The Freedom Writers Diary (16 page)

I’m still in shock. I was always taught not to tell anyone about anything that happens our household, but tonight I guess you could say that I spilled the beans. I knew Ms. G was going to pick on me because of the topic we were discussing. I knew there were at least two or three more people who were in more or less the same situation that I was in. But she picked me. I still can’t get over it. I tried to scoot down in my chair and hide behind the person that was in front of me, hoping Ms. G had forgotten I was there. No such luck. She pointed her finger around the class and asked, “Where is she? Oh, there you are. Why don’t you stand up and tell my college students a little more about your experience with homelessness?”

My legs were shaking as I stood up. I didn’t know what I was going to say to a roomful of strangers. Why did she have to pick me to speak to these people? I didn’t think they’d listen to my story, and if they did, I thought they’d forget it once they went home. My intent was to say a couple of words and sit down. I wasn’t going to elaborate and go into detail about my life. I wanted to say something like “It’s not fun being homeless and I wouldn’t try it if I were you.” Of course, Ms. Gruwell wouldn’t let me get away with saying something like that.

So I decided to tell the class about my father. I also told them that I didn’t think he deserved the skin God blessed him with. I told them how he makes my mother go out because he doesn’t want to get up off his butt and get a job to provide for us. I explained that “going out” means that my mother stands on the corner with a “Homeless! Will Work for Food” sign. She stands outside for hours with that sign, hoping people will give her some money to feed her children. She goes out in the hottest and coldest weather just to make sure we had something to eat. When my mother comes home, he has the audacity to take the money and go buy beer and drugs, more specifically cocaine. My mother has to lie and say she only made half the money she really made so she can get us something to eat for the day. I don’t know why she puts up with his shit. She has the education to get a good career. If it weren’t for my father she wouldn’t have done drugs and believed that she couldn’t do any better than standing on a street corner asking for money.

I went on to ask the class, “Do you know what he does? He gets all of his beer bottles and recycles them so that he can go and buy more beer.” Well, you can’t say he isn’t trying to help the environment. He sells our food so that he could get more drugs, leaving us hungry. After I laid my life out like an open book, I couldn’t help but break down and cry. Talking about my father made me realize how depressing my life really is. It never bothered me before tonight, because I guess I’m used to it and I’ve never expected it be any other way.

At that point, I was crying hysterically. I couldn’t help it, but then neither could anyone else. I noticed there were some males in the corner who had actually stepped out of the room because I guess they had a little “something in their eyes,” but I still kept talking.

“He is a selfish bastard,” I said, heaving and gasping for breath. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He claims that he cares for his precious son, but he doesn’t try to get a job and make sure his son has food in his stomach or clean clothes on his back. He doesn’t care that his precious son has to go to school with the same clothes he’s been wearing for the past week. He doesn’t care that we have to wash our clothes in the sink with the soap we use to bathe with. He doesn’t care that we had to sleep on the streets because he couldn’t pay rent for the hotels we were living out of. He doesn’t care about his son or any of his family—all he cares about is his drugs.

By that point, I was seething mad and not caring what I told people about my father. I was getting everything off my chest and it felt damn good. I continued to tell the class that my father had molested my sister and how angry I was that my mother didn’t do anything when she found out about it. In fact, she doubts that my sister is telling the truth. That’s shows how much power and influence my father has over my mother.

After years of keeping everything in, my heart felt like a grenade. It exploded, full force, and left me emotionally drained. I was relieved, but felt horrible just the same, because I told these strangers basically every detail of my life.

When I finished my story, I clumsily sat in my chair because I could barely stand straight. My friend sitting next to me took me into her arms and gave me a much needed hug. Ms. Gruwell’s college students were so comforting that they didn’t feel like strangers anymore.

I can’t believe what I did today. I told them everything! Well, not everything, but almost everything. It’s unbelievable how much I revealed. I knew she was going to pick on me I just knew it…but I’m happy that she did.

Diary 66

Dear Diary,

Tonight, while I was sitting in Ms. G’s class at National University listening to other students’ stories about their families, I couldn’t help but remember my own. Rather than listen, I began to look out the window, staring at the cars driving by when I thought about my brother Kevin’s death a year ago…

Kevin was placed in a Children’s Hospital to undergo a brain biopsy for a misdiagnosed tumor. The surgery lasted all night. I spent that night looking at the big Hollywood sign in the dark from the seventh floor of the hospital. I saw people driving around in their cars, going about their business, not aware that they just passed by a hospital that was filled with children who were ill or near death. All I could do is sit in the waiting room, waiting.

Kevin got out of surgery early the next morning. He was placed in the ICU and only two people were allowed to see him at a time. I didn’t know what to expect when my mother and I walked in. When I saw him, he was hooked up to various machines. Parts of his hair was shaved off and his head was bandaged. The sight was gruesome. He hadn’t woken up from the procedure yet. He looked like a mess and I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there and looked at him. I was afraid to touch him.

After Kevin recovered in the ICU, they discovered that he was paralyzed on the left side of his body. He was moved to the Physical Therapy ward. The ward was on the sixth floor of the hospital, which was lit up and colorful. It seemed happy, unlike the people in it. The ward was filled with children who were sick and unable to walk or perform basic activities, like playing with toys. Now Kevin would be one of them. He stayed at the Physical Therapy ward for three months. He was hoping that he was going to be able to walk again, but he never did. I was in so much pain watching him attempt to do a simple task, which was impossible for him.

Every day my mother drove to the hospital and stayed there. When I went with her, I spent the day looking at Kevin in his bed or in Physical Therapy. When I had a chance to run off, I would. I ran up to the roof, looked at the city, and thought about Kevin. I also thought about my dad. I wanted him to take me away from this place. Unfortunately, my father didn’t have any idea that Kevin was even in the hospital, because my parents were divorced. They haven’t spoken to each other for two years. My mother thought it would be best if we didn’t tell him about Kevin’s illness. I wanted to tell him so I could feel like everything was going to be all right. But things weren’t going to be all right—and this secret was my ball and chain.

From the hospital, I could see the blue ocean in the distance, the same ocean that my brother and I used to play in. I hadn’t seen the ocean for about a year. I miss it.

When Kevin was released from the hospital, he lived with my mother and me in a one-bedroom apartment. The neighborhood was bad. He was placed in a local hospice program. In a way, being in the program made things easier to deal with, but Kevin wasn’t getting any better. There were still nights spent in the hospitals.

Kevin was bed-ridden, having seizures and hallucinations. No matter how bad the situation got, and how many times the doctors told me he was going to die, it just didn’t sink in.

I knew Kevin was suffering, maybe not physically, but mentally. How can a person cope with the fact that they came to the hospital walking and left four months later in a wheelchair? As I sat there watching him, I wondered what he was thinking. The doctors and medical staff had no idea of his mental status. Was he sane or was he delusional? If he was sane, in his physical state, it must have taken a toll on him, but what if he wasn’t? What if he was just a vegetable? Did he know who I was? Did he actually see me? I had so many questions, but no answers. I was afraid to sleep because I wasn’t sure when Kevin would have his next seizure. My worst fear was that I would wake up and find him dead. That thought alone was enough to keep me awake at night.

Months passed by, and Kevin saw his last Christmas and New Year, which was the worst time for all of us. We spent it in the hospital watching him choke on his food and water. A couple of days after the holidays, Kevin began to lose his reflexes and couldn’t swallow his own saliva. There was nothing we could do. We couldn’t help. We didn’t know what would happen next.

The last time I saw Kevin alive he was in the emergency room. He was asleep and he looked like an angel. There were no seizures and no more choking. For once, he seemed fine. I thought the nightmare was coming to an end. There would be no more hospitals, doctors, pills, or pain. Now there were only two roads he could take, or that God would allow him to take. One was recovery, by some type of miracle, and the other was death.

As we walked into Kevin’s hospital room the next day, the foul smell of death was choking me. I was shocked to see that Kevin’s body was placed in the ICU with five other critically ill patients, even though he was dead! The nurse pulled open the curtains around his bed to show Kevin’s lifeless body to my mother and me. The nurses had already “cleaned his body” and placed him in a white body bag. Only his head was poking out. My mother broke down in tears and I stood there in disbelief…He’s dead. He’s dead.

Junior Year Spring 1997

Entry 6. Ms. Gruwell

Dear Diary,

I just got off the phone with Zlata and I told her that she’s the inspiration for our latest writing project. Using her as our muse, the students will begin compiling the diaries they’ve been keeping into a collaborative book. She still keeps a journal and feels honored to be passing the baton.

Zlata said writing was her salvation during the war and it kept her sane. She suggested that writing might be one of the best vehicles for some of my students to escape their horrific environments and personal demons. Even though they’re not held captive in an attic or dodging bombs in a basement, the violence permeating the streets is just as frightening—and just as real.

For some of my students, my classroom is one of the only places where they feel safe. Room 203 is a place where they can seek refuge from all the mayhem. Outside my classroom walls, anything can happen.

Many of my students say they live in fear and are constantly looking over their shoulders. It’s not uncommon for them to stay until seven or eight o’clock at night doing their homework. If it gets too late, I feel obligated to drop them off on my way home. There have been times that I’ve been really scared. I’ve seen prostitutes propositioning men right in front of my students; I even had a crack dealer approach my car once and try to sell me rock. I’ve seen gangsters hanging out drinking 40s or playing dominoes. My students always seem to point out the makeshift altars of where the latest casualty went down. There are usually flowers and candles adorning the bloodstained concrete.

I always feel guilty when I drop them off and then head to Newport Beach. Although they’re only about forty minutes apart, the cities are worlds apart. Some of my students have security doors and bars on every window. I don’t even lock my front door. I’ve never had to worry about drug dealers loitering on street corners or helicopters patrolling from above. The parks aren’t strewn with hypodermic needles or broken glass.

Since their fears are legitimate, I need to let them keep their anonymity. Some of their diary entries deal with subjects like murder and molestation. By using numbers rather than names when we compile our diary, I think they’ll feel more comfortable and it will probably be safer for all of us. To ensure that no one embellishes or sensationalizes their stories, I’m going to ask them to sign an honor code.

This project makes me feel a certain sense of personal responsibility—resembling the commitment Miep Gies felt to the Franks. Now I understand what Miep meant when she said, “I simply did what I had to do, because it was the right thing to do.” This writing project feels like the right thing to do, and it will be worth making some personal sacrifices. Although I haven’t dug up any turnips in the snow like Miep did, I have dug up corporate support. I’ve asked several powerful adults to get onboard and help see this project through.

John Tu was the first to pledge his support. He thought it was a good idea to protect the students’ anonymity, too, but he was concerned that people might recognize one another’s handwriting. After several hours of discussing alternative solutions, he offered to supply the class with a set of computers. Thirty-five to be exact. Our computer lab in the library only has twenty outdated computers for the entire student body. After I managed to pick my jaw up off the floor, we came up with an idea. Since the “Toast for Change” wiped the slate clean for many of them, their grades have gone from Ds and Fs to As and Bs. John and I came up with a contract stipulating that once the computers arrived the 35 students with the highest grade point average would win a computer when they graduated. With computers in my class, the sky’s the limit.

To help me design an honor code, John recommended that I get advice from a lawyer. Realizing that I barely had enough money to pay for school supplies, let alone legal expenses, John suggested soliciting a big law firm because sometimes they do work pro bono. Pro bono is a nifty term for “free.” But he was right. With some help, I found a senior partner in one of the biggest firms in the country, who offered to help us. I told him that we could have a fundraiser to help pay for his advice, but he laughed and said, “Erin, I’m a lawyer. Who’s going to donate money for a lawyer? People think we’re sharks.” But our lawyer dispels the stereotype. The kids love him because he spends more time in a baseball cap than a suit. And when he told one of my students he had tickets to the “Rage Against the Machine” concert, she turned to me and whispered, “Doesn’t he realize that he
is
the machine?”

So with computers on the way and honor codes being drawn up, I’m going to kick off our diary with a special visit from two people who have been immortalized in Anne Frank’s diary. I’ve helped arrange for the kids to meet Anne Frank’s best friends, Jopie and Hanneli (a.k.a. “Lies”) who she wrote about before she went into hiding. Hopefully, meeting Jopie and Lies will get them excited about starting our new writing project—and reaffirm the power of the written word.

Diary 67

Dear Diary,

My mom always says, “Silence will get you nowhere in life.” Today she was right. I had the opportunity to sing to Anne Frank’s best friends, Jopie and Lies, but I didn’t. Two people were needed to sing the song “Hero,” but I never told anyone that I could sing. I really wanted to sing to them because Anne Frank is my hero and the song would have tied in perfectly, but the thought of telling anyone scared me. So I let that chance slip right out of the palm of my hand.

When the girls sang, I was sad because I had the chance to do it and I didn’t take it. Everyone cheered, but I felt so disappointed that I wasn’t on the stage. One of the girls who volunteered was in the concert choir, but she was not in Ms. G’s class. She hadn’t even read the book, so she didn’t know the symbolism of the song. I did—and I was ashamed that I didn’t stand up.

After the song, Jopie and Lies told us about how they knew Anne. They both went to school with Anne before she went into hiding. They were inseparable, kind of like the Three Musketeers, until the war tore them apart. Luckily, Jopie didn’t have to go to a concentration camp, but Lies did. Ironically, while she was at Bergen-Belsen, she had the opportunity to talk to Anne, who was dying of hunger, disease, and sadness. A fence separated them and Anne was sick with typhus. Anne kept saying, “I have no one left.” Lies threw a bag of food to Anne across the barbedwire fence. Even though she would not have food for herself and she risked getting killed by the Nazis, she didn’t care, because she saw that Anne needed help and she could not deny a friend. Somebody grabbed the bag and ran away with it, leaving Anne in that horrible situation. She died a few days later. When Lies was liberated from the camp, she found out that Anne’s father, Otto, was the only one who survived from the Frank family. Otto treated Lies, who had lost her family as well, as an adopted daughter. Both Jopie and Lies were shocked to read Anne’s diary. They never knew that they meant so much to her.

After I heard their moving stories, I felt really guilty. After all, Jopie and Lies risked themselves for their friend and I didn’t even have the guts to say that I wanted to sing to them. Maybe I didn’t deserve to be there because I wasn’t as brave as they were. Lies helped her friend in the camp, knowing that if an officer saw her she would be killed. No one was going to kill me just for saying that I wanted to sing, but I made it seem that way with my cowardliness.

Bad things have happened because people hold back information. Women get beat up by their husbands and no one can help them because they never say who did it. Children get abused and we sometimes think that everything is normal because they act as if there is nothing wrong. The Germans knew what was going on in the camps, but the world found out too late because they held back that information. There are many tragedies that could be stopped if only we spoke up more often. From this point on, I will not be silent.

Diary 68

Dear Diary,

This is my first year to have Ms. Gruwell as my English teacher. I am one of the transfers, or the “lucky ones,” on “Gruwell’s List.” However, now that I’m in, I am terrified because I feel that my writing capacity is not at the same level as the other students. They have had so much more experience writing than I’ve had; writing essays and crafting letters to people like Zlata and Miep. They know what to expect from Ms. G and all her crazy writing schemes. I don’t.

Today Ms. Gruwell assigned a new writing project. We each are going to choose one of our favorite journal entries and combine them into a classroom book like the letters they’d previously sent to Zlata. Ms. Gruwell wants us to pick an entry about an event that changed our lives. In my case, there is only one that really sticks out, but I want to forget it. Not because it is embarrassing, but because it is the most painful one…

I guess it was foolish to think that my brother would be here for the rest of my life, but I did. I had a brother, but I took him for granted. I thought that I would go to high school with him, see him get his first job, and grow old with him. It didn’t happen that way. It has only been nine months since he died, and now my teacher wants me to open the floodgates and lose control of my emotions by writing a book? I just can’t do that. I don’t want to remember!

Silence is my way of staying strong, for my brother and for me. I want to forget everything, lock the door and hide the key where no one could find it…Writing about it will only make it worse!

Diary 69

Dear Diary,

Ms. G came up with a new writing assignment that she thinks will bring the class closer together; we have to create a book of events that have changed our lives. It has everyone in class so excited about the thought of emulating Anne and Zlata. Someone even suggested that we could bind our stories into a book or diary. Unlike everyone else, I am not excited about the new assignment. For the first time I am feeling alienated from the rest of the class.

I have great respect for Anne Frank for writing about her life in the attic, but to me, my neighborhood is somewhat like her attic. I would rather write about something fictional, because I do not want to be reminded of where I come from. Writing about where I come from will bring up a lot of things that I want to suppress.

As I look up at the sky, there seems to be a black cloud lingering over my neighborhood, even on the sunniest day. I picture myself coming home to a wonderful house with white picket fences, but slowly my picture starts to fade. With the smell of marijuana in the air, the mumbling of drug dealers trying to make their sales, the horrific sounds of gunshots, and the sight of graffiti, which is more popular than Vincent Van Gogh. The reason why my neighborhood is filled with violence is because I live in the projects.

The projects are the farthest thing from the fictional
Brady Bunch
neighborhood. On
The Brady Bunch
, kids play together peacefully in their backyards, all the lawns have green grass, and neighbors even go camping together. Parents get together to compare their kids’ report cards, and gang violence is something they read about in a newspaper.

In the projects, little kids are bad! Rather than play, they destroy. They set trashcans on fire, they knock on people’s doors and run, and they turn their neighbors’ water hoses on in their backyard so it will flood. Most of the kids in my neighborhood do not know their ABCs, but could sing you a rap song word for word. As for green grass, the grass is dead. The only grass that’s alive is the grass they smoke. But grass isn’t the only thing that they smoke. I see crackheads getting high in the “cut” smoking their pipes. In fact, I don’t even borrow sugar from my neighbors. Becoming friendly with your neighbors will end up getting your house robbed. As for parents comparing their kids’ report cards? Being smart and getting good grades makes you an outcast in the projects. If I tell anyone that I got a good grade on a test, then I’ll be eating my teeth. Instead of reading about gang violence in newspapers, I’m the kid you see on the news telling a reporter what I’ve witnessed.

At sixteen, I’ve probably witnessed more dead bodies than a mortician. Murder plays a big role in my project. Every time I step out of my front door, I’m faced with the risk of being shot. Just recently, while I was sound asleep, I awoke to the sound of gunshots. It was 2:30 in the morning. After the gunshots stopped, a woman screamed, “Help me, please…why, why, why?” I looked out of my bedroom window to see a man with a bullet wound in his head the size of a quarter and blood oozing out of his head like ketchup coming from a Heinz bottle.

Besides gang violence, domestic violence, or spousal abuse, is common. So common, in fact, that people ignore it, turn the other cheek, or go back to bed. I have watched men pistol-whip their girlfriends or smash their heads through car windows. Damn! I have seen a lot of crazy stuff. Stuff that makes me thankful it’s not me.

It’s easier for me to pretend I don’t live where I live or see what I see. That’s why I go to school so far away from home so I can escape my reality. Like Anne Frank, I live through the pain of being stuck in my house because I don’t want to become a casualty of war, gang warfare that is going on outside of my bedroom walls. I sit in my room wishing I could fly away from all of the madness. Writing about my pain will only make it worse.

Diary 70

Dear Diary,

John Tu donated thirty-five computers to our class, and what a difference they make! Ms. G said we’re not limited to just using them on English assignments. She’s going to let us use them for projects for our other classes before and after school. The most amazing part is that Ms. G and Mr. Tu created a contract stating that whoever has the highest grade point average from now until graduation will win a computer for college. That means that I have a chance to get a computer if I keep my grades up. For some reason, I feel like I’ll do better than I have the past two years.

It feels good to start off with a clean slate. Not many people get a chance like this since most people seem to make judgments based on the past. Unfortunately, the education system tends to dismiss kids based on their past and not on their potential. Throughout my years of education, only Ms. Gruwell took action to help me with my learning disability. As a matter of fact, when I told one teacher in jr. high that I thought I had dyslexia, he told me that I was just lazy. Yeah, right! Me, lazy? I would end up with the same routine before every vocabulary test or important assignment. I would spend a week trying to memorize words that, no matter what I did, I couldn’t spell right. On test days, I would turn in the test, and get an F. All I could do was hope that I’d do better on the next one.