The Freedom Writers Diary (7 page)

Diary 27

Dear Diary,

Murder, taking a life, stealing a soul, the one thing you can never repay or apologize for. Lately the word murder has been a shadow hovering over my life. Everywhere I turn, I see the O. J. Simpson trial all over television. Ms. G is having our class read
Twelve Angry Men
. And at 2:00
P.M.
today my brother will be given a verdict in his own murder trial. I often think of “twelve angry men,” in a hostile room, all trying to decide the fate of my brother.

I think of how there is no million-dollar defense, no dream team with briefcases filled with credentials. There is just a state-appointed attorney who probably believes that my brother is guilty, too.

I watched the O.J. trial on television. It seemed just when the prosecution began to present a strong case against him, his dream team displayed something else to weaken their evidence, and softened the hearts of the jury. Then I reflected on my brother and how his only hope was a confession statement from the person he was with, the real killer. The court stated:

“The defendant confessed his actions to a person who was not an officer of the court. Therefore his statement is null and void, and it cannot be used as admissible evidence in court.”

His lawyer came and advised him to plead the fifth amendment—no statement, no conviction. Once again, they proved that justice doesn’t mean the bad guys go to jail, it just means someone pays for the crime.

I remember images from
Twelve Angry Men
, and how one optimistic juror turned the hearts of eleven jurors. As soon as I started to become hopeful, I realized it was only a book, nothing more.

Today at two o’clock my brother was without a dream team or a guardian angel on the jury. He was sentenced to serve fifteen years to life in prison.

Diary 28

Dear Diary,

Ever since elementary school I’ve been in accelerated classes. I had thought I was lucky getting the best education and the top-notch teachers. I was on the road to the brightest of the bright.

When I reached junior high, I started to realize that since I was in the accelerated program, I only knew the other accelerated kids. We didn’t talk to anyone else. It was like an unspoken law. We weren’t allowed to talk to the kids who weren’t in the gifted program, or maybe they weren’t allowed to talk to us. I knew it wasn’t right, but it was all I knew. Going into high school, I was accepted into the highest academic program in my district. I thought it was a good thing, until the middle of my first semester. The work was piled over my head and I felt like I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t have time for anything but homework. It was hard to pay attention because my teachers talked like robots. I’m sure they were teaching me important information, but by the time I got home, I couldn’t remember a thing. We were assigned too many pages to read in one night and too many tests in one week. I didn’t have time to actually learn. I found my way out of this program and found my way into another one at Wilson High School. I crossed my fingers, hoping this one would be better.

This new program was called Distinguished Scholars. I was given a list of qualifications that had to be met. We had to have a good grade point average, good attendance, and take more classes than the average student. It seemed tough, but I felt it was a more reachable goal. I walked into this open-minded, but it just wasn’t the right program for me. All of my teachers held their noses in the air, as if they were above the rest of the school. Looking around, I realized I was uncomfortable. The class was made up of all white, wealthy kids who couldn’t have more stress than planning what they were going to wear the next day. They made it clear that their race, economic state, and the classes they were taking made them popular and better then anyone else. Even though I’m white, live in the same neighborhood, and had all of the same classes, I wanted out.

When I complained to a friend of mine, she told me about her English class. My friend raved about the things they did. While they were reading about Camelot, their teacher dressed up as Queen Guinevere to add an extra oomph. They also put on plays to make the stories come to life. I had never done that. We were lucky if we were able to read out loud. I begged to meet Ms. Gruwell. When I finally did, I was in absolute awe.

Within the next week, she has managed to fit me into her class. She plays reading and vocabulary games to help us learn, and she listens to our questions. She actually cares. She talks to us on a level I can understand. It’s wonderful to feel like a real person and not just someone for my teachers to belittle.

Diary 29

Dear Diary,

Recently in Ms. G’s class we’ve been studying the legend of Camelot and King Arthur. At first, many of us in the class were not too interested in the legends that occurred in medieval times. I think Ms. G saw our initial lack of interest, so she decided to add a little incentive in order to get the class to participate a little more. She announced that once our lesson was finished and the class took “the test,” all the students who passed the exam would be eligible to attend a field trip to the Medieval Times restaurant. We had an opportunity to relive the medieval era and enjoy a nice dinner while being entertained by knights participating in hand-to-hand combat. There is no better way to teach than to provide some firsthand experience and a little fun.

Needless to say, the announcement of a field trip to Medieval Times perked up everyone’s interest. Soon, everyone in class was determined to know everything about King Arthur and his adventures. The more I participated in class, the more I realized that I was no longer interested in the lesson plan because of the possible reward, but because I genuinely found the lesson captivating. Of course, the idea that we as a class would have the opportunity to go out to dinner together and enjoy ourselves was not bad.

As time went on and I became very familiar with the lesson material, I felt a great sense of accomplishment. Go figure. I could now understand and was able to participate in discussions that were related to great literature. I understood because I had to actually read it, not because I had seen one or two movies.

Test day came. I could feel knots in my stomach on my way to class. I passed the test with flying colors and so did everyone else. This only made the prize even sweeter, because I had worked very hard and enjoyed myself doing it. However, something ended up raining on my parade. The day before our long awaited field trip, another teacher told me and a friend in my class that we were not going to be able to go unless we dressed in slacks and a tie and not like gangsters. Gangsters? Since when do gangsters wear GUESS? shirts with Levi pants at the waist? I always thought gangsters liked to dress in pants three times their actual waist size with white T-shirts. Maybe he felt this way because of my race. I didn’t know, and I was confused.

Funny that he was creating rules of his own. After all, he was only tagging along as a chaperone. He shouldn’t have been pushing his weight around. “No problem,” we thought. Even though neither one of us owned a tie, we were going to dress our best without one. The next day, as my friend and I stood in line to board the bus, we were asked to step out of the line and let others aboard. We were actually being denied the right to participate in the field trip because we were not wearing ties by that same teacher that had talked to us a day earlier. I was in complete shock. I had worked so hard to get to the awaited moment only to be told that I could not participate because of my appearance.

Confused and disappointed, my friend and I went home. The next day was very hard, as everyone asked why I didn’t attend the field trip. Actually, what really bothered me was how everyone was bragging about how fun it was. A little while after the incident, I met with Ms. Gruwell and the other teacher who prevented me from participating in the event. Ms. G put up a hell of a fight! Apparently she felt that I had the right to go, too, just like everyone else, and that I was wrongfully discriminated against because of the way I was dressed. Even though the teacher eventually apologized to me for his blatant discrimination, I forgave him but didn’t forget. To think that I was denied something because of the fact that I was not wearing a tie but was still following the dress code disgusts me. From now on, I will walk with my head in the clouds and dream of when people will stop judging books by their cover.

Diary 30

Dear Diary,

“Four eyes,” “Blind as a bat,” or worse yet, “Coke bottle bitch” were the mean comments I heard all through my childhood. I would come home from elementary and middle school in tears every day because my classmates or even strangers would harass me. I even begged my mother to let me change schools because people made fun of me too much. Their ruthless comments shaped my personality and turned me into a shy, insecure, quiet girl. I was always alone because I was afraid of making friends and then finding out that they made fun of me behind my back.

Just recently, I was sitting in my science class, when I heard the girl sitting next to me making rude comments about my bad eyesight. I am very sensitive when it comes to my eyesight and somehow she sensed it. I tried to ignore her, but she started writing on my jacket. I got up and I said, “You know what, I’m fucking tired of this.” I couldn’t believe I said that, because I used to just brush off what people said. She said, “Shut up, you blind bitch.” When I heard her call me that name, I lost it. I slapped her! It was as if she represented all the kids throughout the years who had made fun of me. All of the anger that had built up in my heart throughout my childhood years was released at that moment. I was so furious that I blacked out. Literally! My mind went blank. My science teacher separated us and I was shaking uncontrollably. I don’t know what happened to me next.

When I told Ms. G about the fight, she told me about one of her students named Sharuad, who was teased because he had big lips. She said she found a mean drawing of his lips and it made her lose her cool. After yelling and screaming at the class, she said the incident woke her up and made her become a better teacher. Maybe this incident could make me a better person, too.

Diary 31

Dear Diary,

The bell rang and everybody walked into class. All the desks were up against the wall. There was a table full of plastic champagne glasses and bottles of apple cider all around the room. I thought, “What the hell is going on? Are we having a party?” I saw Ms. Gruwell waving her arms around like a crazy lady, but no one was reacting to her caffeine high. We all knew the effect caffeine had on Ms. Gruwell.

Throughout the class period, things began to change drastically. Ms. Gruwell stood on the desk and began to talk about “change.” I thought, “What is this lady trying to do?” What does she mean by “change”? Then people started crying. I thought to myself, “Why is everyone crying?” I didn’t understand.

Ms. Gruwell passed out books and bags from Barnes & Noble. When I saw the look on people’s faces, I felt like jumping up for joy. I wanted to start reading them at that very moment. I was so occupied with one of my new books that I missed the whole idea of what we were supposed to do with them. The book had never been opened and the pages smelled like a new car. I started reading
Night
by Elie Wiesel, and I can’t wait to get started on
The Wave
by Todd Strasser, Anne Frank’s diary, and last but not least
Zlata’s Diary
. At first I thought we were going to have to do a lot of book reports. Then she told us about the “Read-a-thon for Tolerance.” What the heck is Ms. Gruwell talking about? She said we’d have fun because the stories are about kids in similar situations. We were all teenagers who were going through a difficult time in our lives. Some of us succeed and others don’t. That is just how it is, and all I wanted to do was be one of the people who make it.

I have always been one of the kids that needed to change—I can’t even try to deny it. My mom is no help because I can’t do anything wrong in her eyes. I am “Mommy’s little girl” no matter how badly I am doing in school or what type of drugs I’ve tried. My dad is just the opposite. He’s never cared about how bad I’m doing—or how good, for that matter.

Everyone changes as they get older, no matter if it’s good or bad. So I guess I was offered an opportunity that not many people have. I got a second chance to change my life for the better. I thank God that he sent an angel to give me that chance to change.

I was always known as the person that was going to be a druggie, or get pregnant before I turned fourteen and drop out. Now I have the chance to prove them wrong.

Diary 32

Dear Diary,

A year has passed since two of my friends died. Man, everyone respected those two. Those guys were the most loved
cholos
of the barrio. That’s how I wanted to be when I grew up. All I wanted to do was impress them. While I was in school one day, they were killed while trying to commit a robbery. To think I could have been with them.

After this incident, I started to see life from a whole new perspective. I had been taking the wrong path all along. Now my best friend and I are the oldest cholos in the barrio. It was pitiful that all the older guys were either six feet under or living behind bars. As the weeks went by, I slowly changed my ways. I didn’t want the younger ones to look up to me when I was a loser. I had done so much to hurt my community and now it was time to do something to help it.

Now the young ones are looking up to me as a role model, so I try my hardest to give a straight image on how things should be, and make them see right from wrong. My neighbors adore me. I have a warm feeling deep down inside, as if I am the “chosen one” in the barrio. But it hurts me to know that it took the lives of two dear friends for me to turn my life around.

I guess it’s never too late to change in life. If I did it, others should be able to as well. It really all depends on how badly one wants to change. I’m lucky to have another opportunity at a clean start.