The Freedom Writers Diary (15 page)

Ms. Gruwell structured a debate called “Misogyny or Mayhem?” She started by having us analyze the cover of Snoop Doggy Dogg’s album with cartoon characters representing a male and female dog. The male dog is on top of “da dogg house,” and the female dog is on the bottom with her ass hanging out. Throughout the cartoon, the female dog is called a hoochie and a ho, and they even kick her out of the dog house in the last illustration. All the girls felt like this cartoon showed how men think they’re on top of everything. I think it’s about time men start respecting women, instead of degrading women to the point where it’s unbearable. I don’t know why women allow men to brainwash them and use their bodies as objects instead of cherishing them as if they were treasures. But it’s never going to change until women start respecting themselves more.

If you were looking for someone to give you an example of misogyny, my family would be the prime illustration. My male cousins were advised, “Make sure you put a hat on that Jimmy!” or “Get as many girls as possible!” Because I’m the only girl in my family, the only advice I was given was to keep my legs closed. Therefore, when I lost my virginity, it was the end of the world.

My boyfriend and I had been together for two years before we decided to have sex. Then when it came time for what was supposed to be my special moment, I thought there would be caressing and passionate kisses. Instead, it was a five-minute bang, bang, bang. I looked at him after we were finished and asked him, “Is that it?” I thought losing my virginity was something that would be worth while. Instead, it’s something I now regret.

Now I’m not a virgin and everyone looks at me as though I am a tramp or a ho. Of course, if I were male, I would be congratulated. I wish that things were different, but they aren’t.

Diary 62

Dear Diary,

Today marks a turning point in my life. As soon as I walked into Ms. G’s second period class, I picked up
The Color Purple
, a novel written by Alice Walker. I began to read, kept reading, read some more, and found myself unable to put it down. It was so intense and complex. I read slowly, wondering who she was, where she had gone. I’d never seen her before, had never been where she’d been. Yet in the midst of it all, Celie seemed strangely familiar. Life wasn’t easy for Celie, but she knew how to survive. She needed little to get by. Come to think of it, I do know who Celie is…

My Uncle Joe was unlike any other uncle. He was nice, caring, a good listener, understanding, very handsome, and best of all, he always knew just what to say whenever I was miserable. He was always there for me when I needed a warm, sincere, loving hug. Basically, he was my hero. I loved Uncle Joe with all my heart.

We lived in a very small apartment complex, so Uncle Joe, my younger brothers, and I all slept in the living room. Moonlight filled our tiny room and the scent of a freshly cut Christmas tree filled my nostrils. Life couldn’t have been better, or so I thought…

“Hmm? What is that? Who’s touching me?” Whatever it was, I didn’t like it…it was Uncle Joe. What was he doing to me? Whatever it was, I wanted him to stop. I opened my mouth to tell him to stop, but the words wouldn’t come. It was as if a ton of bricks had fallen on me, knocking the air from my lungs, making me unable to speak.

I felt his body right next to mine and his breathing got stronger and stronger. He was touching me in places I didn’t know could make me feel so dirty. I didn’t move a muscle. I made my body as hard as a rock, as he slowly slid his hand up my shirt caressing my back and the side of my breasts. He kept on trying to make me lie on my back, but he was unsuccessful.

He got closer and closer. I could actually feel his skin touching mine. The feel of his sweat and his lips on my skin made me want to cry. A gigantic lump formed in my throat and to this day, nothing makes it go away. Uncle Joe wasn’t being rough with me, which made it hard for me to decide whether or not what he was doing to me was wrong. It tore me up inside to think he would actually do me any harm. I was only a little girl, but I knew what he was doing was wrong. But why? Uncle Joe is the most righteous person I’ve ever met…After Uncle Joe invaded me, he got up for a drink of water. As soon as I heard the water running in the kitchen, my hatred for him grew. It was as if he was thirsty and exhausted from fulfilling himself and making me feel like the dirtiest being alive.

I had to think fast. “What to do, what to do?” I got up to go sleep on the couch before he came back. I didn’t want him to do any more than he already had. Uncle Joe came back and took his tanktop off. He saw me on the couch and asked what was wrong. I looked at him for a few seconds. “Nothing…I just can’t get to sleep.” I wanted to cry out. I wanted the entire universe to know I was scared. That I needed to be held; that I wanted to die…but who could I run to? The only person I could talk to was hurting me.

I sat there for a long time while Uncle Joe fell asleep. I didn’t dare blink. The next morning, I heard my parents get up and get ready to leave for work. I’ll never forget that feeling of hopelessness when my mother kissed me good-bye. Uncle Joe baby-sat my brother and me every day. But today was different and he was acting as if nothing had happened. He was being his usual “charming” self.

I was so angry, I couldn’t think straight. I refused to do anything he wanted me to do. He acted like he wanted to hit me. My face hot with rage, I ran into the living room crying, yelling how much I hated him. It wasn’t so much that he had changed the way I felt about myself. He had destroyed the only thing I believed in. He destroyed my belief in him.

All he had to do was apologize, and once again I was charmed. His eyes seemed so sincere. He really believed he had done nothing wrong. The hours felt endless. My only relief was when my mom came home. Only then did I dare to take a shower, trying hard to scrub away the permanent filth. As soon as I got out of the shower, I pulled my mother into her bedroom and told her everything. My relationship with Uncle Joe has never been the same since.

Celie was violated, tormented, humiliated, degraded; yet through it all, she remained innocent! Out of all this horror, Celie was given courage. Courage to ask for more, to laugh, to love, and finally—to live.

Now I’m certain who Celie is. Celie is and always has been me…and with this in mind, I will survive.

Diary 63

Dear Diary,

If you look into my eyes, you will see a loving girl.

If you look at my smile, you will sense that nothing is wrong.

If you look in my heart, you will see some pain.

If you pull up my shirtsleeves and look at my arms, you will see black and blue marks.

We just started reading the book
The Color Purple
and as Ms. Gruwell read aloud I just wanted to cry.

Celie’s situation reminds me about an abusive relationship I had with my boyfriend that changed my life. I, too, became wood and every time my mom asked me, “Did you have a good time, honey?” as I’d walk through the door, I’d simply answer “Yeah.” Then I’d go to my room and look at my body to see all the marks showing just how good of a time I had.

When I crawled into bed sometimes I would lie there and try to remember what had happened. I would try to think of what I did to cause it? Why did I make him so mad? What should I have done? When would it stop? Where would I draw the line? The first shove, the first time he slapped me, when he started calling me names, or the time he squeezed my arm so hard I had a bright red handprint around it?

At first when the abuse started, it was a slight shove or a twist of my arm. Gradually it became more intense. Each time he pushed harder or dug his nails into my arm deeper as he twisted it. I thought he was just playing around and being a little aggressive, but then he started yelling at me and calling me names. His voice was frightening and his words ripped through my body. His voice could make me shiver and become too scared to move.

One false move and he was a time bomb waiting to explode. In each situation his wires got triggered and he’d go off. When he exploded, he would hit me, shake me, push me, squeeze my arms, and yell things like “You stupid bitch, you can’t do anything right.”

When we’d get into an argument, he’d yell “I want to hit you so bad!” That’s how it always went: I would do something to make him angry, he would get this horrifying tone in his voice, and this crazy look in his eyes, then he would hit me. Sometimes he would stop just as he was about to throw another punch, and look at his fist, then look at me and say, “Oh my God, babe, I’m so sorry.” Just like that and he would hold me saying how sorry he was, and I would stay there too shaken to move.

When hitting wasn’t effective anymore, he moved on to control. He began locking me in his garage or bathroom so I couldn’t leave. Sometimes he’d push me out the front door and tell me to leave, but as I started walking down the street, he would come running after me. When I went back, he’d act as if nothing had happened. I always went back, too—back to his house, the abuse, and him.

We would be kissing pretty heavily and he would get a little too excited. He would want to have sex and I always told him I wasn’t ready. He would start pulling my clothes off, saying, “We are going to do this!” Then he would just stop and push me aside and order me to get dressed.

He made me so nervous, that I would get sick, literally sick. When he called and I heard his voice over the phone I would get this nauseous feeling all over my body. Then when I was on my way to his house it would get worse. My stomach would turn and I would have to ask whoever was driving to pull over so I could get some fresh air. I threw up a few times before I even left my house, and twice at his house. He thought that I had a nervous stomach. He never knew it was because of him.

I still don’t know why this happened or how things got so bad. It got to the point that I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t tell anyone. Every time we were together, it seemed to get worse. The worst point of the relationship was when he ran after me with a butcher knife, yelling “I’m gonna kill you!”

The whole time this was happening it felt like a bad dream. A dream I could never wake up from. Unfortunately, we gave each other what we were both missing. He had anger all built up inside that he needed to release on someone and I was a ball of emotions just looking for someone to love me. He was the security I needed.

We were like a fire triangle, he was the oxygen, I was the flame, and together we made the fuel. All mixed together we were a fire. Somehow we needed each other to keep going. It ended like someone pouring water on our fire. It went out all of a sudden and without warning.

As fast as it started, it was out.

Diary 64

Dear Diary,

Reading
The Color Purple
really makes me uncomfortable because Celie is always getting beaten up by Mister. Every time I read about Celie being beaten up, I flashback to when my mother was recently beat by my alcoholic stepdad.

I always knew I had to be careful and protect my mom because my stepdad is a professional alcoholic. He is a little guy, but when he’s drunk, his size doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care about anything and tries to destroy anything that gets in his way. When he’s drunk, he really scares me, so I try to keep him in control. Unfortunately, that doesn’t always work.

Things were starting to get pretty hostile between them, so I made it a point to come home from school as soon as possible. One day when I got home my mom told me that things were already out of control and that he’d been yelling at her. We went to my aunt’s house for dinner to let him cool off.

Later that night, as I was lying in bed thinking about what we’d read in Ms. G’s class earlier, I began to think about my mom in the other room. My mother, like Celie, could not defend herself against a drunken alcoholic. I felt that I should stay up and listen for any arguments that may arise.

Suddenly the book came to life when I heard her calling for me. Seconds later, I heard
thump! slap
! and “Get off me!” She called for me. When I opened the door, he was holding her arms down slapping and hitting her. Without even thinking I rushed to him and threw him off her. I took a quick glimpse as she ran out the door and I could see her eyes were full of tears and fear. My body raged with anxiety and anger.

I could feel my stomach twisting and turning, and my hands and arms were shaking like they’d never shaken before. My mind and body felt like they were ready to explode on this human piece of crap, who was trying to hurt the person I love the most. I asked myself, “What should I do? Should I turn around and beat the shit out of him? But what if he tries to attack me? Or should I get my mom and my little sister the hell out of here?” I only had a few seconds to decide. I decided to get my sister ready and put her in the car first, then I went back inside for my mom.

Celie, who coincidentally, was in the exact same role as my mother, didn’t have somebody to stop Mr.—from abusing her. Seeing how scared my mom was made me think about all the women like Celie who have no one to rescue them. After seeing the fear in her eyes, I vowed I would never let anyone physically or mentally abuse her again.

On the way to my aunt’s house, I could see that same color again, like it was haunting me. The color purple was coming from my mother’s eye where my stepdad had punched her. That’s when I began to understand that the color purple isn’t just a color or the name of a book.

Diary 65

Dear Diary,

I can’t believe what I did today! I told them everything! Well, not everything, but almost everything. It’s unbelievable how much I revealed. I had a feeling Ms. Gruwell was going to pick on me. I knew she was going to make me get up and talk to everyone. I just knew it!

Ms. Gruwell took some of her students from Wilson to her college diversity seminar at National University. We were supposed to teach graduate students about diversity in the classroom because they were going to be the future teachers of America. We didn’t know we were in store for an emotional healing. A healing that no amount of money spent in a psychologist’s office could buy.