of a marriage, it was truly a blessing in disguise. Had she lived, how would Anne remember Peter Schiff, her “one true love.” In 1940 she wrote, “I was crazy about his smile, which made him look so boyish and mischievous.”

Story continues below advertisement

Rereading Anne’s diary has heightened the deep gratitude I experience for the life I continue to live with all its joys and challenges. I believe that writing about your life and sharing it truthfully connects us; whether we write till we are only 15 years of age, such as Anne, or still at 62, as I can. I have discovered personal growth occurs in how we respond to universal struggles. I was mentored early in this by Anne, and have witnessed this in others.

Knowing how it all ended so tragically for Anne, and those she loved, I have renewed inspiration to recognize my own potential and live fully in whatever life hands out in these unprecedented times. And I am grateful that Otto Frank, upon reading his daughter’s diary after her death was so moved by her repeated wish to be an author that he considered having it published. She remains in my thoughts.

Debra Dolan lives in Vancouver.

First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.