The Freedom Writers Diary (4 page)

At first, pledging was really fun. All of the members were really friendly, and they gave us gifts and sweatshirts with the sorority symbol on it, like they were trying to lure us in. But after the novelty wore off, things started getting hard. The members held a traditional interview called “Questioning.” They’d take us into a room in twos and ask the most embarrassing questions imaginable. As my partner, Sarah, and I waited to go in, we saw previous couples come out crying. We soon found out why. Fortunately, I am practically sinless. Everybody knows that I’m the girl who’s really shy and practically faints at the
sight
of a boy. So when the members started asking about our sexual experiences, I had nothing shameful to say. But Sarah’s boyfriend is a senior, and all of the members knew the kind of things the “senior men” did with freshman girls. The second they brought up Josh, Sarah started crying…bawling, because she knew what they were going to ask her. You’d think the members would have tried to comfort her, or at least stopped asking about him, but they just ignored her tears. I guess the point of questioning is to see how strong (or weak) the pledges were, so they just kept probing her with personal questions and rude comments. They couldn’t have cared less that they were really hurting her. They had even prepared a baseball cap with “slut” painted on the front, that the girls who had boyfriends had to wear at school. After “Questioning” a lot of the pledges dropped out, including Sarah. They blamed it on their parents or the club being stupid. Maybe it was, but after Sarah quit, things were different. We weren’t really friends with her anymore. It wasn’t intentional. I guess it was just because we were all going to be in Kappa Zeta, and she wasn’t.

The rest of the pledges and myself thought the worst was over. Little did we know the worst was yet to come. Pledge night was the scariest part because the guys got involved. Technically, they weren’t allowed to tell us what to do, but they did anyway. We had to listen. If we didn’t, it meant dismissal from pledging. I was really scared to go to one particular pledge night, because they told us to wear clothes that could get messed up. That night we met at the fountain in the park at eight o’clock. As soon as everyone arrived they made us lie down on the ground and “sizzle like bacon.” I thought, “I can live with this, it might even be fun.” I was perfectly content with sizzling like bacon, but as I looked to the right I could see my friend Shannon. I presumed she must have been given specific instructions because while we sizzled, she kneeled in front of David O’Neal, a popular junior boy. I couldn’t make out exactly what was happening, but he was holding something in front of him that looked like a bottle, and I think she was crying. Then her head started moving back and forth, and as a crowd of rowdy boys gathered around them she started to cry really hard and they started yelling at her. Just as I started to go help her I was pushed back to the ground as a voice screamed, “Where do you think you’re going, whore? Did I say you could get up?” It was one of the members. I realized then that it was going to be a long night. I hoped I wouldn’t have to pretend to do something to a boy, like Shannon.

When I came home that night my mother almost cried when she saw me. I reeked of beer that had been poured on me multiple times. The combination of beer and the raw eggs smashed on my head were a putrid mixture. There was a retched taste in my mouth from food coloring the members used to make us remember their names, and my clothes and face were stained green. They made us run a mile from the park to the beach, so I was covered in sand and still gasping for air. Then I started to cry. Not because of the smell or my stained clothes, but because there was no way out. I had gone through so much already that it would have been pointless to quit now. Besides, I didn’t want to end up with no friends, like Sarah. I reminded myself that soon it would be over, and that I wasn’t even treated as badly as some girls. I heard that one girl had to lie on the ground as Matt Thompson, a senior I used to think was cute, peed on her.

Now that I’ve been initiated, and I’m officially
in
, my only concern is parties and stuff. All of the older girls drink and really “party.” And like I said, I’m practically sinless. I’ve never done that stuff before. I guess everybody in high school drinks, though, so it’s not too bad. I’ll get used to it. I hope. I guess now that I look back, it was worth it. All the humiliation, the shame and embarrassment…yeah, it was worth it. The members are nice now that it’s all over, and I get into Kappa Zeta parties free. We all get to wear our Kappa sweatshirts to school, and go to meetings and everything. Maybe if I would have had to do something
really
bad I would have dropped out, but I doubt it. It’s just a matter of how far you’ll go to be accepted.

Diary 9

Dear Diary,

Ms. Gruwell just asked us to write or draw a picture describing our neighborhood. I can’t believe she’s allowing me to draw. I wonder if she knows how much I hate writing.

I hate my neighborhood. It’s surrounded by gangsters and drug dealers. There are too many opportunities that seem out of my reach. What goals do I aim for? I don’t aim, because I don’t have any goals; instead, I deal with what comes. Raised in a shitty neighborhood, I have had to adapt to what is happening around me. During the day racial tensions rule the streets, at night gunshots are heard from drive-by shootings, and twenty-four hours a day, the gangs and drug dealers control the block, trying to hold down their territory. I can never ignore it because if I do, I will only become part of the problem, or I will become the next victim in this undeclared war going on in our streets.

I got into tagging, because bangin’ and dealing drugs or kickin’ it with gangsters was not my thing. I started to hit up on walls with markers or cans. Kickin’ back with the homies, smoking bud, and fuckin’ shit up. I went to school, but I never really hit the books. My teachers always said, “I’m here to help,” but when the time came to start helping they were never dependable, so what I do at school is what I do out on the streets. Every day I bring my markers to school. I ditch my classes, hide from the staff, and go to the restroom to kill it (write all over the walls). Who cares if I get caught? My mom won’t do anything and my father is always too tired to give me a lecture.

Tagging is what gives me a thrill. The chance to express my talent. To hear people talk about my art gives me the “ganas” (strength) to continue what I do. I never do any of my classwork, so I spend my time in class sketching on my notebook, handouts, backpack, or on anything in sight. I’m an artist and I love what I do. I know it sucks for the people’s property, but getting away with it is a part of the thrill. Getting smoked out with my homies, then going out and canning walls is what I call a day.

Diary 10

Dear Diary,

Everybody was talking about Proposition 187 and the planned walkout in school today. I heard a lot of people yelling, “No on Prop 187!” I even saw trashcans fly across the quad and fights broke out between passing periods. All this was building up toward a walkout.

Latinos and African Americans began to walk out. The police were everywhere. It was as if we were committing a crime, and it was necessary for them to stand outside school grounds. Some students were arrested while others left school and united as one in a nearby park with all of the other high schools.

I decided not to walk out. Instead, I was able to express my own feelings in a place where people heard my voice and my opinions were never judged. Ms. Gruwell’s class was where I could express my feelings about how this event was affecting me. Discussing the situation in class helped. She wrote “Prop 187” on the blackboard, and then we got to talk about how this proposition would affect certain nationalities.

If it passes, the government can take away health care benefits and any other public program, like school, to all illegal immigrants. I’m scared because it will personally affect my family, since my mom came here illegally. She came to America in search of the American dream. Immigrants, like my mom, came to this land looking for endless possibilities, but now those possibilities seem limited.

Someone in Ms. G’s class reminded us that “187” is the police code for murder. If this proposition passes, it may murder the opportunities for immigrants like me to succeed.

Diary 11

Dear Diary,

“yM enam si noraA.” To a 13-year-old toe-head, those words look completely normal, but what my eyes saw was “My name is Aaron.” I could always read backward and just assumed everyone else could, too. I even spelled backward. The word “cat,” in my perspective, would be spelled “tac,” and I could not tell the difference. My school papers were filled with red marks. Was I stupid or lazy? I felt stupid and alienated from everyone.

In the fifth grade, I had a teacher who always called me lazy in front of the whole class. She would always pick on me to read in front of the class. She knew I didn’t know how to read or spell very well and when I did read, I had to do it very slow. Everyone would laugh at me and call me stupid. I hated school. Ever since that year, I have never been able to read out loud because I am still afraid people will laugh at me and call me stupid.

I found out what my problem is. I’m dyslexic, which means I have a learning disorder. My brain sees things differently and words don’t look the way they do to others. My mom knew how upset I was about school and was able to find a school for dyslexic kids. Finally I had met kids like myself and I’d learned that I wasn’t so different after all. The school helped me so much because they taught me how to read and take notes on what I read. I learned how to figure out how to sound out big words and work out math problems, too. I was excited because I finally understood and was able to learn. I could read, but it was dyslexic-style.

The dyslexic school was only for one year, so I didn’t know what would happen when I got to high school. I knew I wasn’t stupid but kids might still laugh at me and I didn’t want to have to go through that again.

Kids didn’t seem to laugh as much if you were good at sports. Baseball made me feel good. I couldn’t recite Shakespeare, but I could hit a baseball thrown at 75 to 85 mph. I even got the chance to play as first baseman in the Little League World Series Championship. I couldn’t believe that the same kids who laughed at me and called me stupid were now cheering for me as I hit a grand slam in the Little League World Series. Imagine my surprise when I found out that my hero, Nolan Ryan, is dyslexic, too.

On my first day of high school, I met Ms. Gruwell. She’s my English and reading teacher. I’ve learned a lot from her. She doesn’t call me lazy or stupid. I have learned that reading can be fun. It is still difficult at times, but I don’t get that knot in my stomach when I read out loud.

Ms. Gruwell has also encouraged me in my one true love—sports. She told me that a lot of dyslexic people do really well in sports to overcompensate for people laughing at them in the classroom. Now I know if I work hard in school and in sports, I can succeed in both.

Diary 12

Dear Diary,

The past couple of days in Ms. Gruwell’s class we have been reading a book called
Durango Street. Durango Street
is about an African American teenager named Rufus, who was just released from juvenile hall. Before he left, he promised his probation officer he would stay out of trouble.

Most of the people in class can relate to Rufus. If they haven’t been in jail, they have a cousin, brother, or friend who has. Before reading this book I was ashamed of having gone to jail. I was afraid Ms. Gruwell would hold it against me. Rufus had problems with a gang called the Gassers. They were always picking on him. I had a similar problem when I was in junior high.

I was waiting for the bus after school when three wanna-be gangsters approached me. They started trying to make me angry, calling me names. It wasn’t what they were saying that made me mad. I was angry that they chose to pick on me because they thought I would just take it. As far as I was concerned, the fact that they were all bigger than me was not important. I had to prove to them that they did not have the right to pick on me because I was smaller than they were.

One of them swung at me, and missed—that was “his bad.” When I felt the rush of air from his fist whizzing past my face, I went crazy! I started kicking him in the head! The only thing that made me stop was when I saw his eyes roll back in his head as though he was dead. I didn’t realize I had done something really wrong until I saw the flashing lights of the police and the paramedics coming.

The police took me to the vice principal’s office to make a report. The vice principal called my parents to come to the school and pick me up, but no one was home. The police officer asked if there was any one else that could pick me up. There was no one. Then they asked the vice principal, “Do you want us to take him down to juvenile hall?” The vice principal answered, “Since his parents aren’t home, that would probably be the best thing to do.”

When I arrived at juvenile hall it was scary. They treated me like a criminal. They even took a mug shot. This was my first experience setting foot into a caged place. I was unlike any of the people surrounding me. Caged like beasts were murderers, rapists, gangsters, and robbers. The first night was the scariest. I heard sounds I had never heard before. Inmates banging on walls, throwing up their gang signs, yelling out who they are and where they are from. I cried on my first night.

I didn’t get in contact with my parents until my third day in jail. Every day I worried about when I would be free. I stayed in juvenile hall for five long and stressful days. It’s true what they say; being in jail is no way to live.

When I got out, I was paranoid. I didn’t want to go out and have fun with my friends. I still felt like a caged animal. Two weeks after my release from jail, I had to appear in court. The judge told me that I would be on probation for three years and have to do community service for a month and two weeks. I also had to pay the restitution of $1,500 to the boy I had beaten up. I haven’t gotten into any trouble since that day. Like Rufus, I turned my life around.