The Freedom Writers Diary (18 page)

At the end of the video, a fellow classmate asked the question, “They fought racism by riding the bus?” That was it! The bells were ringing, the sirens were sounding. It hit me! The Freedom Riders fought intolerance by riding a bus and pushing racial limits in the deep South. Then somebody suggested that we name ourselves the Freedom Writers, in honor of the Freedom Riders. Why not? It’s perfect! But those are huge shoes to fill, so if we’re going to take their name, we better take their courage and conviction. It’s one thing to ride a bus, but they eventually had to get off and face the music. So, it’s one thing for us to write diaries like Anne and Zlata, but if we want to be like the Freedom Riders, we need to take that extra step. Just like Anne’s story made it out of the attic and Zlata’s out of the basement, I hope our stories make it out of Room 203. Now when I write, I’ll remember Jim’s work and what he risked his life for. Like him, I am willing to step forward, unafraid of who or what lies ahead. After all, history tells me that I am not alone.

Diary 76

Dear Diary,

“
Me, cleaning my mother’s blood off the wall, represented the ‘tornado’ breaking and destroying her face (I liked to call my mother’s boyfriend the ‘tornado’.) After he would hit, everything would look like it had been caught in a whirlwind—our apartment, our sanity, and my mother’s face. I was cleaning up after the tornado hit my house and diminished everything. Washing my mom’s blood, which was shed from time to time; a sacrifice to make him happy. He lived for blood—her blood, enjoying every fist that hit her flesh, and every scream that took place. While he broke televisions, stereos, VCRs and the dining room table, it didn’t compare to the breaking of her mind. My mom was never the same, and neither was I
…”

Damn! That was really deep. I think now that we’re “Freedom Writers,” we’re taking the “freedom writing” part to heart. We’ve decided to bind all our diary entries, and call it
An American Diary…Victims of an Undeclared War
. Someone said he refused to be called a “victim,” and we all agreed, so we came up with
Voices
instead.

Since we titled it
An American Diary…Voices from an Undeclared War
, we felt that someone should hear our voices, but who would be the right person to listen? We wanted to shoot big! The mayor? No. The governor? Hell no! (Some of us are still upset about Proposition 187!) The President? Nah. We wanted somebody who had a direct effect on education. Ms. G mentioned some guy named Richard Riley. Supposedly, he’s the top dog in his field. I think he’s the United States Secretary of Education.

He claims he wants to get to know America’s youth, and as part of America’s youth, we would give it to him straight. He’s adamant about changing education, and we’re adamant about revolutionizing it. He’s perfect, but there’s a catch—he’s in Washington. Just when we were about to leave that idea alone, someone said, “That would make it even better because that’s where the Freedom Riders started their mission.” It made perfect sense, but one question: How the hell are we gonna get there?

Since we became the Freedom Writers, people have been acting even crazier than ever. They stay after school, and even come in at lunch. Last night we didn’t leave here until 10
P.M.
and the custodian had to kick us out. We tried to bribe him with pizza, but it didn’t work. That’s nothing compared to the other night, though, when we almost got arrested. We were editing stories, and before we knew it, it was 11, at night! Fred made all of us, even Ms. G, climb out the window so the alarms wouldn’t go off. Somebody must have seen us, ’cause within thirty seconds Ms. G’s car was surrounded by five cop cars. They thought that we were jacking our own computers. They found it hard to believe that we were studying, and it was even harder to believe that some of us hoodlums were still at school. What was worse is that they didn’t believe Ms. G was our teacher. Maybe it was because she looked somewhat like us. She was wearing my big-ass sweats because we had made her change out of her suit to be more comfortable. Her hair was up in a ponytail, so she looked like a teenager. They must have thought that her car was our “G ride.” They were about to arrest us all, until we found Ms. G’s “Teacher of the Year” plaque in the back of her four-runner.

It’s weird, but this incident brought us all closer together; how many people could say that they almost got arrested with their teacher? The fact that Ms. G was willing to get arrested to help us complete a writing assignment was a sign of loyalty, and we respect her more for it. It’s ironic how Ms. G is helping us write about an undeclared war, and that night she was helping us fight it.

She proved to us that she was down for us, so now we had to be down for her. We have to trust her, even if it does mean doing the impossible to make our trip to Washington, D.C., possible.

Diary 77

Dear Diary,

We decided to have a concert in order to raise money for our Washington, D.C., trip. There is no better satisfaction than watching our small ideas become a big show; I am so excited. The people who bought tickets to our Echoes of the Soul fundraising concert did not simply support one hundred and fifty high school kids, they supported a cause. Tonight is our night to shine. We’ll have Latin dances, singing of all types, Cambodian dances, a fashion show, and even skits. The diversity of ideas, traditions, and spirit is the true purpose of the Freedom Writers.

It used to be that no one believed in us, but now our whole community is behind us and cheering us on.

Diary 78

Dear Diary,

I read this poem at the Freedom Writers concert:

An Innocent Freedom Writer

A young black boy filled with innocence and care,

looking for someone, but no one is there.

His first day of school, the father’s not around,

to comfort his son when he’s sad and down.

Looks up to his brother who knows money and power,

watching his back every single hour.

An innocent boy is now twelve years of age,

and finds himself locked up in a human-sized cage.

An innocent young man is now a criminal mind,

having nightmares of murders every single time.

But this time you’ll think this fool should see the light,

but he’s jumped in a gang and they nickname him “Snipe.”

Kicked out of the house and left in the cold.

Have you been through this at eleven years old?

He says to himself “no one cares for me,”

then makes his bed in an old park tree.

The next time a park bench, how long can it last?

Will he forget this dreadful, dreadful past!

He goes to Wilson High with a messed-up trail,

and meets a guardian angel named Erin Gruwell.

He learns about the Holocaust, Anne Frank and the Jews.

Now the time comes that he should choose.

He meets Anna, Terri, Tommy, and others.

These are the innocent boy’s new sisters and brothers.

A 0.5 now a 2.8—

Change is good, for those that wait.

He’s back to innocence, but still has fear,

that death is upon him and drawing near.

But people say it’s hard to see,

this life of emotions is all about me.

All this is true, because I’m not a liar

just a brokenhearted male with a label—Freedom Writer!

Diary 79

Dear Diary,

I think I’m pretty lucky. I have a good life, a loving family, and a beautiful home. My friends, however, are not as fortunate as I am. Some have been in trouble with the law, have family disputes, or are just alone and have no one to turn to. I did not find out how much other teenagers go through until we started writing and editing our stories. The more I read, the more I found out about my peers’ personal problems. Even though I don’t have my own sad story, I am willing to help, listen, and encourage other Freedom Writers to tell their stories. People should hear what they go through and understand that no one comes from a perfect home. I believe that the passion behind our stories will speak as loud as the words in it.

We have the same passion and hope as the Freedom Riders had when they traveled from city to city across the South. Freedom Riders stood out among the crowd, trying to bring an end to segregation between whites and blacks by traveling from Washington, D.C., to New Orleans. Without the collaboration of both the Caucasians and the African Americans they would not have won the battle. They worked together as one to win the war against ignorance. Our camaraderie has more than just two sides, and I feel really fortunate to be a part of this new movement that’s not just black and white. We are following in their footsteps by traveling from California to Washington D.C., announcing to everyone that we are strong and we will be heard. Our trip to Washington is to prove the passion behind our cause. Just like the Freedom Riders, we are going to fight for what we believe in.

Being able to look into another person’s life is one thing, but doing something about it is another. I feel that we have the potential to help those who fear to speak for themselves. But speaking out is not always easy. We may face a lot of close-minded people along the way. So, just like the Freedom Riders, who didn’t give up when their bus got bombed or when they were beat up by the Klan, I hope we’ll stand strong like the Dylan Thomas poem and “Not Go Gently Into That Good Night.”

We want people who are adults to take the time to listen to teenagers and respect what we have to say. So we came up with the idea that the best way to tell our side of the story is to give our diaries to Secretary of Education Richard Riley. If we could hand-deliver our stories to Secretary Riley, then one more person will know the problems teenagers face day by day. Unfortunately, a lot of adults are too blind or cold-hearted to see our pain. But blinding yourself to the realities that our teenagers go through is like seeing a murder and turning the other way. I am not going to let that happen. I will fight along with the other Freedom Writers to stand up, speak out, and “rage against the dying of the light.” Hopefully when we’re in Washington, Secretary Riley won’t turn us away or stay blind to our cause.

Diary 80

Dear Diary,

I can’t believe I’m here in our nation’s capital! I’m so excited. I have never felt so free. But at the same time, I’m scared about my dad coming back and finding out that I’m gone! He’s in Mexico and I don’t know when he’s going to come back. If he was home, I wouldn’t have been able to come. He’s very strict and old-fashioned. I’m not allowed to do anything after school. I’ve had to miss every trip that involved the Freedom Writers. I didn’t get to go to the Marriott to meet Zlata, I didn’t get to go to the Museum of Tolerance and see
Schindler’s List
, I didn’t even get to go to Medieval Times. Every time my friends came home from a field trip, I felt so left out. Everyone had something to share, and I didn’t. I would listen, look at their pictures, and hide my tears. Every time Ms. G tried to get me to go, I always said “No!” I already knew what my dad’s answer would be: “No!” During my sophomore year I used to beg to go, but my dad would always say, “You already know the answer, so don’t ask!” From that point on, I just stopped asking. It hurt too much to hear him say “No!”

When the Washington trip first came up, I just assumed I wasn’t going. The thought of getting away ran through my mind many, many times. I never realized that my wish would actually come true. Every time Ms. G asked for a final headcount to reserve our plane tickets, I never responded. Deep down inside, it was killing me. I’d never been on a plane before, never stayed in a hotel or left my house for that matter. I’m like a prisoner in my own home! I’m not even allowed to talk on the phone. If I do, my dad disconnects it. If anybody calls me, he tells him or her “She doesn’t live here” and hangs up. Then I get screamed at.

Three days before the trip, a miracle happened. My dad left for Mexico because my grandma got sick. I got up the nerve to ask my mom if I could go. I was afraid she’d say no, too. Even though she was scared of my dad and said that we were both taking a huge risk, she wanted me to go. If he came home, he would beat her and me up for sure. He’d never let me leave the house again. He would probably hold a grudge and blame everything that went wrong on me! But for some reason, even though she was scared, she said I had to go. She said that I deserved it, and I might not ever get this chance again. Wow! I couldn’t believe my mom was willing to sacrifice so much for me.

It was the first time in my life that I felt hope. I wanted to go so bad. I prayed that it wasn’t too late. So, the first thing I did the next morning was run to Ms. G’s class. Luckily, the baseball team made it to the playoffs, so our star athlete wouldn’t be able to go on the trip. Ms. G said I could have his ticket!

From that point on, everything was a blur. I had never felt so free. I was so nervous, running from place to place trying to pack. Since I’d never been on a vacation, I had no idea how to pack. What should I take? What was I going to wear? I never even had sleepovers when I was a little girl, so this was all new to me.

All this was new for my mom, too. She was so scared because I’d never been away from her a day in my life. What if something happened to me? This trip was really for the both of us. I want to share everything with her, every detail: what we ate, what we saw, who we met. Everything!

This morning when I left, all my relatives were there to say good-bye. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I kissed my mom good-bye. At that moment, I had doubts about my departure. So I asked my mom, “Are you sure you want me to go?” I thought she’d change her mind, but I was wrong. She hugged me and said, “Make good use of this opportunity and don’t let me down. I’m so proud of you.” Her words gave me so much motivation and inspiration, that I can’t explain. Now I was ready to say good-bye and leave Long Beach. I headed off on my adventure, an adventure that I’m sure I’ll cherish for a lifetime. Her excitement gave me the courage to hop on a plane for the first time. Yeah! I was afraid, but it seemed like nothing else mattered. I can’t wait to share everything with her when I get home.