The Freedom Writers Diary (25 page)

My dad had a long, rugged recovery. Coming in and out of the hospital was very scary and frightening for all of us. To this very day my dad has trouble speaking. He is having seizures and doesn’t remember things too well, but he is in much better condition than he was in before. The bullet is still in his head simply because it couldn’t be removed, which makes me fear that something could go wrong at any time.

I sympathize with people who have lost a parent, or both, for that matter. I understand the fear that overcomes someone when a loved one is lost. He isn’t the only one living with the scar, because I am also. Even though I am living with his scar, I sit back every day and remember that it is only a scar, and count my blessings that my dad is still alive.

Diary 113

Dear Diary,

Nothing hurts more than celebrating your mother’s birthday on Christmas Eve when she’s not around. It’s been eight days since my mother passed away. Today, she would have been forty-eight. The holiday season is supposed to be a time of happiness that you can spend with your family, but this year turned out to be tragic. Normally, since Christmas Eve is my mother’s birthday, she would get twice as many presents. I told her that this year would be different because she wouldn’t have to do anything on her birthday. I was wrong. When she went to the doctor for an appointment, a month earlier, the doctor told her that she had a serious illness and that she had about three months to live, if not less. It turned out to be three weeks.

My mother died from terminal cancer. I knew this was going to happen after I found out she was sick; I just didn’t think it would happen so soon. I was hoping she could spend Christmas with the family one last time. Just like last year, we were going to open up a couple of gifts on Christmas Eve and then the rest on Christmas morning. That was our tradition every year. Now all this has changed. This year, we didn’t get a tree, there might not be a Christmas dinner, and I don’t know what to do with my mother’s gifts. What should I do with them? Should I keep them, get rid of them, or give them to my sister? I don’t know. I know that while other people are opening their gifts, I’ll be packing up my mother’s things in boxes.

With my mother dying so suddenly and unexpectedly, I didn’t get the chance to talk to her. It’s the worse thing that could ever happen because I never had the chance to say good-bye. I have no closure; no “I love you!” Ms. Gruwell once said that “Timing is everything!” and her death couldn’t have come at a worse possible time: during my senior year, a week before Christmas, and a few months before graduation.

My mother died on December 16th. That day, I knew something was going to happen because when I got to school, something inside me didn’t feel right. When I came home, I noticed something new. She was on a respirator, but for some reason, I thought nothing of it. I thought it was just another piece of her medical equipment she got from the hospital because each week, she got something new. So I went to my room to prepare for our Freedom Writer holiday party that was taking place later that evening. As I was about to leave, my neighbor (who was visiting my mother at the time) yelled my name frantically from the other room. She told me that my mother had just passed away. I couldn’t believe her. I had to see for myself. As I walked toward her room, I could hear my sister crying. Then I saw my mother and I froze for a moment. I couldn’t do anything but stare. She was lying lifelessly in her bed. I knew deep down that if I had cried at that moment, I would have lost my mind.

Now I have unanswered questions and a lack of resolve. I am instantly an adult. Who’s going to be there for me when I need help? I am alone; I don’t have a parent living with me, I have no guidance.

Ms. Gruwell and the Freedom Writers want to help me get through my difficult time, but I keep pushing them away. I always tell them “I’m OK!” and “I’m fine…don’t worry about me!” But the truth is, I’m not okay and I’m nowhere near being fine. I don’t know why I won’t let anyone in my life. I don’t know why I won’t ask for help. I was always taught that people don’t give without receiving.

Now I need to make the choice to open up and not push people away. Being a Freedom Writer has taught me that people do so much without asking people for anything in return. Maybe they could help me get through my loss, and in return, I could open up to them and accept them as my second family. Then I won’t be so alone.

Senior Year Spring 1998

Entry 8. Ms. Gruwell

Dear Diary,

We just returned from Christmas vacation, and I just got a call congratulating the Freedom Writers for winning the Spirit of Anne Frank Award. The Anne Frank Center USA honors “those who have followed the courage of their convictions to step forward and actively confront anti-Semitism, racism, prejudice, and bias-related violence in their community.” But there’s a catch: We have to accept the award in person—next Thursday in New York!

During my college craze in October, I encouraged the students to apply for scholarships. I saw an advertisement in Scholastic’s
Scope
magazine promoting the Spirit of Anne Frank scholarship for students who “combat discrimination in their own communities.” It sounded too perfect to pass up, so I entered all 150 students as one entity. As I was filling out the application, my competitive side kicked in and I was convinced that my students
had
to win!

The day the Anne Frank Center received our application, a woman named Beatrice called and said she’d been “crying in her coffee all morning” because our application was so amazing. She went on to explain that the application was totally unorthodox because the Center only picks individuals, not groups. She wanted to know if I would resubmit my application and pick only one student as a representative of the group. I said no, we’re a package deal. It’s all or nothing.

In November, I went to New York and met with people from the center. We were clearly the front-runners to win the award, but the center was in a precarious position—how would we get the Freedom Writers to New York? I said, “Hey if we win, somehow, some way, I’ll find a way to get the kids here.”

Coincidentally, while I was in New York, the
L.A. Times
article about the Freedom Writers reran in a New York paper. When I got home on Sunday, my answering machine was filled with messages. I don’t know how they tracked me down, but all these TV shows, magazines, and newspapers called, wanting to do a story on us. It was all very surreal, since we’ve lived in virtual anonymity for three years and in one weekend we suddenly had the opportunity to win an award—and now perhaps to appear on a TV show.

I tried to keep all the TV shows at bay until I could process everything. But when Connie Chung called during my third-period class, I knew in my heart that she would be the best person to tell our story for ABC’s
Prime Time Live
.

I’ve got less than ten days to figure out how to get my students to Manhattan, meet Connie Chung, and maintain a sense of normalcy. The more attention we’re getting, the more protective I’ve become. I feel like a mockingbird, dive-bombing anyone who wants to disrupt the dynamics of Room 203. If I feel they have ulterior motives or are the slightest bit disingenuous, I try to shelter the kids from them.

Even though we don’t have hotel or plane reservations yet, something tells me that we’ll find a way to be on a plane next week. The clothing company GUESS? actually called me after the article ran in the L.A.
Times
, offering to help our cause. Maybe I’ll start with them to see if they can help me get some students to New York to accept this prestigious award in person.

Diary 114

Dear Diary,

I just got home from the GUESS? headquarters in L.A. Earlier in the week Ms. G told us that they had decided to sponsor the Freedom Writers and fly forty-five of us to New York City to accept the Spirit of Anne Frank Award in person. I was fortunate enough to be one of the students picked to go.

As soon as I got home, I was so excited. I told my mother that we met the GUESS? staff, and how they surprised us with gifts and gave us a brief history of the company. We also found out why they wanted to sponsor our trip to New York. I learned that the Marciano brothers (who are the founders) are Jewish and their father was a rabbi. During the Holocaust their family had to flee Europe.

I was very enthused and ready for the trip, so I decided to call my father and explain that I was leaving tomorrow. He didn’t ask me if I was prepared for New York. He didn’t offer to take me shopping or even to give me any money for the trip. Nothing!

After a disappointing conversation with him, I started to think. It’s a shame how a company that does not even know me personally is willing to help me me so much. Yet I have a father who knows who I am, where I live, my telephone number, and he acts like I don’t exist.

For eighteen years, his off-and-on actions have made an impact in my life. My father always promises me things and never comes through, which has made it hard for Mom at times since she’s a single mother. During the holidays, he does bring me gifts, but when I really needed him to provide for me, he would act like he couldn’t help me. I only ask him to help me when I have no other choice.

When I do, he procrastinates or tells me to ask my grandmother. It’s not that I always want money from him. I want a supportive father figure in my life. Someone to be there in my corner. I always wondered why he never took time out to spend with me.

Receiving GUESS? clothes for our trip reminded me of my childhood and how I needed designer clothes to make me feel accepted by others in school. While everyone was wearing Nike and Cross Colors, I was wearing Pro Wings and swap-meet specials. Wearing them made me feel that I wasn’t accepted by anyone. Not even myself! I didn’t accept myself because I didn’t have the right clothes. Sad, isn’t it? Don’t get me wrong, I was grateful for the clothes that I had on my back, but I just wanted to have designer clothes as well. Since my father wasn’t making me feel wanted at home, I really needed to feel accepted by my peers at school. But in order for me to feel accepted by them I felt like I had to have the same things they did.

Now that I am a part of something like the Freedom Writers, I don’t have to try to fit in or to buy my way into acceptance. Material things are no longer a top priority in my life. Of course I want nice things, but I don’t feel as if I have to have them to feel complete. It’s funny how material things mean so much to adoloescents. The problem is people grow up thinking that material things are what makes them worthwhile. Which is very untrue and causes them to be very shallow. Now as a young adult I’ve realized that love is more important than material things. Material things can’t love you like a father can!

Diary 115

Dear Diary,

It’s always been a dream of mine…to go to New York, one of those dreams that is always nice to think about, but that you know deep down inside will never come true. New York is where the action is; busy people rushing around on the sidewalk in a hurry to get to work, taxis speeding and honking as they zoom by, the huge billboards and booming lights in Times Square, and famous monuments like the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building.

I just got a phone call from Ms. Gruwell saying that I should plan on packing my bags because I was one of the Freedom Writers chosen to represent the group at the Spirit of Anne Frank Award in New York City. In order to be eligible to accept the award, we had to write an essay explaining why we would be good ambassadors for the occasion. We only had one day to write the essay, so it was difficult for me to pinpoint what I wanted to say in so little time.

I tried to act so calm when Ms. Gruwell called me; I didn’t want to sound too eager. But the second that I hung up the phone, everything clicked and I realized what she had told me. Her words echoed over and over in my mind: “Pack your bags…pack your bags…pack your bags!” Wow! I actually get to go to New York! I’ve got to pack! I need more time! Agh, I need to go to the mall! There are so many things I need to get! I need a heavy jacket! I heard it’s really cold in New York now; it’s been snowing there a lot lately.

I’m so surprised that I’m one of the forty-five Freedom Writers that was chosen to go to New York. At the beginning of the year, I wasn’t too sure if I would even be able to get into the class. The demand was so intense that only a handful of people were selected to join the class senior year; the majority of the students have had Ms. Gruwell since they were freshmen.

Since some of my friends had been in the class for their entire high school career; each week, they had something new to say about the class and about Ms. Gruwell. They only had awesome things to say…never anything negative. My friends would tell me that they would meet a famous author one week and, the next, they would be read a really interesting book.

They could tell Ms. Gruwell anything and everything, almost like she was one of the kids. She understood them. Most teachers aren’t like that; they give you your homework and then send you on your way, never getting to know you. Some of my former teachers have had four or five favorite students in the class and overlooked the rest entirely. Ms. Gruwell is so much different. She gets to know you…she wants to get to know you.

Despite all the positive stuff, I had mixed feelings about getting into the class. I was totally ecstatic about being a part of something that I’d heard so many wonderful things about. But I was completely terrified. For some reason, I thought that everyone in her class would hate me because I joined the group after they’d been together for three years. I didn’t want to be an outsider.

I soon learned that there was nothing to worry about. As the year progressed, I have figured out that the others accepted me as one of their own. It’s almost as if they’ve adopted me into their “family”…a family that knows no color lines and only sees what lies deep within your heart.

Diary 116

Dear Diary,

The first night in New York was exciting. We arrived and all I could think about was bumping into somebody famous. Our stay was going to last four days. Everyone was anxious to get started with our schedule. The ride from the airport to the Marriott Hotel was absolutely breathtaking. I tried to contain my excitement, but was not able to. “Oh my God!” I said. All of us could not believe how beautiful the skyline looked. New York seems like a magical place where anything can happen.

Ms. Gruwell has been working for Marriott International for many years to support our outings. I thought the New York Marriott Marquis was so luxurious. The view was magnificent; we were right in the middle of Times Square. Taxicabs roamed the streets of New York and lights covered every inch of the city. The Marriott staff made us feel right at home.

When we went to Washington, D.C., Ms. Gruwell let everybody choose his or her own roommates. In Washington, D.C., it was obvious to Ms. Gruwell that everybody chose the people they felt more comfortable with. “New York is going to be different,” she explained. This time around, she was going to chose our roommates for us. Ms. Gruwell can never do things the simple way. She always has some big teaching scheme even when we are nowhere near a classroom. The room situation ended up being one of the best lessons of my life.

The first night in our rooms scared me because there were four girls—three being of different races. The only reason I felt uncomfortable was because I have never experienced sharing a room, a bed, or a bathroom with people outside of my race. When I was a little girl I had three best friends who happened to be Chinese, African American, and Caucasian. They had sleepovers all the time, but I never attended any of them because my father did not allow it. He always told me that he had provided a house for me to sleep in, and that I had no business sleeping in someone else’s house. I soon began to wonder whether my father was old-fashioned or prejudiced.

I did not know about my father’s true feelings until I was fifteen years old. My older sister had a boyfriend who was African American. One night my sister and father had an argument. I heard him say that if she ever married her boyfriend, he would never give her his blessing. It was depressing to hear, but the truth finally came out about him. He was prejudiced, and it hurt.

Now, all of the sudden in New York City, my roommates were ironically African American, Caucasian, and Asian, just like my best friends back in elementary school. I felt very uncomfortable changing in front of them at first, especially sleeping in the same bed with an Asian girl. All I could think about was my father. I woke up the next day tired and restless. We all took showers in the morning and walked down to breakfast on time. There was hardly any communication between us the first evening, but the second night would be different.

After a long day in the city, we finally returned to our hotel rooms. We were hungry and decided to order room service, but we didn’t have any idea what we were getting ourselves into. Three hamburgers, two fries, one chicken sandwich, and drinks ended up costing us $43.11! New York was expensive and we could not stop laughing at the cost. After we ate, we starting talking, and before we knew it, it was four o’clock in the morning. The next day we began to share clothes, shoes, toothpaste, and even deodorant.

My experience made me realize my father’s beliefs were wrong. I felt a strong bond grow between me and my roommates. I believe that I will never again feel uncomfortable with a person of a different race. When I have my own children someday, the custom I was taught as a child will be broken, because I know it’s not right. My children will learn how special it is to bond with another person who looks different but is actually just like them. All these years I knew something was missing in my life, and I am glad that I finally found it—

Diary 117

Days like this create memories worth living for. My day began with tears of happiness after receiving the Spirit of Anne Frank Award, and ended with tears of sadness after watching the play of
The Diary of Anne Frank
on Broadway. The Freedom Writers also had the privilege to meet and bond with prestigious people and some New York City high school students.

At breakfast, the Freedom Writers were exhausted from staying up late the night before, but we were looking forward to receiving the award. Later that day, when we arrived at the ceremony, all eyes were set upon us. The award had never been presented to so many people at one time, and this showed the true symbolism of our cause.