The Freedom Writers Diary (29 page)

Ms. Gruwell’s been really understanding with this whole process, because her dad played baseball and she understands the game. She said my choice is almost Shakespearean. So the question remains: To sign or not to sign?

Diary 133

Dear Diary,

Last night I got the greatest news of my life! I found out I got accepted to UCLA, the only school I ever wanted to go to. Yet my joy about the situation seemed to upset a few people at school today. When I told people in my AP Government class, a class that is predominantly white, with one black person besides myself and two Latinos, instead of congratulating me, they immediately asked “What’s your GPA? What did you get on your SATs?” As if to imply that I didn’t deserve my acceptance. One girl simply lost her mind. She began to yell about how unfair it was that I got in and she didn’t. It didn’t stop there. She began telling other people that I didn’t deserve it, and that I only got in because of my race. Which made her look more stupid than she was trying to make me out to be, because everyone knows that Prop 209 went into effect this year and our class was the first to be affected by “anti-Affirmative Action” laws. This I heard from a friend of mine who is not a Freedom Writer.

She told me about many of the other people who were upset because I got in and they didn’t, people who don’t even know me. She also told me not to worry about those people. I earned my acceptance, and if they don’t like it, too bad. I thanked her for comforting me and went on to Ms. G’s class. On my way there I ran into one of my former teachers and told her my great news. With a blank face she said, “That’s amazing, because you know there’s no more Affirmative Action.” I thought to myself, “If I were white I would have been congratulated, because getting into college is what I’m supposed to do. If I were Asian her reaction would have been ‘Well, of course you got in. You’re super smart.’ Yet because I’m black or even if I were Latino it’s ‘amazing’ for me to have gotten into a school like UCLA.” I couldn’t believe she was saying this to me. I may have understood, and even joined her in amazement, if I’d done poorly in her class, but I’d always done really well.

When I got to class and told Ms. G about my acceptance she made this huge announcement in front of the whole class. All the Freedom Writers started cheering and rushed over to hug me. They were so happy I thought they were the ones that got in. My best friend, also a Freedom Writer, wrote it on the chalkboard, so all the Freedom Writers would know. So all throughout the day Freedom Writers were hugging me and saying how proud of me they were. It was crazy, but I loved it. Like any family, the Freedom Writers shared in my joy. My accomplishment was now our accomplishment.

Diary 134

Dear Diary.

Graduation is just around the corner and I feel like this fake smile has molded into my skin. I am torn between happiness and sadness, like something has got a hold of my heart and is pulling it in two different directions. No matter which way I go, it seems like the other side is tugging harder.

My heart stops beating every time I hear someone mention where they are going to school, or how excited they are because they have just been accepted to their first choice in universities. I feel like my heart is tied in a knot that won’t let it beat freely. I am enormously happy to see so many Freedom Writers excited and anxious to go off to college, but don’t they realize what leaving means? Am I the only one who is afraid of what is about to happen?

I feel so selfish. I wish I could rewind the clock, but I know that’s impossible. I can’t seem to wash away this feeling of déjà vu as I think of my Freedom Writer family leaving me; this family that has always made me feel at home. I feel like it’s almost gone, and I pray that it’s not for good.

When I think of the Freedom Writers separating to start their new college life, my heart starts beating fast. Faster and faster, so that I have to put my arms across my chest because it feels like it’s going to burst out of my rib cage. As I have my arms across my chest and I feel my heart going a thousand miles an hour inside of me, I start drifting into a memory that I have tried to forget.

I start remembering that night in my horribly ugly pink room. I heard arguing in my parents’ bedroom. The sound was unfamiliar to me, since my parents never argued. Maybe they did argue, but not in my presence. Then I heard heavy footsteps. Afraid, I ran out of my room, just in time to crash into my father, who would later only be known as “that man.” “What’s wrong? What is happening?” I asked. Hoping I would understand if he answered me. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m just going to the bathroom. Go back to bed—it’s late!”

As I sat in my room, I heard a door slam, the front door. I ran to the bathroom and found it empty. At the tender age of four, I knew my father was gone from my life for good. I don’t know why, but I just had a feeling that I’d never see him again. And I haven’t.

As I sit here hugging myself, I find myself with the same exact feeling as when I was four. I am dreading the day I will have to let the Freedom Writers go. I don’t want to look back one day and think of the Freedom Writers as “them” or “that group.” I don’t want us to part. As my heartbeat decreases and that knot that encloses my heart loosens, I think that maybe, just maybe, everything will be all right. After all, the Freedom Writers are nothing compared to “that man.”

Diary 135

Dear Diary,

It is terrifying to feel your breath slip away and no matter how hard you fight no air can reach your lungs. And worse is the false sense of security you get when you come up, only to be pushed right back under. My grades were at an all-time high, my mother and I were getting along better than we had in years, water polo season had just ended, and I was going to be on varsity swim, I had a job as a lifeguard for the summer, I was to start college in the fall, I was graduating in a couple months, and I had a boyfriend who was good to me. I was gasping for air, waiting for the tidal wave to push my head underwater again, only to let me up for my next gasp of precious air.

Not even four months after James and I started dating, I started feeling an increasing nausea, I knew without a doubt that I was pregnant. I kept hoping I was wrong, but when I went to the doctor, she confirmed what I already knew. Where had I gone wrong? I had been careful not to have unprotected sex; I had learned my lesson last time I had become pregnant. Then I remembered the night the condom broke.

When I had become pregnant at fourteen, it was because of my own irresponsibility. I felt that I had no choice but to have an abortion. Afterward, though, I felt like I had killed part of myself—I began to drown. It took almost three years to recover from the depression that engulfed me after the abortion of my first child. I wanted to take my chances having this baby.

I told James my decision and though he was obviously apprehensive, he was willing to go along with what I wanted to do. He understood what I went through previously, but I was worried that we were not ready. Of course, I was right, but what could I do? I needed to take this risk; hopefully James would stick it out with me.

When I told my mother of my pregnancy, she said that she had guessed as much, because (1) I had not had my period in a month, and (2) when you live in a house full of women, all cycles seem to be the same. She warned me that my decision to have the baby would change my life. There were going to be things I had planned for that would not be possible. My grandmother told me, “You know you can’t start college in the fall, and they won’t let you be a lifeguard while you’re pregnant.” At school, I told my swim coach about my pregnancy. She, in turn, told me that she could not let me compete, it was too dangerous for the baby and me. A giant tidal wave of fear washed over me. I would have to put all of my plans on hold. No job as a lifeguard this summer, no starting college in the fall, no more swimming. Instead, I was drowning again.

After feeling sorry for myself for a couple of days, I decided that I had no reason not to fight for air and freedom. True, things were not going exactly as planned, but do they ever? Breathing again, I began to rearrange my future plans: college would start in the spring, and I would take summer classes. I might find a job that paid more than being lifeguard, and I was one of two people picked, out of 150, to represent the Freedom Writers at an award banquet.

As I breathed, truly released from the grasp of all that inhibited me, I began to see how blessed I was. I was graduating with straight As and I still had the support of my friends and family. No longer was I choked with fear. Instead, I breathed deep, exhilarating breaths.

Diary 136

Dear Diary,

“I know why the caged bird sings.” For many people this might sound like a normal poem, but to me it’s an analogy of my life. I sometimes feel as if I am a bird without wings and the door on my cage is not open. A bird doesn’t sing because it’s happy, it sings because it’s not free. It is the same for me, but instead of singing, I write. I write quotes, poems, and journal stories almost every day so that I can escape reality, because sometimes it’s unbearable.

Reality is difficult for me because of where I live. I live in a neighborhood where the sounds of gunshots are my lullaby. The smell of weed lingers in the air and most of the people around drink 40s like it’s going out of style. The crime in the area is horrific. People have either been locked up or are on the streets dealing drugs. I live in an area where Asians, Latinos, and African Americans are the majority. But in my neighborhood, I’m the minority. The people here usually refer to me as “White Boy,” or “WB,” if you will, because I’m the only one in the area.

For as long as I can remember, I have always been the minority. After school, I ran home rather then walking with a friend. Why would I run? Well, I’m sure you’d run too if you were always threatened or beat up because you were different. And walking with friends? I never made any friends because I never got along with anyone. Actually, they didn’t get along with me. I would usually get in a fight because I walked in their territory.

It is ironic to see the same people in my neighborhood fight each other all the time. Yet in the classroom, we all get along. Due to our diversity, we were featured on
Prime Time Live
with Connie Chung. In fact, we just heard that Southwest Airlines is going to honor us with the Freedom Fighter Award because they believe in our cause. They’re also going to give us a huge scholarship donation to help all of us with our college tuition. Southwest Airlines contacted us a couple days after they watched us on the
Prime Time Live
special.

I hope to become a pilot so I can escape the pressures of my life and rise above all the tension that surrounds me. The irony is I have a fear of heights, which prevented me from flying to Washington, D.C., and New York with the Freedom Writers. Ms. Gruwell is setting up another trip this fall. This trip is to San Antonio, Texas, and Southwest Airlines is going to sponsor this event as well. I hear a couple of Freedom Writers might get to go. I hope I go. If I go, this trip will help me break free from my cage.

Diary 137

Dear Diary,

Ever since Ms. Gruwell announced that the Freedom Writers with the top thirty-five grade point averages would win computers when we graduated, I started getting As and Bs on my report card. I even raised my attendance from mediocre to perfect.

Our senior year finally came and Ms. Gruwell was announcing at the Freedom Writers’ “Open-Mic Night” who the lucky recipients of the computers were. “Last but not least the thirty-fifth computer goes to…” and Ms. Gruwell turned to me and said my name. I got butterflies in my stomach; I could not believe that out of 150. Freedom Writers I was one of the ones chosen to get a computer. I had hoped to receive a computer, but truthfully, I didn’t believe that I would raise my grade point average high enough to win.

In my neighborhood gang violence and drug trafficking play a big role and kids have no one to look up to as an example of hope. Like most of the kids in my neighborhood, I had no one to look up to or emulate until I meet John Tu. He has inspired me to become an entrepreneur and start my own computer company. I want to eradicate the violence that is going on in my neighborhood and give back to my community the way John Tu has given back to me. I want to become the role model that kids in my neighborhood lack and to someday have kids in my neighborhood look up to me the way that I look up to John Tu.

Besides donating computers, John Tu has given a couple of Freedom Writers jobs at his company with benefits and Christmas bonuses. Handouts are like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound, but John Tu does not give people handouts, he gives people hope. Not even in my wildest dreams did I think that I would meet a millionaire, especially a millionaire that cared about my well-being. John Tu helps people through education, financial support, and high moral standards. I thank God for sending him into my life. He has given so much to me, and because of his actions I want to give to others, and hopefully someone will follow after me and the cycle of hope will continue.

Diary 138

Dear Diary,

Oh my God, it’s gone! I can’t believe that my “Someone Special” gold charm is gone. I knew I was wearing it when I went to sleep. At first I panicked. Then I frantically searched through my covers and looked under the bed. Finally I realized that “they” took it. How could they just take it off my body like that? They promised me that they wouldn’t steal from me again. I forgave them for pawning my Nintendo, TV, and VCR. But how can I forgive them for stealing the most precious gift that they ever bought me? How could they steal something that meant so much to me? How could they steal from their own child?

Nothing has been the same since my parents started smoking crack. The house is always filled with the smell of stale, burnt cocaine. The odor is left behind in the pores of their skin. So, when I go to give them a hug, the smell still lingers. I hate seeing their eyes all big and bulging, their bodies twitching like a fish out of water.