The Freedom Writers Diary (23 page)

The memory of my journey, or should I say my struggle to America, is buried deep inside of me. I was four years old when I was lifted into the arms of two strange men. They guided me down through the Río Bravo in the dead of night, from Mexico to Texas. The river is called the Río Bravo, meaning the “angry river,” because its huge waves are very strong. It has taken the lives of many people who have tried to cross it.

Sometimes, I close my eyes and I can hear the wind blowing against the trees surrounding the river. I remember sitting on a hard tire in the middle of cold, murky water. I was terrified that the river would swallow me alive. All I wanted at that moment was to be in the arms of my mother, who was on another tire behind me with my younger sister. After my brothers, sister, mother, and I made it across the river, we were taken to a man’s house. He was a “coyote” and was supposed to help us get through our second obstacle—the border, without getting caught by Immigration. I guess you could say he knew what he was doing because I am here today.

Since I’m an illegal immigrant, the obstacles didn’t stop once I got across the border. My freshman year, I thought I was going to kicked out of school because of Proposition 187. Now I can’t get a part-time job, or apply to college. On one occasion, I even blamed my mother for all of the troubles that I’ve had, because I don’t have the necessary papers to be in this country. Blaming my mother was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. She only wanted what was best for us. If she had known that in this country of “dreams” everybody talked about, things would be harder than they seemed, she wouldn’t have brought us here. She would have raised us in our own country to the best of her ability.

To this day I can’t decide whether my journey here was taken in vain. I was brought here to have a golden opportunity, but unfortunately, it’s not being given to me. I know it won’t be easy, but I won’t stop until I have gotten what I came here to get: my education. You know, come to think of it, my journey here was for that purpose. I must fulfill my dream of becoming an educator and helping young people like myself.

Diary 103

Growing up, I always assumed I would either drop out of school or get pregnant. So when Ms. G. started talking about college, it was like a foreign language to me. Didn’t she realize that girls like me don’t go to college? Except for Ms. G., I don’t know a single female who’s graduated from high school, let alone gone to college. Instead, all the girls my age are already knocked up by some cholo. Like they say, if you’re born in the ’hood, you’re bound to die in it.

So when Ms. G. kept saying that “I could do anything,” “go anywhere,” and “be anyone”—even the President, I thought she was crazy. I always thought that the only people who went to college were rich white people. How did she expect me to go to college? After all, I live in the ghetto and my skin is brown.

But Ms. G. kept drilling into my head that it didn’t matter where I came from or the color of my skin. She even gave me a book called
Growing Up Chicano
about people who look like me, but made it out of the ghetto.

In class today she made us do a speech about our future goals. I guess some of her madness was rubbing off on me because I found myself thinking about becoming a teacher. I began to think that I could teach young girls like me that they too could “be somebody.”

I had planned to tell the class that I wanted to become a teacher, but after hearing what everybody else wanted to be…a lawyer, a doctor, an advertiser, I announced that “Someday I’m going to be the first Latina Secretary of Education.” Surprisingly, nobody laughed. Instead, they started clapping and cheering. Someone even told me that they could picture me taking over Secretary Riley’s job. The more they clapped, the more I began to believe that it was actually possible.

For the first time, I realized that what people say about living in the ghetto and having brown skin doesn’t have to apply to me. So when I got home, I wrote this poem.

They Say, I Say

They say I am brown

I say

I am proud.

They say I only know how to cook

I say

I know how to write a book

So

don’t judge me by the way I look

They say I am brown

I say

I am proud

They say I’m not the future of this nation

I say

Stop giving me discrimination

Instead

I’m gonna use my education

to help build the human nation.

I can’t wait to read it to the class tomorrow.

Diary 104

Dear Diary,

Ms. G made us do an oral report in front of the class about what we wanted to be. Her plan was to get us thinking about our careers in the future. We filled out cards with all kinds of information about our first and second choice of careers. I went through three to four cards, with my first choice changing every time. As much as I’d changed cards, my second choice remained the same.

So the time came when it was finally my turn to stand in front of the class and talk about my future. As soon as I got up there, I started talking about my dream to be a filmmaker and make movies. I went on and on about my dream but then I added, “but realistically I would like to be a…” Ms. G automatically butted in when she noticed me disregarding my dream. “What do you mean ‘realistically’? Why don’t you go for what you love? Follow your dream.” Then it sunk in. I can do this. I want to make real films that will impact people in their everyday lives.

I’m in the same position as some as my favorite filmmakers like Richard Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino, who had people doubt them because of where they came from. Before today, if I told people I wanted to be a filmmaker, they thought I was insane and would suggest a career that was more “realistic” for a poor Latino kid like me. Luckily, Ms. G. and the Freedom Writers don’t see being poor and Latino as an obstacle to becoming a filmmaker. They believe I can achieve my dream. And with their support, I know I can.

Diary 105

Dear Diary,

Historians say history repeats itself, but in my case I have managed to break the cycle because I’m going to graduate from high school and go to college, an opportunity my parents never had. My father only went up to the second grade because his father, my grandfather, needed help farming and taking care of the cattle. In the two years he spent in elementary school he was not taught to read and write. His teacher instead sent all of the “poor kids” to play outside or to work in the garden. He saw kids like my dad as working hands. This was and still is common in the rural areas of Mexico.

My mother only went up to the sixth grade because it was not the custom for a woman to get an education. Her dreams of becoming an accountant were shattered after my great-grand-mother did not let her go to high school. Instead she was sent to sewing classes, so she could become a “true woman” and not suffer when she got married.

Because of their educational experience, my parents were extra hard on me. When I was four years old my parents made me practice writing my name, numbers, and made me memorize the colors. As I grew older they made me read every day, do all my homework, and little by little, this became part of my daily life. While other kids spent their afternoons playing outside, I would be inside my house studying or reading a book.

Now Ms. G. is cracking down on me too. Since the beginning of the year Ms. G has been talking about how to get into college and what different colleges are like. The thought of going to college scared me. But, Ms. G recognized our fears and planned a field trip to visit different colleges. We started our day by going to National University. There we learned about financial aid, college life, and the process of getting into college. After spending half the day at National, we went to visit a small private college and a big university so we could experience how different they were.

After the trip, I decided that I would go to a community college because the campus and the classes are smaller and more manageable than a large university, you get to interact, and have a better relationship with your professors. I am planning to transfer to a big university in two years. For now, I will worry about taking the first step.

I feel like the traveler in Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken”: “Two roads diverged in a wood, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”

I am the traveler that came upon those two roads. I had a choice: I could take the road that is more traveled by the members of my family and get a job, or I could take the road less traveled and be the first to go to college. I decided to take the road less traveled because I knew it would be better in the long run. I know that my decision to go to college will affect my sisters’ decisions and they will not be as afraid as I was of traveling this road.

Diary 106

Dear Diary,

Colin Powell once said, “The best method of overcoming your obstacles is the team method.” Ms. Gruwell is an advocate of the team method, which is why she began a mentoring program between her graduate students at National University and the Freedom Writers. Each college student would mentor two Freedom Writers. Ms. Gruwell thought we would all learn from each other. The mentors would share their wisdom that comes with age and experience and we would share our knowledge about diversity to help make them better teachers.

The first night at National University, Freedom Writers were put in pairs and then assigned a mentor. My partner was named Becky and our mentor is Sara. For the rest of the night we talked and got to know each other. Sara was very interested in our goals. Becky wants to be a pathologist and I want to be an aeronautical engineer.

To help me learn more about being an engineer, Sara drove me to the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena. There I met John Matthews. Mr. Matthews is an engineer, and he showed us places that aren’t usually seen on the tour. One of those places was a room where model rovers were displayed. These rovers were used to help simulate the rover on Mars. I felt like a kid in a candy store!

After watching all the scientists on television hype about the rover, I actually had a rare opportunity to be so close to all the action. I could almost see myself working with the engineers on the Pathfinder Rover Mission. “This could be me in four years,” I thought to myself. I was so awestruck that I couldn’t think of anything to ask Mr. Matthews, but Sara was right by my side asking the questions she thought I might want answered. Thank goodness I have a mentor like Sara!

I then had the privilege of being taken to a small room with a few computers that engineers used to map out the location of the rover, using information that the rover sent back! I was allowed to move the rover on the computer, now that it had lost its communication with Earth after over ninety days. Everything was so overwhelming that Mr. Matthews lightened the mood by taking me to an area where enlarged 3-D pictures of Mars were displayed. Mr. Matthews explained how some of the rocks on Mars received their names. For example, a rock named Yogi received its name because the rock resembled a bear.

After seeing the technical and nontechnical sides of the job, I began to picture myself working on a mission like this one. I could now see myself doing this for a living. My dream is slowly becoming a reality, but my next and most important step lies ahead of me…in college.

Diary 107

Dear Diary,

Today at Butler Elementary School, the Freedom Writers mentored the kids. I feel so happy right now because we made a difference that will probably change some lives. These children are like lotus plants. A lotus flower doesn’t grow in a swimming pool, but grows in a muddy pond. It lives in a dirty environment, but amid the muddy pond lies a beautiful flower emerging from the water. I hope with guidance, these kids can become as beautiful as the lotus flower.

Butler is located by the most dangerous, gang-infested park in Long Beach. In the past there have been shootings, drug dealings, and other illegal activities. On the corner there’s a liquor store next to a small plaza. The school building is fenced in. It is a dull, drab, ash gray; it looks very old, even though it was built several years ago. In front of the school are houses with graffiti and barred windows. At night it is unsafe to walk around because of the gang activities near the area. Most of these children live near the school and have witnessed a drive-by shooting by the age of ten.

One of the teachers from Butler read an article about the Freedom Writers in the
Los Angeles Times
. The article was inspiring and many teachers throughout the country responded by inviting us to speak at their schools. They wanted their students to hear our real-life success story.

There we were in an auditorium in front of an audience of fifty kids. There were kids from every ethnic background; blacks, whites, Hispanics, and Asians. Usually Ms. Gruwell would accompany us, but today we were on our own. Today we were given the torch to carry our message of tolerance and education to these kids. To start off the assembly we presented a video documentary of the Freedom Writers in Washington, D.C. After the video we answered their questions about the trip and gave them the historical background of our name and foundation. Later on we played an icebreaker game. The kids were on one side of the room and we were on the other, and down the center was a white line that divided us. Each one of the Freedom Writers had to go down the line and read a sentence from a piece of paper. Some of the questions asked were, “Who’s wearing a green shirt?” or “Does anybody know what they want to do in the future?” If any of the questions applied to them, then they would have to stand on the white line. As we got toward the end there were some personal questions. We asked them, “Has anybody seen someone get shot before?” Almost everyone stepped on the white line. At that moment we decided to share some of our personal experiences with the kids.

One Freedom Writer told about his experience of being in a gang and living on the street. Another person shared his experience of quitting school and realizing that life isn’t a fantasy world. When one of the Freedom Writers talked about her friends who had been killed, a little girl in the corner started to cry. I tried to pull her aside to ask her what was wrong, but she started to cry more and more. She stayed in the room to tell her own story of how her friend had gotten killed. After that confession, more of the children started to tell their stories. Some of the stories were similar to what the Freedom Writers had experienced. We talked to the children more and asked them if this was how they wanted to live their lives. There was a simultaneous “No!” By the end of the day, all of the children were declaring that they would become “doctors, lawyers, and teachers!” but they also promised to come back to the community they lived in to fix the problems. We gave them hugs and words of encouragement to hold on to their dreams and goals and to always soar high.