Last weekend I went to a play that was all about family secrets. The play was well acted but depressing since the family secret involved teenaged prostitution. In the lobby of the theater, there was a kiosk set up where the patrons could reveal their own secrets.
|"What are you hiding?"|
The 4-sided kiosk was covered with Post-It notes on which people had written all kinds of secrets. Some were silly (“I ate the last piece of cake”), some were deep (“I threw my engagement ring away and told my fiancé that I lost it”) and some were disturbing (“My sister was raped by a family member”). As I walked around the kiosk reading the notes, I heard people commenting that they were analyzing the handwriting. A few people thought that many of the notes were written by the same hand. I choose to believe that each note was left by a separate individual who felt just a little bit lighter, a little bit happier, after leaving a secret behind.
I can’t tell you what my secret is, but I can tell you what I wrote on the Post-It note that I left behind. “So am I.”