The Freedom Writers Diary (9 page)

Diary 37

Dear Diary,

I’m beginning to realize that Anne Frank, Zlata Filipovic, and I have a lot in common. We all seem to be trapped in some sort of a cage. Anne’s cage was the secret annex she and her family hid in, and the attic where she spent most of her time. Zlata’s cage was the basement she had to use for shelter, away from bombs. My cage is my own house.

Like Anne and Zlata, I have an enemy who is gung-ho for dictatorship: my father. He doesn’t truly fit the role of a father in my perspective, so I refer to him as my sperm donor. James doesn’t allow us to call him “dad” or “father” or any of those other sentimental, lovey-dovey names. He says the titles aren’t his name so we can’t call him that.

Unfortunately, I can’t relate with Anne Frank and Zlata Filipovic on the subject of their fathers. From what I’ve read, their fathers seemed to really love them. I can, however, commiserate with them on the situations they were forced to endure. For example, I can easily put James in Hitler’s shoes, and our family in the roles of the Jews. Although not quite like the war Hitler started, the war in my house was also created by ignorance and stupidity. Like all wars, there is an enemy. There are innocent victims, destruction, senseless violence, displacement, and a winner and a loser.

I’ve read about the monstrous things that were done in the concentration camps in WWII. I’ve read about how they would torture, starve, and mutilate people’s bodies to something that was not recognizable as a human being. I watched my mother being beaten half to death by James and watched as blood and tears streamed down her face, which was also unrecognizable. I felt useless and scared, furious at the same time knowing that I could do nothing to help her. I watched him steal money from my mother’s purse and sell our belongings for drugs.

I’m sad to say he is the person I’m supposed to look up to for good solid fatherly advice. I can still feel the sting from the belt on my back and legs as he violently lashed me in his usual drunken state of mind. It’s not likely that I’ll be asking him for advice any time soon.

I can relate to Anne and Zlata. Like them, I have a diary, I write about how it feels to have disgust and hatred centered directly on you because of who you are. All I can do is wait for my mother to get rid of him. I’m surprised she hasn’t already. She can be a strong woman if she puts her mind to it. I know that I will never let a man put his hands on me, won’t ever tolerate that kind of abuse from anyone. I guess I’ll have to wait for the war to end like Anne and Zlata did, except I won’t die or get taken advantage of. I’m going to be strong.

Diary 38

Dear Diary,

We’ve been talking about the war in Bosnia and how similar some of the events are to the Holocaust. We have been reading about a young girl named Zlata, who many call the modern-day Anne Frank. Zlata and I seem to have a lot in common because while Zlata was living though a war in Sarajevo, I was living through a different kind of war—the L.A. riots. Ironically, Zlata and I were both eleven years old when our city was under siege. I can understand how afraid and scared she was to see her city go up in flames, because my city was on fire, too.

The problem in Sarajevo began when a sniper fired a gun into a crowd at a peace rally. People panicked and war broke out. In Los Angeles, several policemen beat on a man named Rodney King and had to go to trial. The “not guilty” verdict caused people to go crazy. People started looting, fighting, and crashing cars into one another.

Zlata and I both had to hide for our safety. This made us very frightened. Zlata was trapped in her basement while she heard bombs going off and people screaming. I was trapped inside my church while people were shooting, breaking windows, and screaming for their lives.

Zlata and I lost our childhood innocence because we were denied the right to do childlike things, like go to school, talk on the phone, and just play outside. The buildings were burning and people got beaten up just because of the color of their skin, their religion, or ethnicity. Unfortunately, we both had to suffer because of other people’s ignorance and destruction.

Finally, the United Nations walked the streets of Bosnia trying to keep the peace. After days of chaos, the National Guard became the peacekeepers in L.A. Even though the United Nations and the National Guard were very successful at stopping the violence, the intolerance is still there.

I can’t believe that someone I don’t even know, who lives thousands of miles away, could have so much in common with me.

Diary 39

Dear Diary,

I don’t understand! I mean, it’s not right, yet it’s still happening as we speak. I just can’t believe it. How sick can it get?

Why is it that women get molested? Why is it that people in general get molested?

Peter Maass’s article about Bosnia that we read today in
Vanity Fair
was like a gun that triggered the lost memory in my mind. Here are these women in Bosnia, getting molested, raped, harassed, and even impregnated by soldiers that want to feel powerful by depriving them of their womanhood, pride, and self-esteem.

Why?

After reading the article about the atrocities in Bosnia, my memory returned and made everything seem like it happened yesterday. I was only six when a friend of my father’s molested me in his home. Yet to this day, I haven’t told my parents. Keeping this secret inside was very hard for me. There were times when I felt that I had to tell someone, but I didn’t know who. Reading the article makes me feel like I’m not the only one who felt alone. Although I’m so many miles away from Bosnia, I wish there was something I could do.

When I think about this, I think of how grateful Zlata and her whole family are because they have escaped from all of this. This very same thing could have happened to Zlata or any other person that would have remained behind.

The mere fact that the story revived the lost memory within my mind gave me goose bumps. On the way home from school, I felt like reaching out to any one that had a similar story. Even standing at the bus stop, I realized that the women and girls standing next to me may have been, molested, harassed, or even impregnated at one point in their lives.

Then there was the bus ride home. My mind was working like a shotgun with every bullet acting as a question. Round one—What if the elderly woman sitting across from me was sexually molested by her uncle when she was young? Round two—How about that man standing in the back? Had he ever harassed a little girl?

All of these questions ran through my mind at the thought of the story and of all the traumatizing things that women faced. I was glad in a way that Peter Maass had uncovered an issue that I believe we should all be aware of, and also to realize that we are not alone.

His story was written to expose the war in Bosnia and its similarity to the Holocaust. Knowing that people are getting murdered and that thousands of women were being raped is shocking. It makes me both sad and angry because history is indeed repeating itself.

Diary 40

Dear Diary,

I joined Ms. Gruwell’s class a few days ago. I don’t know if I should have joined in the middle of the year. Oh well, I’ll just have to try to keep up with whatever they’ll be discussing in the class. So far, all I’ve heard about is a girl named Zlata. I was clueless about who she was when I started this class, so I asked my friend Ana who Zlata was.

“Wait here,” she told me. Ana searched through a box located behind Ms. Gruwell’s desk. She quickly brought back a book entitled
Zlata’s Diary: A Child’s Life in Sarajevo
. She handed the book to me to read.

I still tried to keep up with the class discussions that were usually concentrated on Zlata. The class talked about her like they knew her, like they knew what she went through while she was in the middle of the war. But how could they know, they’ve
never
been in the middle of a war…or so I thought. I learned a lot in the first few days that I was enrolled in the class. Some of my classmates are going through a war…an undeclared war, waged on innocent kids just trying to grow up. Society just doesn’t care about young people anymore, even if we are the future.

Now that I finished the book, I began to understand the class discussions. As one of our assignments, the class had to write letters inviting Zlata to come to Long Beach. Many of the students, including myself, did the assignment thinking it was just an assignment, but when one student asked Ms. Gruwell if Zlata was really going to come, Ms. Gruwell had a gleam in her eye. I don’t think that it was her intention to actually send the letters to Zlata, but now that the idea was brought up, why not?

For the first time, I heard a teacher take a question seriously. She really wanted to fly Zlata over to the United States to meet our class! Where were we going to get the money? Where in the world would she stay? There was no way we could do this! But Ms. Gruwell asked, “When have I let you down?”

I began to write a warm invitation and jazzed it up with graphics. I still wasn’t sure if Ms. Gruwell was serious. After the phrase “When have I let you down?” ran through my mind several times, I began to hope that Zlata really would come to meet us, but for now, all I and the rest of our classmates could do was keep writing and keep our fingers crossed.

Sophomore Year Spring 1996

Dear Zlata,

They say America is the “Land of the Free and Home of the Brave,” but what’s so free about a land where people get
killed
? My name is Thomas (Tommy) Jefferson from Wilson High School in Long Beach, California. I am a fifteen-year-old teenage boy whose life seems to be similar to yours. In your diary you said you watched out for snipers and gunshots. I watch out for gangsters and gunshots. Your friends died of gunshots and my friend Richard, who was fifteen, and my cousin Matthew, who was nineteen, also died of gunshots. The strange thing is…my country is not in a war. (Or is it?)

My close friend Richard was shot in the heart by a carjacker who was trying to steal his mom’s car. He died in his mom’s arms. His final words were “I love you.” He died on December 8, 1995, just a couple weeks before Christmas. When I saw her at Christmas, I didn’t even know what to say. What could I say to a mother whose son just died?

My cousin Matthew was shot five times in the head by a Mexican gang on February 8, 1996. Matthew was simply walking home when a van full of gangsters pulled him into their car, drove him down to the railroad tracks, beat him up and then shot him repeatedly in the head.
I hurt
! It’s painful when I think about his death.

Two people who I cared about died a senseless death exactly two months apart. Neither of their deaths was recognized in the papers. Why? Doesn’t anyone care? I care! Their families care also, but now their mothers are scarred for life because they’ll never hear or see their sons again. Sometimes I want to take a gun and get revenge, but what would that prove? Would it prove how much I cared about them? Would it prove that I stuck up for them? NO! The only thing it would prove is how dumb I am. And I am not dumb…

The main reason I’m writing this letter to you, Zlata, is because I know you’ve been in this kind of situation. Your experience moved me and made this big football player cry. (And I usually don’t cry.) So please tell me, Zlata, how should I handle a tragedy like this?

Now that I’ve read your book, I am educated on what is happening in Bosnia. I would like the opportunity now to educate people on what is happening in my “America” because until this “undeclared war” has ended, I am not free!

Your Friend,
Tommy Jefferson

Entry 4. Ms. Gruwell

Dear Diary,

After our “toast for change,” my students experienced an epiphany. My once apathetic students seemed to transform themselves into scholars with a conscience. They were so motivated that it’s awe-inspiring. And when Tommy told me he was done with all the books in our Read-a-thon for Tolerance, I almost spit out my morning coffee.

“Tommy, you’re done already?” I asked.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been grounded for the last two weeks, so all I did was read.”

Read? Wait a minute, is this the same Tommy who used to hate reading? Tommy was a disciplinary transfer like Sharaud. He had been transferred into my class mid-semester as a favor to our vice principal. Apparently, his last English teacher was afraid of him. Actually, I was, too, at first, but when he asked for more books, I couldn’t help but give him a hug. Then I called his father.

It was the first time I called a parent to report good news. Obviously, it was the first time Tommy’s father ever received such a call because he began the conversation with, “OK, what did Tommy do this time?” He was pretty surprised to hear that Tommy was my star pupil.

And Tommy’s not alone. Grounded or not, they’ve all become voracious readers. They even carry around the plastic Barnes & Noble bags to show off their new books. They call it “flossing.” I call it a miracle.

Their excitement has motivated me even more. I wanted to put a face on the genocide in Bosnia. Without really thinking about the logistics, I foolishly suggested that we write letters to Zlata and invite her to our class. It was a ploy to get them to write letters, but I didn’t think they’d take me so seriously. I underestimated the power of suggestion. Some of them truly believed that if they wrote to her, she would come, as if it were a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Their letters were so compelling that I took them to the school’s computer lab to type. Then I had them bound into a book at Kinkos. I put Tommy’s letter near the top because he drew parallels between the war in Bosnia and senseless gang violence. His letter began: “They say America is the ‘Land of the Free and Home of the Brave,’ but what’s so free about a land where people get
killed
?”

Despite being on the other side of the world, he pointed out similarities between their lives: in Sarajevo, innocent kids get shot by snipers; in Long Beach they get shot in drive-bys. Zlata’s friend Nina was killed by shrapnel; Tommy’s best friend was murdered. He ended his letter by stating, “Now that I’ve read your book, I am educated on what is happening in Bosnia. I would like the opportunity now to educate people on what is happening in my ‘America’ because until this ‘undeclared war’ has ended, I am not free!”

War? In America? It was sad to think that kids like Tommy feel like they live in the middle of a war zone. War is not something I think of as a domestic problem. I read about wars in the newspaper and watch reports on the evening news. I näively assumed that war occurred in far-off places with hard to pronounce names, not in Long Beach.

Whether it’s declared or not, there is a war being fought on the street corners and alleyways of Long Beach. And even though there aren’t tanks rolling down the streets, there are uzis, semi-automatics, and other weapons of war. One student even said, “Gangs don’t die, Ms. G, they multiply,” as if there was no solution in sight.

A casualty of war—be it at the hands of a Nazi soldier, a sniper in Sarajevo, or a gang-banger on the streets of America—is a universal tragedy. After one student hopelessly said, “Zlata survived her war, but I’m afraid I may not survive mine,” I was convinced that Zlata
must
read their letters. Once that realization sunk in, I began to panic. I had no idea where to send the letters. In fact, I had no idea where Zlata lived, if she spoke English, or how much it would cost to bring her here. There was so much I didn’t know. Would we have to bring her parents, a translator, or an entourage?

In a feeble attempt to squelch the idea of inviting her, I put the onus back on them. “If you want her to come, then
you
have to raise the money to get her here.” Nice try, but that didn’t stop them.

The next day, a student brought in an empty Sparklet’s water jug and set it in the middle of the classroom. He announced, “We need to start collecting money for Zlata,” and then he dropped in a few coins. He was so serious that I didn’t have the heart to tell him that we probably needed to fill a couple of those jugs just to pay for one airline ticket.

A couple of days later when the bottom of the jug was filled with coins and a few loose dollar bills, he asked, “Ms. Gruwell, what happens if we raise all this money and Zlata doesn’t come?” I’m used to them putting me on the spot, but I wasn’t prepared for this one. Trying to be fast on my feet, I said, “If she doesn’t come, we can buy more books or go on another field trip. But if she does come, your lives will never be the same!”

And then it hit me…I better find her and at least send her the letters. If she doesn’t respond, at least we tried.

So I spent the entire Christmas vacation trying to track Zlata down. I had no idea where to start. All I knew was that she was a refugee somewhere in Europe.

I started at the Museum of Tolerance. They thought she might be living in France. Then Renee Firestone told me she thought she had moved to Ireland. To play it safe, I sent a package to both countries. Then I put my concierge skills to the test. I got quotes on airline tickets, solicited local restaurants to donate gift certificates, and my hotel even offered two rooms if she accepted our invitation. With all the provisions in order, all we had to do now was wait.

While anxiously awaiting a response from Zlata, a wonderful woman named Gerda Seifer, a Holocaust survivor from Poland, called to tell me that Miep Gies was actually coming to California to help commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of Anne Frank’s diary. Miep was Otto Frank’s secretary and the person responsible for finding Anne’s diary. She’s eighty-seven years old and will be flying in from Amsterdam. The director of the event happened to live near me. We met and hit it off. He offered to change Miep’s itinerary so she could come meet my students. Wow! Meeting a legend like Miep is more than we could have ever hoped for.

To help prepare the students for Miep’s visit, I asked Gerda to share her experience during WWII with the students. Like Anne, who spent her adolescence hiding in the secret annex, Gerda sat perched on a wooden box in a windowless cellar. Not only will the students be able to empathize with Gerda’s feelings of persecution and loss, but I hope they’ll be able to understand how Anne Frank must have felt.

Diary 41

Dear Diary,

When we began our lesson about the importance of racial tolerance, I had no idea that that lesson would be a life-altering experience. After reading
Night
and
Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl
, I guess you could say I knew about the Holocaust, but I was not prepared for what I was going to be faced with today.

Ms. Gruwell had been talking for a long time about bringing in a Holocaust survivor named Gerda Seifer. Well today, we actually met her. Like Anne, she is Jewish and was born in Poland and she didn’t meet Hitler’s standards of purity either. During World War II, Gerda’s parents made her go into hiding with a Catholic family. She was forced to live in a basement where she could barely stand up. She could hear the SS soldiers marching outside, waiting for their next victim. She is the only survivor in her family. Luckily, she was spared from a camp.

Just as Anne was trapped, Gerda was trapped. Neither Gerda nor Anne could lead normal teenage lives. They lost their innocence due to uncontrollable circumstances. Whenever they ventured outdoors they faced the possibility of being captured by the Gestapo. Jewish people had to wear a yellow Star of David, which distinguished them from others. They were forced to attend special schools isolated from other children. They were ridiculed and tormented throughout the war.

Unfortunately, I know exactly what it feels like to not be able to go outside, not because of the Gestapo, but because of gangs. When I walk outside, I constantly glance from side to side watching those standing around me. Since I feel out of place, I often put on a façade so that I fit in. Maybe if I look and act like I belong they will not confront me. It is disrespectful to look a gang member in the eye. Imagine what would happen if a prisoner in a concentration camp insulted a Gestapo—they would get killed instantly. After the stories I’d heard from Gerda, I can guarantee that I won’t repeat the mistakes of others.

It amazed me how I could empathize not only with Anne Frank, but also with a Holocaust survivor. I’m glad I had the opportunity to hear about the past through Gerda. She is living proof of history. This experience will help me pass on the message of tolerance that Anne died for and that Gerda survived for.

Diary 42

Dear Diary,

To a fifteen-year-old, the only heroes I ever read about ran around in tight, colorful underwear and threw buildings at each other for fun. But today, that all changed. A true hero leapt off the pages of a book to pay my class a special visit. Her name is Miep Gies and she is the lady Anne Frank wrote about in her diary. I can’t believe that the woman responsible for keeping Anne Frank alive in the attic came to speak to us in person!

As I entered the Bruin Den teen center, I could feel the excitement. Many of us stayed after school yesterday to make welcome signs to decorate the walls and several students got to school really early to help set up a big buffet. We wanted everything to be perfect.

After the proper introductions were made by Ms. Gruwell, she made her entrance. Everybody stood up and cheered as Miep made her way into the hall. I was thrilled to see her in person after seeing her portrayed in movies and reading about her in the book. No colorful underwear needed—she was a true hero.

After she settled in, Miep began to talk about how she was delighted to meet us. She described to us firsthand how she hid the Frank family from the Nazi soldiers and how she found Anne’s diary. When she described how the Gestapo captured Anne and would not allow Miep to say good-bye, it made all of us emotional. She told us about how she tried to bribe the officers into letting her friends go, but they threatened to kill her.

My friend who was sitting next to me was crying. Since we’ve been studying the Holocaust, it has made him think about all the people he knows who have been killed. His best friend accidentally shot himself, and to this day, he still has nightmares about his death. Miep told everyone that not a day goes by where she doesn’t think about Anne.

When she said this, my friend stood up and told her she was his hero. Then he asked her if she believed that she was a hero. We expected her to say yes, but I think she surprised us all. She said, “No. You, my friends, are the true heroes.” Heroes? Us? Having her say that made me realize more than ever how special my classmates are. Like she said, we are the heroes and it is up to us to let the younger generation know what’s going on. It sure feels good to know that for once in my life my friends and I are doing the right thing.

After she finished and we all had the opportunity to give her a hug or have her sign our books, I realized how lucky we were. Most people will probably never have the opportunity to hear her story in person like we did. A legacy left by one girl, carried by one woman, was passed on to a new generation of teens who have the chance to make a difference like Anne’s diary did.

Now after meeting Miep, I can honestly say that my heroes are not just made-up characters—my hero is real.

Diary 43

Dear Diary,

“If you could live an eternity and not change a thing or exist for the blink of an eye and alter everything, what would you choose?” This was one of Ms. G’s questions after we read this poem.