The Freedom Writers Diary (11 page)

When Zlata wrote about Bosnian children becoming the “soldiers” and the soldiers becoming “children,” at first I didn’t get her meaning. After hearing Tony’s story, I understood. In war the innocence of a child is lost, and though the soldiers feel theirs is a worthy cause, they behave like children when trying to achieve their goals. Knowing that a grown man entered a child’s bedroom stealing his innocence, makes me sad. They stole his smile. Tony wears the permanent scars of war on his face, just as I wear the scars on my soul.

Diary 49

Dear Diary,

I am so exhausted from yesterday! We got to spend a whole day with Zlata and Mirna. Our marathon day started at 7
A.M.
and I didn’t get home until 10
P.M.
last night. Or was it 11
P.M.
? Even though I’m exhausted, I can’t wait to spend another day with them!

Our day began with a breakfast by the “Dream Team Moms.” These are the dedicated moms who have adopted our class as their kids. After we had breakfast we left in buses to Los Angeles. It was my first time in a charter bus. The buses were air-conditioned, had televisions, a VCR, and lights that we could turn on and off at our seats! Plus a bathroom!! A big difference from school buses!

Soon we got to the Museum of Tolerance, our first stop. For many, it was their first time there, but this was my second time. During our freshman year we went straight to the museum’s theater to watch
Higher Learning
. This time we had a private tour of the museum.

The museum focuses on stereotypes, prejudice, genocide, the history of intolerance. There were comic strips to show us some examples of how people are misjudged and how our negative thoughts can lead to violence. Plus there was a section of worn out shoes each representing a victim of the Holocaust.

During the tour, I received a passport with a child’s face and name. Throughout the museum you get to find out what happens to them. Each room I went into, I would slip my passport into a computer and it would tell me the fate of the child. Some of my friends had passports where the child died. Many of us cried during the tour.

After we came out of the museum, the ground was wet from the rain. It seems like the rain was a symbol of tears from those who had died. As though they were crying out their tears of sorrows and stories to us.

After the tour, we went to Lawry’s “The House of Prime Ribs” for lunch. It is located in Beverly Hills. I was afraid to touch anything because I might break something. The dining tables had a candle with fresh flowers and the napkins folded in the fanciest way. The seats were made of real leather, they weren’t sticky or smelly like some restaurants I have been to. Lawry’s treated us like royalty! The chef came around with food in a heated cart to serve us prime rib. Even the restroom was decorated with fresh flowers. One thing’s for sure, it was a
lot
nicer than our school’s restrooms, which constantly smell like cigarettes and have makeup stains on the mirrors and sink. Sometimes you will find the sinks clogged up with paper towels or see wadded toilet paper hanging from the ceiling.

Once we were as stuffed as pigs, we went back to the museum to watch a private screening of
Schindler’s List
. Oskar Schindler started out as a man who wore his gold Nazi pin with pride. He couldn’t care less about the Jews and others being rounded up and taken away in crowded cattle cars. During one of the Jewish round-ups, he saw a little girl in a red petticoat. She stood out from everyone because the movie is in black and white. She was running away from the chaos and hiding. A few days later he found her dead with a pile of other bodies ready to be thrown into the fire. That’s when he started to try to save every Jew he could with the money he had. By the end, he had saved over a thousand Jews.

The movie made
Night, The Wave
, and
The Diary of a Young Girl
come alive. One of my friends actually said he had a flashback about the death of one of his friends. He said that the little girl’s red coat reminded him of his friend’s blood. It made me realize that senseless violence doesn’t only happen in history books or movies.

After the movie, we headed to the Century City Marriott Hotel to have a reception for Holocaust survivors and ourselves. The Holocaust survivor at our table showed us his tattoo and it made me wonder if he ever tried to hide it from others. I wanted to know: What he was thinking everyday in the camp? What was his greatest fears? Did he ever think of suicide? I wanted to ask, but I was too nervous and I thought my questions were stupid.

Near the end of dinner, students introduced the Holocaust survivors sitting with them and told us the most interesting information about their experiences. Some of my questions were actually answered, but there will always be more.

I feel that reading the books gave me a foundation for this piece of history, but today’s marathon with the museum, the movie, and especially meeting all the survivors gave me a better understanding of the Holocaust. I’m glad they survived to tell us their stories and pass the baton. My fingertips are still tingling!

Diary 50

Dear Diary,

Sorry, diary, I was going to try not to do it tonight, but the little baggy of white powder is calling my name. As I chop up the white rock on my special makeup mirror into very fine powder I start thinking about the past week with Zlata and our infamous toast for change.

Zlata left today and I can’t help but feel guilty for what I have been doing lately. We’re all about changing for the better and I am changing for the worse. This whole week, people have been looking at us as model teenagers who have changed their lives. The local newspapers have actually done stories about us bringing Zlata here and how we’ve made monumental changes in our lives. That part is true, but then there’s me. It does bother me that I am being dishonest, especially to Zlata, but is it lying when I don’t say anything?

Ms. Gruwell would be so disappointed if she found out. I definitely can’t say anything now because it would really make things worse. I don’t know what she would do, especially since Zlata was here. I might as well keep it a secret at this point. I wish she wouldn’t trust me so much. I mean how can she trust me if I can’t even trust myself? She shouldn’t trust anyone who steals money from their family, begs friends for change, and digs through her couch just to support her drug habit. In some sick way I wish I could get caught so all this lying could be behind me. But then reality kicks in when I see that line in front of me. When it comes down to it I’m not ready to change. I know I should stop, but it would be wrong to stop for someone else. When I hear cheesy clichés like “Hugs not drugs,” or “Be smart, don’t start,” it makes me want to do it more. Yack, yack, yack. Come on, get real, how boring! Quite honestly, I’m just not ready to quit yet.

I’m what you call a closet tweeker. To clear things up, a tweeker is someone who smokes or snorts speed. Nobody knows my secret, especially Zlata, and I’d like to keep it that way. It’s not something to brag about. I’m getting to a point where I can hide it in plain sight. When Zlata was here, she and Ms. Gruwell had no idea that I was high. I even got high before we went to Universal Studios with her, but I played it off as much as I could. Even though we were talking about our favorite bands between rides, I don’t think she knew.

When I first started getting high, I would be strung out and I couldn’t sit still. But now I’ve learned to control it and I can play it off. I guess that’s what happens when you do it all the time. People never see what is right under their noses and believe me I use it to my advantage.

The worst thing about it is that I’m already in out-patient rehab two days a week, but I just have to make things worse by doing drugs more and more, harder and harder. It’s so ironic how all this got started. I was put in rehab after our toast for change for possession of marijuana, but now that I’m in rehab, I’m addicted to speed. Where’s the change in that? When everyone is changing their old habits I’m making new ones.

My worst fear is that I’m becoming an addict. I mean, can someone like me have an addiction? When I think of an addict I think of someone walking the streets, begging people for change, sucking dick for a score, leaving their babies in the trash still alive. But when I think about it, I’m no better. I’m what you call a model child. A good daughter, one of Ms. Gruwell’s favorite students, and now I have an amazing new friend—but I’m lying to my mom, Ms. G, and Zlata. Not exactly model child material.

Now I guess you can call me an addict. No more A’s on tests or bringing teachers apples, (like I did that anyway). I’ll beg, steal, and cheat just to get a quick line. Sure it has its pitfalls, but you know what they say: “Curiosity killed the cat.” Well, not this cat.

For me, a quick line has turned into a fast hit from the glass pipe. The higher the intensity, the better the high. That’s my preferred party favor, the glass pipe. It kind of freaks me out because I never thought I would be at this point. Is there time to turn back or am I going to get closer to a dark tunnel with no light and no way out?

I’m actually relieved that this week with Zlata and all the attention is over. Not that it was boring, it was really fun, but I didn’t deserve it. With all that behind me, I whip out my straw, sit down on the toilet, making sure the bathroom is locked; bring it to my nose and snort. The burn is a sure sign that I’m on my way to my next high. Oh yeah, it’s going to be good. No more headaches, body aches, or stomachaches until of course, the high is over, but only until I reach for my best friend called crystal meth.

Diary 51

Dear Diary,

Basketball for Bosnia was an event to remember. Ms. Gruwell and her students held a tournament at the university to help donate all sorts of food and medical supplies for kids in Bosnia. There were over 500 people in attendance and besides basketball, there was a cheer camp for the little brothers and sisters and a talent show at halftime. I got to play on a team even though I’m not in her class. My team was Anne’s Angels (in honor of Anne Frank), and I even got to keep the jersey. No one really cared who won or lost; we were just having fun to help people in need.

I want to get into her class so badly after today. They’re so much more than a “class,” they act like a family. Ms. Gruwell does things that are so smart, yet so simple. I feel as though I were already part of their team because no one cared what color I was or how I looked. All they cared about was coming together for the same cause. Being accepted for who you are without having anyone snicker at you was great—but it’s not something I’m used to.

It brought back a lot of memories from my past. In my honors class, I’ve never really been that comfortable. I’ve always been the oddball and have never felt accepted. I feel like I’m always trying to prove that I belong. I remember feeling like that back in the day.

I grew up surrounded by fat people. My mom—overweight; my brother—overweight; my sister—overweight; my aunt, yeah, you guessed it—overweight! As a child, I always thought, Why me? Why did I have to be overweight? Why did I have to be the child that didn’t play sports because I was overweight? I couldn’t climb the gym ropes, I couldn’t swing on the swings, and I couldn’t do a pull-up. I thought nothing could be done about my weight. I thought that was the way I was supposed to be, FAT!

Jumping rope and having the other kids yell, “EARTHQUAKE! Run for cover!” really hurt. People often told me, “Why do you let people talk to you that way? Speak up for yourself,” but I didn’t have the courage to do so. I was afraid to say anything for fear they might say, “Shut your fat ass up!” So I thought I would save myself the embarrassment.

My sixth grade year was hell! I hardly had any friends and I couldn’t look anyone in the face. All I could think about was food. By the time I completed sixth grade, I weighed over 200 pounds. That’s a lot of damn weight for a sixth grader. I wore a size 26 to 28 and I had no confidence in myself. I thought I was
ugly
! I had no boyfriend, I didn’t go to parties, and I had no social life. I pretty much kept to myself. When some ignorant kids would see me at lunch, they would say, “Your fat ass don’t need to be eating shit!” I would just ignore them, but after awhile, the comments were really hard for me to ignore. It was difficult for me to believe that someone would take away my self-esteem, just to gain their own. The only reason why I didn’t resort to kicking their skinny butts was because I didn’t want to be known as fat
and
a bully, because then
no one
would talk to me.

I felt alone, ashamed, and left out of everything. I would go home after school and think of things I wanted to say to them, but never had the courage to say. I hated them and myself. I felt as if I was in a shell and there was no way for me to get out.

Rather than feeling sorry for myself, I turned to books and school to feel good. Suddenly, I was getting straight As. School allowed me to creep out of my shell slowly, but surely.

Basketball for Bosnia practically was a rebirth. All my insecurities flew out the window. When the tournament was over, we formed a Soul Train line and danced on the basketball court. I can’t believe that I had the courage to go through the center of the line and dance in front of 500 people. Everybody went crazy, they cheered me on and waved their hands in the air. I felt wanted, like I was a part of a family. I wasn’t just another face in the class, I had a chance to express myself and be a star!

Zlata’s Letter

Dublin, June 4, 1996

My dear friends,

It has been a while since I was spending that crazy little, but at the same time very big and very special week with you. And I still recall the moments, rewind the movie in my head, and remember all of you, read your letters. Listen to the tapes you gave me, look at the presents, look at the stain on my jacket from the flying drink (just kidding!)…All the memories you gave me will be with me forever, as they are something one should not forget. And I just want to thank you for all that, for your friendship, your understanding—that is something mankind needs desperately. And you certainly have it together with your strong ambition to make the world a better place by starting with yourselves and your surrounding. You are real heroes.