Part of the wonderment of Jessie’s project is the intimate look we get inside Cheryl’s life. Each entry serves as a time capsule, bringing you back to Cheryl’s emotional state the moment her pen touched paper. She works through themes such as loss, regret, loneliness, frustration, hope, and—as seen on the next page of this series—love. Her words are always honest, making it easy for the reader to identify with her narrative as if it were their own.
Jessie admits she discovered a lot of pain in her mother’s writing. And while we would love to focus on the major achievements of her journalism career, these harder entries remind us of her humanness. Just because she had the charisma and the confidence to work and form relationships with great minds like Maya Angelou doesn’t mean Cheryl didn’t experience heartache or hardship.
I’m so thankful Jessie chose to share the rawness of her mother’s entries instead of showcasing the “fluff.” Given our heavy consumption on various social media platforms, it’s easy to trim around the edges and present the best parts of life. While they may be beautiful, they’re not entirely honest. Here we experience several layers to Cheryl’s story, including the raw emotions of her lessons learned and mistakes made. Seeing Cheryl’s evolution is a reminder of our own potential for growth and the changes we have yet experience in our lifetime.
November 1969
February 1, 1972
I do feel trepidation at the thought of journeying to Belfast but as Russell says, “If you’re not prepared to die every day, you’re just fucking around.”
Living in Detroit can’t be much less dangerous than walking around Belfast. The total death toll for five years of fighting in Ireland is less than half of 1 year’s homicide rate in Detroit. I suppose I’m actually increasing my chances of staying alive by leaving this miserable excuse for a city.
I saw Marty and Claire wed on Sunday and felt a bit sad. They were suddenly taken from our ever-diminishing ranks of kids grooving around and became “A Serious Married Couple.” It seems to me that marriage is an announcement to the world that you’ve abandoned all hope of becoming a happy person by yourself and of ever achieving what you want out of life. I know that marriage has crossed my mind, but only at the times when I felt like giving up and saying okay, I’ll play it your way. Fortunately, I’ve sprung back from those moments and gone on to do the things I’ve wanted.
You say goodbye to a lot of options when you do that (settle down), and Lord knows, I need a lot of options open or I feel trapped.
March 23, 1972
Last Thursday, Lynn, Tom, Rick, and I were all busted along with 40 others in a raid on a blind pig. It was funny at first—all singing in the paddy wagon and laughing and joking—but when we got to jail, the hilarity wore off quickly. We were fingerprinted and questioned and held overnight for arraignment. I stayed in the women’s lockup with junkies and hookers abounding. It wasn’t really so bad.
The news got me out at 7:30 a.m. so that I could get some bail money. We were finally arraigned—with Suzan, Callahan, and Doyle witnessing the spectacle—and the trial date was set for May 5th. Tange (the owner of the blind pig) got a lawyer for all 40 people so we incurred no legal costs. It’s a drag though because it goes on our record and we have to pay a fine eventually even though we all pleaded not guilty.
JM: I learned that a blind pig is another term for a speakeasy.
July 19, 1972
Took two boxes of clothes over to the McCall house and saw the old lady. She is unchanged. As bitchy, catty, chameleon, and sick as ever. We were extremely polite and formal with each other, discussing other people and their doings, but never our own families’ interpersonal doings. I felt very adult and she accepted me warily as an adult—but also as one who knows her games and plays.
JM: I only met my grandmother a few times in her lifetime, and that wasn’t until after my mother’s passing. As you can tell, they didn’t have a very loving relationship. Dolores lived out her days in McKeesport, PA and we lived out ours in California. Mom would always tell me stories of how terrible Dolores was; however, when I met her at my mother’s funeral in 2005, I did my best to be polite and show her that I was raised to be an upstanding person without any of her help. I saw her a few more times over the last 10 years and did my best to put all of my mother’s baggage to the side and treat her with kindness. I’ll be honest when I say that I never formed a bond with her and never had any desire to. She passed away while I was traveling in Australia earlier this year and all of the family on mom’s side attended the funeral. I was grateful that I was an ocean away and that would suffice as an excuse for my absence.
Fall 1972 | Relief Hill, Nevada City, CA
In spite of the driving difficulties, California was beautiful. Tall pine trees and about five feet of snow covered the mountain. We passed successfully through the Donner Pass, probably one of the most spectacular in the world. We took Route 20 for 26 miles into Nevada City. It could have been out of a fairytale. Mountain forest, full moon, and the muffled softness of the snow. There was no doubt in my mind that I would be happy here.
JM: Little did she know upon her first visit, driving all the way from Detroit, Michigan with a couple of comrades, that many years later this would be the place she considered home, raised a child, and took in her last breath.
Sept 2, 1972 | Hennes Pass Camp
As these times promise by their very nature, much has happened in the past week, making even these seven days seem like an eternity. The days exist separately with full lives unto themselves, bearing little resemblance to either these predecessors or successors. Each day I could have been lifted out of separate years and separate lives, full and complete with humor, anger, sorrow, and joy, all the pains and promises of being alive crowded into each set of 24 hours.
Who can say why I am sitting on top of yet another mountain somewhere in the California Sierras contemplating the strange twists and turns of my meandering course through this world? The basics of reality suggest that I am a member of a timber-marking crew, set down here in the proximity of the 3 million board feet waiting to have its fate determined by our spray guns. Why I am here is because I need the money, want the experience, and Russell got Sweet Sue and I the jobs. How I got here was in my car.
And yet there seems to be so much more to all this in those fundamentals. Unexplainable and unreasonable.
Sept 2, 1972 | Continued
So here we are, for two or three weeks, away and oblivious to and unconcerned about the outside world. Separated from friends, lovers, and acquaintances, tramping through the forest, sleeping under the stars, eating around the campfire.
Actually, there’s a lot to be said for that short sojourn into non-reality. The sounds for instance. The fire is crackling, the stream is actually bubbling and gurgling a few feet away, a woodpecker is searching meticulously for its dinner. The coyotes howl at night, the squirrels chatter, the dogs bark, birds whose names I know not sing and chirp.
The sites. The sky has paled now from its brilliant blue into a pastel scrim, allowing the sinking sun to set the wispy clouds ablaze in its finest pyromaniac manner. The cedars and pines and firs are our walls and the green ground of this meadow our beds in the stream our lifeblood.
Life certainly could be worse. I wonder if I would have enjoyed this all more if I didn’t miss or had never met Philip. Probably not, I always seem to be waiting, anxious to end one episode and begin yet another, furthering my discontentment with situations. Relief Hill seems to be my only penance. As soon as my feet touch its soil I lapse into a fit of serenity. Maybe it’s Indian, maybe it’s the good times, maybe it’s the feeling of unchallenged security or the garden, or meadow, or trees. I know it’s not me.
Sept 6, 1972
These days and Henness Pass Camp are leisurely and yet full, especially the days when I accompanied the marking crew. With much mundane (but satisfying somehow) chore work to be done, it is quite easy to slip into a more contemplative frame of mind. I was continually amazed yesterday while sawing some firewood to find the blade had cut through the logs while so little of my attention has been focused on the task itself. Russell says he works out his aggression by cutting wood but I find the act itself almost irrelevant—it’s the thinking time that I enjoy. Work therapy for both of us but suited to our own needs, I guess.
December 11, 1972 | New York City
Though they mock the idea, they are bewildered by life, it’s mysteries—and feel betrayed. All denied cruelly that which they more than surely deserve.
Tom—refusing to believe his own goodness, a martyr whose time has long passed, who suffers perhaps more acutely than all of us whose moral dilemma will be his downfall. Oh, those heavy-lidded sad searching eyes that reveal too much pain and puzzlement.
Russell—the purest knight who raves at the world but knows best whose quest will never be fulfilled—who turns his back to us so that we may never see his tears—who wants more than getting by.
Downing—our gentle saint who pretends not to know, our anchor and helper who only asks for peace, perhaps the most blatantly inscrutable who can be so childish in his honesty and joy, who needs more than getting by, whose total humility is his beauty.
JM: There was an arrow drawn to this entry that simply said “acid.”
December 24, 1972 | New York City
Spending Christmas Eve alone in this tenement could easily lead to steeping myself in self-pity but I’m trying to avoid that. Been dancing to records to keep my spirits up. Rock ‘n’ roll is good for the soul.
Waited all day for 5 o’clock so I could call my friends. Sweet Sue is doing well and reports that Newsweek sent me the first $100 installment on my story. The rest will be paid after publication she says.
Philip arrived on Wednesday and despite all my resolutions to the contrary, we got along well. His time in Maine has mellowed him somehow because he treats me much better than he used to. I was uptight and suspicious of him at first, expecting his old shit, but none was forthcoming. We made some beautiful love if that’s indicative of anything besides sexual prowess. I dig him, but I don’t trust him, and I hope I’ll lose my feelings for him while I’m in Europe.
I doubt that Philip and I will ever get it together unless something radically changes while I’m away. But it is a hope that I harbor for sometime in the future. I occasionally see glimpses of a person I like beneath his bullshit facade and some signs of an intelligent mind behind the hippie crap that he spouts. If we ever get enough mutual trust between us and he loses some of his insecurity, I think Philip would make a fine partner. But I’m neither banking on it nor cultivating it at this point. These are just future fantasies.
July 19, 1973 | New York City
We all went out to find some air-conditioned bars as the temperature and humidity were in the 90s. Went to McSorley’s only because it had previously banned women and then to some typical East Village bar. Taylor and I went a little later to the White Horse Tavern where Dylan Thomas reportedly hung out in his day. Had a lot of character and an unknown benefactor who sent cognac over to our table.
We were feeling pretty high when we left but were immediately brought down when the car ran out of gas. The fuel gauge was fucked up and registering a half tank when this occurred.
1978 | Time After Time
JM: 10th year McKeesport High School reunion.
Family Portrait
JM: Mom and all of her siblings. Aunts Lisa, Maura, Jill, and Joyce. Uncles Gary, Brian, and Dale.
May 6, 1979 | New York City
In an hour I’ll be 29 years old. My birthday present to myself was working all weekend on the Don Ho file, which I finished writing at 10 p.m. tonight… This week I’ll write the Truscott file and a pick on Mary Ellen Mark’s book, Ward 81, which finally came out. Larry wants me to do Bill Murray but I don’t know if I’ll be able to. It all depends on whether or not the Chinese government gives me a visa to accompany the Connecticut Falcons to China.
January 31, 1982
A week ago we were eating dinner and getting drunk with Maya. I immediately loved her and forgot all my apprehensions and fears about meeting her. I expected to be overwhelmed or politely tolerated but instead found myself embraced by her warmth, wit, and caring. We spent three days in nonstop talk it seemed. Staying up much too late, drinking too much wine, laughing, and sometimes crying together. We talked from the heart.
JM: I had the pleasure of meeting Maya when mom was sick. We went to her house in the Bay Area and I spent the evening with her at a little dinner party she was hosting. She sat me down and said, “Tell me about yourself.'” She was direct, respectful, kind, and an incredibly gracious woman even after mom died and I would write to her. I was a stubborn teenager and she pierced through my exterior that night with her genuine nature. She inspired my mother throughout the years and continues to inspire me. After reading through these entries, I truly believe she was just one of those incredible people, not only because of her talents but because of her humanity.
Editor’s Note: We didn’t include this in the On Assignment section because of the incredible bond that formed between Cheryl and Maya. You can read the article Cheryl wrote about Maya here.
December 31, 1983 | New Year's Eve in New York City
I think more than ever this year has taught me that you cannot count on even the “surest” thing in life. I could never have predicted that I would end up writing and producing a documentary this year or have taken the first leave of absence of my life. I could not have predicted that I’d end up hating Martin Bell and I certainly did not imagine that I would adopt a dog to complicate my life.
I did predict—or at least fervently desire—that I’d leave People. I hoped for a job at LIFE and through hard work on freelance pieces and badgering Stolley, I did at least attain that goal.
January 15, 1984 | New York City
My only New Year’s resolutions, which I failed to record on New Year’s Day, are to complete this film in 1984, begin the Fonda workout or start running again, make a stab at cutting back to one pack of cigarettes a day, redecorate my bedroom and paint the hallway, and write at least five stories for LIFE in 1984 (Ann Fodiman only does three a year).
I’d also like to sue Tim Egan and wipe that smirk off his face.
May 18, 1984 | Minneapolis, Minnesota
For the first time really, in all these years, I’m beginning to see the total picture of my own victimization and behavior patterns that came from it. I’ve understood some of it before, but there was much I didn’t realize. I keep having flashbacks to the experiences and sudden illuminations and insights—really like light bulbs going on in my brain.
There are generally three ways the victims of incest and sexual abuse handle the experience: they victimize others to regain some power, they re-victimize themselves over and over again, or they become survivors who need to do neither. I think maybe at this stage of my life I’ve become a survivor but only after a couple of decades of being a perpetual victim.
I don’t need to take total responsibility for the man who forced me to jack him off in his car when I was 18, or the college professor who seduced me, or the muggings and robberies I’ve endured. I was truly a victim in these cases.
I can see how all my relationships for years were the unconscious product of my victimization. My extremely low self-esteem, deep depression, suicidal impulses (and attempts) were due to the extreme sexual and physical abuse I suffered as a child. I unconsciously chose men who would reinforce my feelings of low self-worth and who would victimize me again by being cruel, emotionally sadistic, and ultimately, hurtful by leaving me. I thought my only value and identity to them was my sexual identity because that’s what I had learned as a child from my stepfather (rape), and my mother who’d say, “All men are sex fiends or bastards.” I generally tended to lose interest in men who didn’t treat me badly because the dynamic of victimization wasn’t being played out. And I almost could wear some men into relationships with me so that I could play the victim because that’s the only intimacy I knew. Maybe my need and yearning for solitude in the past ten years is a yearning not to be a victim. I certainly noticed that I’m stronger, more productive, and on a more level emotional keel when I’m not involved in a relationship.
What Renée has helped me with is not to minimize my own pain or rage and just suddenly see 16 years of relationships quite clearly within those terms. I also remembered, after years of blocking, the last time my stepfather tried to have sex with me and what happened. I woke up being carried by him downstairs to their bedroom on the night my mother was in the hospital giving birth to Brian. I struggled and said no. He said, “Don’t you want me to be nice to you?” (Of course, I did, because all I could usually expect was to be hit and beaten senselessly.) I said, “No. I’d rather be hit than have to do that with you.” And by God, he let me go.
JM: The thing about these journals is that I never know what entry I’m going to stumble upon and where it’s going to lead me. I knew my mother was abused as a child. She published a story in LIFE recalling her firsthand accounts while addressing the terrible, quiet secret so many people were being pressured not to acknowledge at the time. Though these entries are graphic and heart-wrenchingly personal, it’s a crucial piece of what motivated my mother to move from journalism into family law and defend children who could not defend themselves. She chose to speak out with hopes to inspire others to heal their own wounds like she had begun to do through her deep research and introspection required for the article. Writing this story alienated her from her family for years. Siblings called and left cutting messages threatening to disown her. She had the strength then to talk about it, and I think it’s important to remember that courage—and illuminate it again through this project.
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