The Freedom Writers Diary (26 page)

We were the last ones on the program to receive the award. One of the recipients of the award was Gerald Levin, CEO of Time Warner, and we were honored to win an award with a powerful millionaire like Mr. Levin. When it was our turn, a majority of us were already crying. Linda Lavin, the actress who plays Ms. Van Daan in the play, made us cry even more when she said we “made her feel proud to be part of the human race.” She read a list of our accomplishments so that the audience could understand what we were all about. When she said “how proud I am standing here looking at you,” the rest of the Freedom Writers lost it. We were bawling.

Later in the evening we walked from our hotel rooms to the theater to watch
The Diary of Anne Frank
starring Natalie Portman and Linda Lavin on Broadway. Everyone dressed up with nice dresses, slacks, and ties. The guys looked so handsome, and the girls beautiful as always. After the play Linda Lavin invited us to stay to meet all of the cast members, which made it even more meaningful.

Winning the spirit of Anne Frank Award and seeing the Broadway play made me realize what Anne meant when she wrote in her diary: “I want to go on living even after my death.”

Diary 118

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow, we are leaving New York to head home. In the last three days, I have seen places I never dreamed I’d see, and I have met people I never thought I would meet. A month ago I had no idea I would visit New York City! And now, here I am, staying in a
huge
Marriott, right in the middle of Times Square!

I’ve lost count of all of the places I have been. We have been all over the city, riding the subway and walking. We went to Rockefeller Center for the Spirit of Anne Frank Award ceremony, we toured Scholastic, Inc. We met the CEO, vice president, and some of the editors. We visited the Doubleday publishers. We saw a lot of the famous buildings, like the Chrysler Building, the World Trade Center, the Empire State Building, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Radio City Music Hall, Carnegie Hall…Tomorrow, we’re going to see the Statue of Liberty!

And the people we’ve met! Connie Chung, Linda Lavin, Gerald Levin, Peter Maass! I didn’t have a lot of experience with famous people before this trip and I didn’t know what to expect. These people don’t “need” anything from us. Still they took the time to speak to us, sit down and spend time getting to know us, letting us get to know them. They ate with us, laughed with us, cried with us. They gave us memories to last a lifetime.

Lots of people in powerful positions take advantage of those who aren’t. Unfortunately, my dad is one of them.

My father is an attorney who’s an expert at using the Big Lie to milk the system. When my parents were getting divorced my father decided he wanted my brother, sister, and me to live with him. None of us wanted to be around our father, let alone to live with him. The court appointed a group of psychologists to decide who we should live with. The chief psychologist had a limp handshake, and a weak laugh. This was the stranger who was to determine our fate. He claimed that my mother had brainwashed me into hating my father. The simple truth was that I hated him because he had a ruthless temper.

One weekend when my siblings and I were visiting my father, he flew into a treacherous rage. My father locked my brother in the backyard and left him there without food or water. Finally, at the end of the weekend, the time came for us to go home. My brother was incoherent with fear and hunger. He just wanted my mom to hug him close, while he wept. I told Mom that Dad had not fed him all weekend. I couldn’t find the courage to tell her the rest of the story.

Tragically, none of the psychologists understood the pain my father put us through. My brother and sister were ultimately forced to live with him. The court couldn’t see my father, with his “Good Old Boy” mask, as the evil person he was. He was willing to do anything to get what he wanted. He even bribed the psychologists for a recommendation in his favor.

My dad hasn’t changed over the years. He continues to say hurtful things to me. And even though I don’t live with him, he still is verbally abusive, constantly telling me I won’t graduate and that I don’t deserve to be a Freedom Writer. But
I am
a Freedom Writer and being one is an escape from the rest of my life. This trip and being a Freedom Writer are the most wonderful experiences of my life. Despite everything, I am still graduating in June and entering college in August. I know that my father will try to stop me. I also know that when I become powerful, I will break the cycle of abuse my father started by doing everything in my power to help, not hurt others.

Diary 119

Dear Diary,

Tonight I met my idol, an ordinary man with an extraordinary gift. In my opinion Peter Maass is more than just a journalist, he’s a hero, and living proof of what can be accomplished when good people do something. I remember the first time I read an article by Peter Maass, during my sophomore year right before we met Zlata. The article was in
Vanity Fair
, and it was titled “Ground Zero,” based on his encounters in Bosnia. His words were very blunt and vivid. He told tales of hate crimes and atrocities so horrid that I couldn’t stop reading. He wrote about men being forced at gun point to rape their daughters. It made me wonder what would have happened to Zlata if she would have stayed in Sarajevo.

I can’t believe Ms. G tracked him down and invited him to come meet us at our hotel in New York. I mean, there he was, my idol, right before me. Meeting him was perhaps the most intense moment of my life. I couldn’t believe I was in the same room with one of the only journalists who managed to get a one-on-one interview with Slobodan Milosevic.

There was something missing from this puzzle that was supposed to be picture-perfect, though. When he was done talking about his experience in Bosnia, I wanted to know something. Before I knew it I said, “I watch
National Geographic
on television and I don’t understand how a journalist can just sit and watch an animal die? Is it the same when you’re covering a war? Do you simply sit and watch people die?” The room became silent. Some of the Freedom Writers were shocked by my question, and others seemed to be offended on Peter’s behalf. But I just had to know.

After the silence, Peter began to explain how he often has to push his personal views aside and not get involved. He told us that anything he did other than being a journalist could upset some wicked balance. If he got involved in a dangerous situation, he would not only jeopardize the lives of the people he was trying to help, but his life, and the life of his crew as well. If he were to be killed, his death would ensure that there would be more Bosnias. After he was done explaining his role as a war correspondent, I felt content. Now I have an even greater respect for his courage. He wasn’t letting evil prevail by watching and doing nothing. By writing about the images he saw in Sarajevo, he was ensuring that no one would deny that ethnic cleansing was taking place, and that thousands of innocent men were being taken to their deaths.

Tonight I met my idol, Peter Maass…I can’t believe it.

Diary 120

Dear Diary,

…And the Pimp of the Year Award goes to…our “agent,” Carol. She has helped us set foot into a door filled with new opportunities. If not for Carol, we would have never thought that we could actually publish our classroom diary.

Carol got the name “Pimp” because the first time we met her someone asked what an agent’s role was, and the answer was…she’s like a pimp. Not to mention the fact that she was wearing a red jacket, a fedora, a cane, and had a French chauffeur. (Really.) I was somewhat confused when they said that she was like a pimp. My vision of a pimp is someone who is the complete opposite. To me, a pimp is a tall, smooth-talking middle-aged man who uses his slick ways to manipulate the minds of young women—not a five-foot-tall Jewish grandmother!

Carol is smart, witty, and she knows how to play the game. From what Ms. G has told us, she will not take any money from us, and she is helping us out of the kindness of her heart. From what I saw of her today, I trust her, and believe she’ll look out for us.

Diary 121

Dear Diary,

The Freedom Writers are finally being published! I am overjoyed the publisher will be Doubleday, since they also published
Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl
, the second most read book in the
world
—topped only by the Bible.

All of this is like a dream come true. I have loved writing since I could remember. When I read my first V. C. Andrews book,
Dawn
, I tried to write my own book. I was impressed with her story. Mine was almost exactly like hers, except for the names of the characters. I got to the thirteenth chapter and decided that I needed to develop my own writing style.

The poet in me evolved from attending political meetings with my stepfather and his comrades. My first poem was titled “The American Dream,” a tale of a woman immigrating to this country—“the land of unlimited opportunity”—and barely being able to feed her family. My stepfather was proud of me; he did everything but laminate the poem. I continued to write. Each year my poems became more and more mature. I wonder if it was the same for Toni Morrison and Louise Erdrich—two of my favorite writers.

When I told my stepfather about Doubleday publishing
The Freedom Writers’ Diary
, you can imagine his response. “Doubleday!” he said. “They are one of the biggest publishing houses.” His friends (all of whom he told as soon as I told him) are thrilled because I will be added to the short, but ever growing list of African American female writers.

It is scary to be launched into the publishing world. I hope this will be the beginning of a new me, after years of simply writing to purge myself of pain. I look forward to sharing my writing, and no longer imagining myself as the “starving artist.”

Diary 122

Dear Diary,

As we stood around the room in a group waiting to take a picture with Connie Chung, Ms. Gruwell announced something to us that would change our lives—we had a book deal with one of the most prestigious publishing companies in the world. At that moment, I realized that if we want to be successful, we’ll have to work as a team.

I know from my own personal experience working as a team can bring a lot of pressure, especially when you are a star athlete. Which brings me back to my junior year, when we went to the second-round basketball playoffs, and were expected to make it to the championship.

Before the game, I went into my coach’s office to talk to her. She said that she knew we could beat the other team—it was just a matter of our going out and doing it. But she warned us not to get too cocky. I guess I was feeling pretty cocky, because her words didn’t faze me. After all, we were the league champs, the papers loved us, and college scouts were sending me letters like crazy. As the team captain, things always came easy for me, so I just assumed it came easy for everyone else. I was wrong.

I was getting dressed for the game; I started feeling more pressure than usual. This was just a game, wasn’t it? Why was I so nervous? I felt like all the pressure was on
me
—not the team. My hands started to sweat and my stomach felt like it had a million knots in it.

When we arrived at the other school, I felt like my insides were ready to explode! As I talked to my teammates, I looked into their eyes and saw the fear bottled up inside them. As we warmed up, all I kept saying to myself was “We have to win, we came too far and worked too hard not to.”

During the jump-ball, my stomach erupted, I tapped the ball, and the crowd went ballistic. At first, we looked liked the mini “Dream Team,” but our dream only lasted for about ten minutes—a quick ten minutes! That’s when all the pressure came back on me. I felt like it was me against the other team, but in reality, I had four other players on the court with me. In my coach’s eyes, I could see her agony—we were losing! It seemed as though she wanted to be on the court with us. At that point in time, I knew it was all up to me, since nobody else wanted to do the job. I felt like I had to save the game. It was all on me.

There were only four minutes left in the fourth quarter, and we were down by five points. All I could see was my team falling apart. It looked like there was no hope. I tried to help my team win the game, but they’d given up. How could they give up? This was the “big game”! We were supposed to win! I was not about to lose!

With two minutes remaining, my coach called a time-out. During the time-out, the looks on my teammate’s faces were astonishing. The cocky faces I’d seen earlier were now of despair. I thought to myself, “Is there really hope?” Yes, I had to pull this off. I hate losing. And in front of all these people, especially our fans! I had so much tension and pressure resting on my shoulders. Time was running out—could I save it?

The time ran out. The game was over. And I didn’t save it! Even though I scored 24 of our 37 points, I felt like I let my team, my coach, and my fans down. I felt like it was all my fault. I started to cry.

After the game, as, I got dressed, I realized it wasn’t my fault—or any one person’s, for that matter. It was the whole team’s fault. We went into the game thinking it was already ours—and when it wasn’t, we fell apart.

This year we are in the play-offs, and we are not going to fall apart. We’ve put too much into it and now we were playing our best basketball, and we are working as a team. It doesn’t all rest on my shoulders.

For our book to work, we have to work as a team. It can’t be one star athlete and 149 benchwarmers. Ms. G can coach us, but she can’t play for us. Just like the saying “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.”

Diary 123

Dear Diary,

Today Ms. Gruwell was in New York to meet with our book publisher, and we had a substitute. Whenever a class has a substitute, chaos is imminent. When someone took my chair, I exploded. Maybe it was pent-up frustration, or could it be that not all Freedom Writers are carrying their workload? This can’t be possible…or could it be?