The Freedom Writers Diary (2 page)

Freshman Year Fall 1994

Entry 1. Ms. Gruwell

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow morning, my journey as an English teacher officially begins. Since first impressions are so important, I wonder what my students will think about me. Will they think I’m out of touch or too preppy? Or worse yet, that I’m too young to be taken seriously? Maybe I’ll have them write a journal entry describing what their expectations are of me and the class.

Even though I spent last year as a student teacher at Wilson High School, I’m still learning my way around the city. Long Beach is so different than the gated community I grew up in. Thanks to MTV dubbing Long Beach as the “gangsta-rap capital” with its depiction of guns and graffiti, my friends have a warped perception of the city, or L B C as the rappers refer to it. They think I should wear a bulletproof vest rather than pearls. Where I live in Newport Beach is a utopia compared to some of neighborhoods seen in a Snoop Doggy Dogg video. Still, TV tends to blow things out of proportion.

The school is actually located in a safe neighborhood, just a few miles from the ocean. Its location and reputation make it desirable. So much so that a lot of the students that live in what they call the “’hood” take two or three buses just to get to school every day. Students come in from every corner of the city: Rich kids from the shore sit next to poor kids from the projects…there’s every race, religion, and culture within the confines of the quad. But since the Rodney King riots, racial tension has spilled over into the school.

Due to busing and an outbreak in gang activity, Wilson’s traditional white, upper-class demographics have changed radically. African Americans, Latinos, and Asians now make up the majority of the student body.

As a student teacher last year, I was pretty naïve. I wanted to see past color and culture, but I was immediately confronted by it when the first bell rang and a student named Sharaud sauntered in bouncing a basketball. He was a junior, a disciplinary transfer from Wilson’s crosstown rival, and his reputation preceded him. Word was that he had threatened his previous English teacher with a gun (which I later found out was only a plastic water gun, but it had all the makings of a dramatic showdown). In those first few minutes, he made it brutally clear that he hated Wilson, he hated English, and he hated me. His sole purpose was to make his “preppy” student teacher cry. Little did he know that within a month, he’d be the one crying.

Sharaud became the butt of a bad joke. A classmate got tired of Sharaud’s antics and drew a racial caricature of him with huge, exaggerated lips. As the drawing made its way around the class, the other students laughed hysterically. When Sharaud saw it, he looked as if he was going to cry. For the first time, his tough façade began to crack.

When I got a hold of the picture, I went ballistic. “This is the type of propaganda that the Nazis used during the Holocaust,” I yelled. When a student timidly asked me, “What’s the Holocaust?” I was shocked.

I asked, “How many of you have heard of the Holocaust?” Not a single person raised his hand. Then I asked, “How many of you have been shot at?” Nearly every hand went up.

I immediately decided to throw out my meticulously planned lessons and make tolerance the core of my curriculum.

From that moment on, I would try to bring history to life by using new books, inviting guest speakers, and going on field trips. Since I was just a student teacher, I had no budget for my schemes. So, I moonlighted as a concierge at the Marriott Hotel and sold lingerie at Nordstrom. My dad even asked me, “Why can’t you just be a normal teacher?”

Actually, normalcy didn’t seem so bad after my first snafu. I took my students to see
Schindler’s List
in Newport Beach, at a predominately white, upper-class theater. I was shocked to see women grab their pearls and clutch their purses in fear. A local paper ran a front-page article about the incident, describing how poorly my students were treated, after which I received death threats. One of my disgruntled neighbors had the audacity to say, “If you love black people so much, why don’t you just marry a monkey?”

All this drama and I didn’t even have my teaching credentials yet. Luckily, some of my professors from University of California—Irvine read the article and invited my class to a seminar by the author of
Schindler’s List
, Thomas Keneally. Keneally was so impressed by my students that a few days later we got an invitation to meet Steven Spielberg at Universal Studios. I couldn’t believe it! The famous director wanted to meet the class that I had dubbed “as colorful as a box of Crayola crayons” and their “rookie teacher who was causing waves.” He marveled at how far these “unteachable” students had come as a junior class and what a close group they had become. He even asked Sharaud what “we” were planning to do next year as an encore. After all, if a film does well, you make a sequel—if a class surpasses everyone’s expectations, you…

…dismantle it! Yep, that’s exactly what happened. Upon my return from Universal, the head of the English department told me, “You’re making us look bad.” Talk about bursting my bubble! How was I making them look bad? After all, these were the same kids that “wouldn’t last a month” or “were too stupid” to read advanced placement books.

She went on to say, “Things are based on seniority around here.” So, in other words, I was lucky to have a job, and keeping Sharaud and his posse another year would be pushing the envelope. Instead, I’d be teaching freshmen—“at risk” freshmen. Hmm…not exactly the assignment I was hoping for.

So, starting tomorrow, it’s back to the drawing board. But I’m convinced that if Sharaud could change, then anyone can. So basically, I should prepare myself for a roomful of Sharauds. If it took a month to win Sharaud over…I wonder how long it’s gonna take a bunch of feisty fourteen-year-olds to come around?

F
REEDOM
W
RITERS
’ N
OTE

Each teenager played an integral role in developing the diary entries—reading, editing, and encouraging one another. To protect their anonymity and illustrate the universality of their experiences, we decided to number each diary entry rather than attach a name.

The students have shared their life experiences freely, without inhibition.

Diary 1

Dear Diary,

I always thought that “odd” was a three-letter word; but today I found out it has seven, and they spell G-r-u-w-e-l-l. My freshman English teacher is way out there. I wonder how she got this job. The administrators should have known better than to give her this class, but I guess she didn’t know any better than to take it. How is
she
going to handle four classes full of this school’s rejects? Most people at this school doubt that we can even read or write.

She probably drives a new car, lives in a three-story house, and owns like five hundred pairs of shoes. It seems to me that she belongs across the hall with the Distinguished Scholars. Yeah, she would fit in nicely there; she and those supposedly gifted white kids who think they’re better than everybody else. She walked in here on “I’m sweet and I care about you” mode. It’s not going to work. We all know she’s going to treat us like everyone else has. The worst part is, I’m pretty sure she thinks she’s the one who’s going to change us. She alone, the “too young and too white to be working here” teacher is going to reform a group of helpless “sure to drop out” kids from the ’hood.

I can’t deny the fact that this class does seem like a bad rerun of
Cops
, though, and she has the records to prove it. She’ll probably sit us in alphabetical order to try to stop any fights. Right now she’s probably deciding who she’s going to transfer out. To her, I’m sure we’re the “below average” kids no one told her about when she was getting her credentials. I have to admit, though, some of these fools need an attitude adjustment.

Most of these niggas come strapped and ready to bust a cap. It’s not like they can’t get away with it, with their big-ass pants; they could fit me and six of my friends. They could hide a bazooka and no one would notice.

I don’t even think everyone in this class is supposed to be in here, because there’s a white boy in the corner looking down at his schedule, hoping that he’s in the wrong room. For his entire life he’s always been part of the majority, but as soon as he stepped into this room, he became the minority. Being white in this class is not going to give him the same status that he gets in society. In here, he gets stared down by most of us, and the other people just think that’s he’s either stupid or must have ditched the day he was supposed to take the assessment test.

Then, there are the other ones, like me, who are in the middle. Not a bad-ass, but definitely not wearing a pocket protector. I wonder how I ended up in this class. I’m not a disciplinary transfer, and even though English is not my first language, I know I don’t belong here.

I can already see it: We’re going to be stuck with some fat-ass, second-grade English book that will put us to sleep before we can even flip a page. With this class, though, she’s probably going to have a fatter stack of referrals. I wonder how long she’s going to put up with these punks; even I want to get out of this classroom. I’m sure one of these days she’s going to go to principal and ask for her leave, but then again, what else is new?

“These kids are going to make this lady quit the first week,” my friends were saying. Someone else said, “She’ll only last a day.”

I give her a month.

Diary 2

Dear Diary,

What the hell am I doing in
here
? I’m the only white person in this English class! I’m sitting in the corner of this classroom (if that’s what you want to call this chaos), looking at my schedule and thinking, “Is this really where I’m supposed to be?” Okay, I know in high school I’m supposed to meet all kinds of different people, but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind. Just my luck, I’m stuck in a classroom full of troubled kids who are bused in from bad neighborhoods. I feel really uncomfortable in here with all these rejects. There aren’t even enough seats. My teacher, Ms. Gruwell, is young and determined, but this class is out of control and I bet she won’t last very long.

This school is just asking for trouble when they put all these kids in the same class. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

I had lunch before class in the high school quad and noticed that, like everywhere else, it was really separated by race. Each race has its own section and nobody mixes. Everyone, including me, eats lunch with their own kind, and that’s that. There is a section known as “Beverly Hills” or “Disneyland” where all of the rich white kids hang out. Then there’s “China Town” where the Asians hang. The Hispanic section is referred to as either “Tijuana Town” or “Run to the Border.” The Black section is known as “Da Ghetto.” Then there’s the freak show in the middle of the quad that’s reserved for the druggies, also called “Tweakers,” and the kids who are into the Goth scene. From what’s going on around me, it’s obvious that the divisions in the quad carry into the classroom.

All my friends are across the hall in the Distinguished Scholars class. It’s almost all white. The only people I’d have to worry about in that class are the really cool and popular people who think that they’re better than everyone else is. Other than that, I’d be safe with my own kind. In here, I already know it’s going to be survival of the fittest. I’m just waiting to get jumped.

As soon as possible, I need to get out of this class and into the class across the hall with my friends. Right after the bell rings, I’m going to talk to my counselor and make her move me out of here. I’ll lie and insist that there’s been a computer error and that I am supposed to be in the Distinguished Scholars class, even though I suck in English and have a learning disability. I know she’ll believe me ’cause I’m white.

I can’t believe all this noise. I just want out of here. I hope the bell rings soon. I don’t want to spend another minute in this room. If I stay in here, one of two things will happen: I’ll get jacked or I’ll die of boredom.

Diary 3

Dear Diary,

“Fuck!” was the first word that came to mind when I saw those stupid motherfuckers coming toward me today after school. I knew I was going to get my ass kicked because there were three guys and two girls against me. I wasn’t afraid or anything. Its not like it was the first time, and I know it sure as hell won’t be the last. But why today? It’s the first day of school and I don’t feel like dealing with this shit!

I knew I didn’t wanna come to this school. My probation officer thinks he’s slick; he swears he’s an expert on gangs. That dumb-ass actually thinks that the problems going on in Long Beach aren’t going to affect me at Wilson. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t even be in school, but he threatened me, telling me that it was either Wilson or boot camp. I figure it’s less painful to go back to school.

My P.O. hasn’t realized yet that schools are just like the city and the city is just like prison. All of them are divided into separate sections, depending on race. On the streets, you kick it in different ’hoods, depending on your race, or where you’re from. And at school, we separate ourselves from people who are different from us. That’s just the way it is, and we all respect that. So when the Asians started trying to claim parts of the ’hood, we had to set them straight. We had to let them know who the true OGs (Original Gangsters) were. We’re the real O.G.’s And like I said before, everything penetrates through. Soon enough you have little wanna-bes trying to hit you up at school, demanding respect they haven’t even earned.