Diary & Memoir of Simone de Beauvoir

I sit on my deathbed, trying to make the best out of my last days. I’m known as the world’s famous feminist, existentialist, and novelist. I wonder what compelled me to achieve such things. I flip through past memories, journals, and writings that I have done, and find an interesting one. It’s titled ‘Females VS Males: The Difference?’ and it is a diary entry written when I was in fifth grade.

Females VS Males: The Difference?

August 24, 1920 (Sunday)

Dear Diary,

    Today was Election Day. I had a slice of thickly buttered toast and orange juice for breakfast. Father and Mother woke up before I did, so I don’t know what they ate. Mother probably ate the same thing I did, and Father probably ate something better. That’s the routine, I can’t explain why.

    So, as I was putting butter on my bread with my favourite silver knife, Mother was helping Father put his fancy, formal coat that he always wears on important days. Mother even helped button his coat for him, and I really could not understand why—Father has his own arms and legs. Father is not an invalid. Father is not quadriplegic or something. Father can put on and button his own coat. Anyway, when Mother was buttoning his coat, she accidentally poked his rotund belly with one of her sharp, long nails. Father glared at her and retorted, “Dammit, woman, watch what you’re doing!” Mother just muttered a small apology.

    I didn’t gasp. Father always swears at Mother, and Mother never says anything bad back to him. Maybe it is because Mother is too nice, maybe it is because Mother isn’t allowed to be disrespectful or something. Either way, I don’t think this is fair. Father and Mother are married. Mother should have the same power as Father. However, what say do I have in this? I’m a twelve-year-old girl. I’m only a twelve-year-old girl. I’m just a twelve-year-old girl. My words have no power against their actions. I remember the time when I asked Father if I could use vulgar language, because he did, too. His reply is clear in my mind. “Now, Simone, you watch your impertinence and be a good girl—you do as I say, not as I do. Or else you’ll be tasting soap along with your supper.” I kept my mouth shut after that.

    When mother finished buttoning his coat, straightening out his collar, and giving him a small peck on the cheek, Father marched out the door, leaving it ajar. Mother closed the door softly after him.

    Then Mother came to me and started brushing my hair with the mahogany hairbrush she always kept in her pocket. I yelped each time she caught one of the knots in my unkempt hair. After that she started braiding my hair into a fishtail plait with red, white, and blue ribbons. I hate ribbons—they make me look like a sissy. But Mother always says I look like an adorable little princess in them, and she always does my hair like that every morning. Ugh.

    I finished breakfast, dropped the plate into the sink, scowled at my girly reflection in the mirror, and then I was pretty much free. I had the rest of the day to myself.

    I kept myself busy. I had a free-write journal due for my philosophy course, and this time I decided to write about men and women in the society I live in. I mean, France (Paris) is one of the most male-dominated areas in Europe right now. My family doesn’t have that much money, we’re struggling to keep our bourgeois status after the war… and I don’t know. We rely on Father. He makes all the money. I thought about whether or not this was fair or not. I pondered about the different roles of men and women. Diary, I know that’s quite deep, but hey, the whole purpose I’m taking a philosophy course is because I want to learn to be a philosophical thinker. And philosophical thinkers are supposed to be pretty deep, right? I’m on my way to becoming an awesome philosopher!

    So I wrote about sexism. I wrote about stupid social hierarchies. I made sure to put tons of personal experiences in my writing. I wrote about how girls have to wear stupid ribbons in their hair. I wrote about how the population of girls in our school is much less than the population of boys. I wrote about how only boys are eligible for Summa Cum Laudes. I wrote about how males are dominant, and how females are submissive. I wrote about everything that came to my mind—even a shocking event I witnessed when I was eight, also when it was Election Day.

    When I was eight, it was pretty much the same in the morning—I was eating breakfast, and Mother was buttoning Father’s coat for him. But then she made the mistake of asking Father a V.I.Q. VIQs are what I call: Very Important Questions. Basically, she asked, “Honey, which candidate are you electing?” Father got really, really angry all of a sudden and backhanded Mother. Like, really hard. It made her fall down. It left a visible red mark on her pale white face. “YOU, WOMAN, YOU DON’T HAVE THE RIGHT TO INTERFERE IN MANLY BUSINESS! YOU WEAK, PUNY THING—YOU SHOULD KNOW YOUR PLACE IN THIS WORLD!” I was dumbfounded, and after Father stormed out the door and slammed it loudly, I quickly knelt besides Mother and comforted her. I said some rather mean things about Father, and got reprimanded. “Simone, he was right to say that. Don’t you dare insult your Father. It wasn’t right for me to ask that. It wasn’t right for me to interfere so rudely.” Then she started combing and braiding my hair, and I calmed down considerably. When I was eight, I actually liked ribbons and fishtail plaits—for some unknown, weird reason.

    Honestly, I wrote about everything—every single unfairness towards us women that I know of. And I’m actually very proud of my philosophy essay this time. I expressed my thoughts and feelings in an organized and logical manner. I don’t know what Mr. Heidegger has to say about it yet, though—I hope he thinks it’s good, too. He’s usually nice and supportive, anyway.

    The rest of my day was pretty uneventful. I ate lunch with my Mother and supper with both my parents. For supper, we had mashed potatoes and smoked salmon. For dessert, we had treacle tart, which I love with all my might, so that was good. That’s it.

    This is probably one of my longest entries I’ve written for you, Diary. I can hear Mother’s voice—she’s yelling at me to switch off the lights and go to bed. I guess she’s right… Oh wow, it’s already past 12 o’ clock! See you tomorrow, then…

As Always,

Me (Simone!)

    I smile back at my younger self. I didn’t know that I had been seeing injustice in my society when I was ever so little. I just know that the fifth grade me was the most cheerful child ever. I remember that I had gotten the top score in the class for that philosophy free-write. Mr. Heidegger also wrote a long comment on the bottom for me, although I don’t quite remember what the contents of that were. But now I know—so that was what drove me to make such a difference in the world. I must say I’m proud.

    So many things have changed, and I believe I was one of people who caused all these wonderful changes. When I was in fifth grade, I probably didn’t know that Simone de Beauvoir, only a little girl, just a little girl, would make a big change towards society using her powerful words. Now, the French law no longer includes obedience among the duties of a wife. Female citizens have also gained the right to vote. As more people read my work, more people joined the huge Feminist Act. I am certainly not the leader of the Feminist Act. I am definitely not the hero who started it all. However, I am indeed a part of this brilliant project. That’s what makes me glad, and that’s what makes me feel like I have adequately paid back to society.

    I will be gone in the near future, but I was Simone de Beauvoir. For me, that’s what matters.