The Freedom Writers Diary (5 page)

Diary 13

Dear Diary,

Ms. Gruwell has some pretty amazing teaching methods. Our class just read a book called
Durango Street
, and now we are making a movie of it. The book is about a young African American teenager named Rufus, who gets out of juvenile hall, lives in the projects, and tries to find his biological father.

When we found out that we were going to make a movie, both my friend and I wanted to play the part of Rufus. I wanted to play the part of Rufus because I live in the projects, too, and like him, I’ve never known my father. I couldn’t for the life of me fathom why my friend, this clean-cut guy who seemed to have no problems in the world, wanted to play the part of Rufus. At first I thought it was because he could act. After a while I finally asked him why he wanted to play Rufus so badly. He told me there was no specific reason. I didn’t accept such a neutral answer. I felt he was hiding something from me.

I ended up playing Rufus because Ms. Gruwell thought that Rufus and I have a lot of the similarities. Even though my friend pretended he wasn’t upset, I knew something was wrong. The next day I asked him why he really wanted to play Rufus. At first he was hesitant to answer. We walked in silence for a while before he told me about the first time he met his father. He was only four years old. His father walked toward him wearing an orange jumpsuit with his prisoner number across the chest. Behind him, he dragged the burden of heavy shackles. They didn’t even have a chance to speak; the police took him away.

I felt sorry for him. I knew how hard it was to grow up without a father. Finally, I understood his need to play Rufus. He wanted to express his pain through this character. Ironically, Ms. Gruwell chose him to play Rufus’s probation officer.

Not only did this movie give us a better understanding of
Durango Street
, we also learned a lot about one another. We began to understand the true meaning of not judging a book by its cover. When we showed our movie to other English classes, lots of the students who had made fun of us for being in a remedial English class began asking how they could get into the class.

After we made our movie, Ms. Gruwell took us to see
Hoop Dreams
. It’s a documentary about two boys from the Chicago projects who had a passion for basketball. The characters were a lot like the characters in the book—but more important, they were a lot like us. Like Rufus, most people didn’t expect them to do well. They proved everyone wrong. I guess it just goes to show that if your passion is deep enough, you can do anything.

Diary 14

Dear Diary,

We started reading a short story in my English class called “The Last Spin.” This story is a trip. I’ve never read something in school that related to something that happened in my life. In the story, the main characters, Tigo and Dave, were rival gang members. One of the gangs shot up a candy store in the other gang’s territory. Instead of having a war in the city, the gang leaders decided that Tigo and Dave were going to settle it one on one.

Tigo and Dave settled the war by playing a game of Russian roulette. As they were playing they began to talk, and they realized they had many things in common and that playing Russian roulette to settle a beef between their gangs was stupid. They decided to take their last turn and end the game because neither one of them wanted to die. Dave took his last turn and then he passed the gun to Tigo. What was supposed to be the end of the game ended up being the last game of Tigo’s life. The fact that Tigo died because of a senseless act reminded me of the way a guy in my neighborhood had died.

Four guys from my neighborhood were chilling in the living room of an apartment; one of the guys had just bought a gun off the streets. Two of the younger guys had never touched a gun before but wanted to see it anyway. The owner of the gun took the clip out and handed the gun to them. Unfortunately, he forgot that he had cocked the gun back and he didn’t check to see if there was a bullet lodged in the chamber.

One of the guys who had never seen a gun before grabbed it. He and the other guy started to fight for the gun. The gun accidentally went off and hit one of them in the forehead. He died instantly. Everyone started to panic. One of the guys picked up the gun and cleaned off all the fingerprints. He then made sure that the fingerprints of the dead boy were all over the gun. They left the room without touching anything.

When the police arrived, they found a dead body, a puddle of blood, and the gun. There were no witnesses, so they called it a suicide. The boy’s parents didn’t believe their son would commit suicide; they didn’t believe the story the police had told them. They knew their son wouldn’t do something so drastic; they were positive that he didn’t kill himself. The boy who was holding the gun when it went off has not been seen in the neighborhood since that day.

I knew all of the guys who were there the day the boy died. The dead boy was a bit older than I was. I didn’t talk to him much because he was a bully and he intimidated me. He would pick fights with the younger kids in the neighborhood. I almost got into a fight with him myself, but luckily, he walked away. Even though he was a bully, he didn’t deserve to die, especially because he was just playing around.

Freshman Year Spring 1995

Entry 2. Ms. Gruwell

Dear Diary,

Ahh, I’m so frustrated! This entire semester has been one ordeal after another, from race riots to walkouts. But I don’t know if I’m more frustrated with the students or the system. Although they’re a pain, they’re just kids. But adults created the system. The system separates them and then they’re stereotyped as “basic,” but in reality, they’re anything but basic. In many ways they’re extraordinary. But even though the labels have changed over the years—from “bonehead,” to “remedial,” to “basic”—the effects are still the same. It’s almost like these kids are scarred from the get-go. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that if you tell kids they’re stupid—directly or indirectly—sooner or later they start to believe it.

It’s almost comical how stubborn they are. But so am I. So I guess what goes around comes around, right? My karma is coming back to haunt me. Even Sharaud, who’s now a cocky senior, says, “That freshman class of yours is bad, Ms. G.” They’re testing me every step of the way. They hate reading, and getting them to write is out of the question. And homework? Please! It’s totally unacceptable to be a “schoolboy.” So to avoid the stigma, one kid even turns in his homework wadded in a ball because he’d get beat up for carrying a folder.

It’s amazing how different I was as a freshman. Looking back, I guess I would be considered a kiss-ass. But these kids would rather kick my ass than kiss it. Believe me, there are no apples on my desk, and even if there were, they’d probably have razor blades in them.

Even though a lot of people have given up on them, I refuse to believe they’re a lost cause. Judging by the turnout at “Back to School Night,” it makes me wonder if some of the parents have thrown up their hands as well.

Even though their reading scores don’t indicate that they’re “smart” in the conventional sense, it’s amazing how savvy they are. They’re a walking encyclopedia when it comes to pop culture, quoting the lines from their favorite movies verbatim or reciting every lyric from the latest rap CD. But when I ask them what a dangling modifier is, they say, “Dangle this.” Actually, even
I
hate dangling modifiers.

I think the key is to build on what they already know. I’ve been trying to pick stories they can relate to and then challenge them to bring the story to life. We just finished reading a story about a kid living in the projects who had to deal with peer pressure and gangs. Some of them admitted that this was the first novel they’d ever read from cover to cover. They loved the book so much, I suggested we make a little movie. Since
Boys ’n the Hood
is a realistic portrayal of their environment, I thought making a movie would give them the opportunity to emulate John Singleton. When I gave them creative license, they surpassed my expectations. They wrote a script, made scenery, brought in props, and even held the camera. The kids said it was “Da bomb!” As a reward, I took a handful of them to see the documentary
Hoop Dreams
, because both the book and the movie deal with what it’s like to grow up in an urban community.

I read that John Singleton has a new film coming out examining racial issues. If I can hang in there until June, maybe I’ll take the whole class to see it. They’re out of control in my classroom, so I can just imagine them in a movie theater. I don’t know if I would be able to handle them all by myself. But maybe I won’t have to. Someone actually offered to help me take the kids on a field trip. His name is John Tu, and he’s a self-made millionaire. He heard about the racist reaction when I took the kids to the theater last year to see
Schindler’s List
and thinks we’re a pretty worthy cause to support.

So, to whip them into shape, I’m gonna have to get down and dirty. I’ll have to burst their “Beverly Hills 90210” stereotype of me by getting in the trenches with them. Since I’m tackling Shakespeare soon, I need to convince them that this guy in tights who talks funny “has it going on.” I need to show them Shakespeare’s got a little “something something” for everyone. So what I’m going to do is make the Montagues and Capulets into a modern-day posse. They were the true “OGs,” as the kids say, the original gangsters, and although the language, colors, and turf have changed dramatically over the last four hundred years, the theme is universal.

Diary 15

Dear Diary,

Ms. Gruwell’s always trying to give meaning to everything. Like today, we were supposed to read this play,
Romeo and Juliet
, by some guy who talks funny—“thou” this, and “thee” that—and out of nowhere, she busts out with, “The Capulets are like the Latino gang, and the Montagues are like the Asian gang.” What? One minute, we’re reading about a guy named Mercutio getting killed, and she sets us up with the question “Do you think this family feud is stupid?” Like a dumb-ass, I took the bait and said, “Hell, yeah!” After all, they were biting their thumbs and waving their wanna-be swords. Then she couldn’t leave it alone. The next thing I know, she’s comparing these two families to rival gangs in this city. At first I was thinking, “What the hell does this bitch know about gangs?” But the real trip was when she actually named them.

I didn’t think she knew about all the shit that happened up in Long Beach. I just thought she left school and drove home to her perfect life. After all, what’s it to her? All of a sudden she questioned things that had never crossed our minds before. Did we think it was stupid that the Latino gang and the Asian gang are killing each other? I immediately said “No!”

“Why?”

“Because it’s different.”

“How?” This woman just wouldn’t give up!

“It just
is
!” I didn’t want to look stupid in front of everybody. But the more I thought about it, I realized it
is
stupid.

It’s stupid because I don’t even remember why we’re rivals. That’s just the way it is. Why is she always fucking questioning everything? She always tries to corner you into accepting that there’s another side, when there really isn’t. I don’t even remember how the whole thing got started, but it’s obvious that if you’re from one family, you need to be loyal and try to get some payback. Just like it’s obvious that if you’re from a Latino gang you don’t get along with the Asian gang, and if you’re from the Asian gang, you don’t get along with the Latino gang. All this rivalry is more of a tradition. Who cares about the history behind it? Who cares about any kind of history? It’s just two sides who tripped on each other way back when and to this day make other people suffer because of their problems. Then I realized she was right, it’s exactly like that stupid play. So our reasons might be stupid, but it’s still going on, and who am I to try to change things?

Diary 16

Dear Diary,

We just finished reading
Romeo and Juliet
; I couldn’t believe that Juliet stabbed herself over a guy that she only knew for a few days. I guess I wasn’t as in love as I thought I was, because I’d never do something that crazy for my boyfriend.

At first when we started reading this story, I compared myself with Juliet. We are both young and in love with a guy that we couldn’t last a day without seeing, only Juliet fell in love at first sight and it took me two months to supposedly be in love. Running away seemed like an easy way for us to rebel against my parents’ disapproval of my boyfriend. Yet it didn’t come out the way we had planned.

Juliet’s parents found her dead next to her boyfriend. Unfortunately, my parents found me alive next to my boyfriend. Lucky for Juliet, she died and she didn’t see the reaction of her parents, nor did she have to go through punishments. I survived, and unlike Juliet’s parents, my parents didn’t welcome me with tears falling down from their faces. Instead, when my parents arrived at my boyfriend’s house, my mother was the first to get out of the car. As she looked into my eyes, I felt the shame I had caused her. She headed toward my boyfriend and started screaming and lecturing him. My dad came toward me, cussing and screaming. Unexpectedly, he punched me in the eye. Then, he switched places with my mom. She grabbed my hair and pulled me toward the car while he yelled at my boyfriend. I fell because I was wearing high heels and my mom was moving too fast. She screamed, “
Levántate
!” (get up). “My shoe, my shoe fell off!” I cried. She picked up my platform shoes and I got up. She pushed me into the car and started hitting me with my platform shoes. I held my hands up to my face and felt the heel of my shoe bruising my hands. She stopped when my dad got into the car.

When we arrived home, my mother kept screaming at me, “
Eres tan estúpida por irte con un muchacho que ni siquieras conoces
!” (You are so stupid for running away with a guy that you don’t even know). I wonder how Juliet’s parents would have reacted to their daughter’s actions and how Juliet would have responded. I just went into my room, not saying a word. My parents followed me. They kept telling me that I couldn’t see my boyfriend ever again. They put me on restriction. I wasn’t allowed to use the phone, have any company, or go out with anybody. That’s why I’m here in Ms. G’s class right now.

My mother thought it would be best for me to attend a school near her work and in a different school district that was at least one hour away from home. She thought that driving me to and picking me up from school would prevent me from contacting my boyfriend and that I’d forget about him. It didn’t work.

Just like Juliet, I found a way to see my boyfriend. I ditched my classes and would call him from the public phones on campus. My mother didn’t have an idea of what was going on until I got caught by one of my relatives. My aunt was on the same bus that my boyfriend and I were riding.

My mom was ashamed to hear that her own relative saw me kissing my boyfriend on a bus. She didn’t know what to do. Finally, my parents decided that I could be with my boyfriend under one condition. That my boyfriend and I waited until I turned fifteen (this is a tradition from my culture, indicating that when a girl turns fifteen, she is a woman and mature enough to take serious responsibilities). Since I thought I was so in love and would do anything to be with my boyfriend without sneaking behind my parents’ back, we both agreed to wait. So, we stopped seeing each other, just before my class got to the end of the story.

I hate to admit that my parents were right all along. How can we both believe that we were so in love with each other if we didn’t even take the time to really know each other? I was too young and stupid, like Juliet, to fall in love. Luckily, I didn’t kill myself and have a tragic ending like Romeo and Juliet did. I guess I wasn’t that desperate.

Diary 17

Dear Diary,

In Ms. Gruwell’s class today, we played the “Peanut Game.” The rules of the game included one piece of paper and a description of a peanut inside and out. I wrote about the peanut and said it was small, round, and dirty. On the other side of the paper I stated that even though it looked terrible, it tasted fantastic! We categorized all of the peanuts by mentioning their different exteriors. I soon realized the “Peanut Game” was similar to the situation I had about my weight.

One day in junior high, I was getting off the school bus from a seat in the back. It is a seat where no one likes to sit and is always empty. I heard people shouting, “Hey, Fatso!” “You big buffalo!” A group of obnoxious girls screamed such awful comments that I, an “obese” twelve-year-old girl, will sadly remember for the rest of my life.

“Oh no, not again! Please not again!” I thought to myself as I stood up to get off the bus. I had tried to ignore the girls’ name-calling the entire ride home. Now that we were at my stop, I knew I had to face them before getting off. In order to leave the bus I had to walk through a long crowded aisle and face the obnoxious girls. As I stood up, the girls followed. They crowded together, and approached me as if they were ready to strike at me. Why did they want to take their anger out on me? What did I do to them? All of the sudden, the girls began to kick and sock me repeatedly. I could feel the pain all over my body but felt defenseless. I did not fight back.

They continued to hurt me as if there was nothing more important to them than to see me in pain. The last few kicks were the hardest; all I wanted to do was to get off the bus alive. My friends were staring at me, hoping that I would do something to make the girls stop. Why? Why didn’t my friends help me? Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I was able to release myself from their torture. I got off the bus alive. Imagining that the worst had already passed, I began to walk away from the bus and the girls stuck their heads out the window and spit on me. I could not believe it! They spit on my face!

The feeling of their spit striking me, running down my neck, and their germs accumulating on my face, felt disgusting. I heard paper crumbling in their hands, and then they threw it at me. I began to walk faster as the bus was on its way. While I was cleaning my face with a napkin, I could still hear the girls laughing. When they waved good-bye, my nightmare was over.

Today in Ms. Gruwell’s classroom, I realized that a peanut is still a peanut even if the shell is different. Some taste better, others look fresher, but in the end they’re all peanuts. Ms. G’s analogy, “Don’t judge a peanut by its shell, judge it by what’s inside of it,” made perfect sense to me. As long as I know that I am a human being, I don’t need to worry about what other people say. In the end, we all are the same!

Diary 18

Dear Diary,

This game is stupid; I’m not a peanut! And what the hell does world peace have to do with peanuts? All these thoughts rolled though my mind as I tried to piece together a puzzle consisting of people and Planters. What was the message? Today Ms. Gruwell and I were not on the same continent, let alone the same page. At first I just sat there trying to glue together any two thoughts that seemed to even break surface, but still I found nothing.

There I stood with both feet out the door, on the brink of tears, and quickly closing in on insanity, when something played out in my mind. I remembered a saying that I had heard: “It’s not the messenger, but the message.” Slowly my peanuts began to take form. I wasn’t afraid because they weren’t accompanied by a tophat, tap shoes, and a corny jingle. Instead they began to have purpose, they began to set goals, dreams, and ambitions. My peanuts, before my very eyes, changed into human beings. Short, long, fat, thin, and otherwise odd, but nevertheless peanuts. Brown, black, white, yellow, and all in between, nevertheless human. So why is it we don’t care about the contour of a peanut, but would kill over the color of a man?