Opinion: 'PostSecret' Exhibit at Museum of Us Offers Acceptance, But Sadly No Judgment

Jun 15, 2023

When I first heard of the PostSecret exhibit disgust was my primary emotion. I’m not sure if my response was due to the lens through which I received the information, a mother of elementary-age children who had stumbled upon the exhibit unaware of what her children could see and read, or if there was something I genuinely found appalling about the display of other humans “secrets” being so publicly exposed.

I’m not a particularly emotional human so when I have strong reactions, I tend to get very curious about them. Why such a strong emotion, what exactly did I find so appalling? So, I decided to go, without my children, and headed to the Museum of Us in Balboa Park

It was a warm July afternoon as I left the San Diego blue sky and bright sun and stepped inside the cool museum. No lines. I paid quickly and was standing in a large warehouse-size room with different exhibits organized throughout the space. A small staircase was on the far-left side of the room, and from the entrance door I could see the top of a sign and three letters “sec.”

Guessing the rest of the letters, I figured that was my destination and climbed the stairs so I could read the complete sign. A warning was inscribed beneath the exhibit title that “the content within may be emotionally disturbing to some. Vindicated, I sighed that I’m not that uniquely prudish.

I continued down a short path and entered a room with walls displaying multiple small postcards. Each postcard belonged to an individual and on it was their secret. The walls were covered ceiling to floor and a display counter in the center held more postcards arranged in books. I continued along the wall reading different cards slowly, allowing the path to lead me around a small corner finally opening into a larger room.

This room mimicked its predecessor with small postcards covering the walls but additionally contained a small table in the middle with four chairs. Each chair was occupied by a different person, each with their head bent writing. I presumed they were writing their secrets to add to the exhibit. There was a box on the wall behind them to allow for anonymous drop offs.

As I took in the scene my preconceived notion of disgust vanished. In its place a feeling of sadness crept in. There was a small bench in a corner under some postcards. I sat down watching the other patrons meander through the exhibit more conflicted about my internal strife than before.

Some of the secrets were quite dark and disturbing, but I didn’t think that was what was bothering me. At 42 I know the extent of my own imagination, how evil it has the capacity to be when unchecked and unsupervised. The fact that others contain this propensity is not new information.

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Some cards had a tone of sadness and loneliness, others angry with lots of images and descriptions of ideas of revenge. Lust was displayed in some disturbingly inappropriate relationship concepts. Others were humorous and entertaining. The full range of emotions experienced by all who navigate life was on display. A general air of acceptance encompassed the exhibit.

I watched a young woman at the table. She looked to be in her early twenties, with brown curly hair half pulled back and falling around her cheeks. She had no makeup and was wearing a baggy sweatshirt, fitted jeans and sneakers. She had set down her pen and was reading over her card. She seemed content, seeming to approve of what she had written.

Acceptance I assume. A comfort in the idea that we are all human, we are flawed. An opportunity to acknowledge that part of her, the “secret,” and expose it while simultaneously being provided the opportunity to engage in an experience of release, her own bad trait displayed anonymously on a wall with all the other humans and their dirt. She gathered her things, dropped her card in the box and left the exhibit.

Why am I sad? Acceptance is good. A card over my right shoulder catches my eyes. There is a brown cross very disproportionately drawn with green crayon written I’m assuming by a child author. “I wish God missed me…Like I miss him.” Maybe acceptance needs the yin to its yang — judgment? Not just the acceptance of our human flaws but the discernment to navigate us to a better self?

Throughout history religion, with churches, synagogues, mosques and prayer, has been the arbiter of soul health. The idea that we are flawed is central to the Christian faith in the concept of original sin. The difference is all organized religions offer the next step in the story.

After you are accepted for your sin you are reinstated in a hierarchy of higher values. The message isn’t that you are flawed and accepted, but that “yes you are flawed, yes you need to face that part of yourself, yes you need to release it, but you need to strive to be better.” The judgment provides the scaffolding for higher growth.

The PostSecret exhibit can offer a feeling of acceptance but maybe the religious institutions we have functioning in our culture can offer this and more? The message provided through religion is very different and this difference is important. The girl I watched only gets the satisfaction of acceptance, but no one is encouraging her to improve. No one is saying you are a unique, divine loved soul who can be better.

Use your consciousness and your feeling of disappointment or shame from your secret as a clue to guide you to become the better you that your soul wants you to be. Shameful secrets need real attention. Maybe they are best left within the institution of religion that we have been cultivating and attempting to improve for thousands of years.

Maybe the young author wondering if God misses her needs the knowledge of how to develop her life with responsibility to create a path closer to her own divine soul and maybe God is there? Or maybe this exhibit, all acceptance with no judgment, is what Nietzsche meant when he said “God is dead, and we killed him”

Virginia Sheller is a San Diego resident and mother of two who works in marketing and sales.

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