The Freedom Writers Diary (3 page)

That’s why they got pissed when they hit me up, ’cause I refused to bow down to them. I looked at them up and down, laughed, paused, and then said, “
Mi barrio es primero
.” As I stood in the middle of the quad, I thought of how much they looked like the people they hated. They dress just like us, they act just like us, and they want the territory we own. For that reason, I have no respect for them or the so-called barrio they’re willing to die for. I don’t even know why they tried to come up to me, asking me where I was from. Those fools should know what happens when we get hit up—we get pissed off and all hell breaks loose, and the consequences can be deadly.

Latinos killing Asians. Asians killing Latinos. They declared war on the wrong people. Now it all comes down to what you look like. If you look Asian or Latino, you’re gonna get blasted on or at least jumped. The war has been declared, now it’s a fight for power, money, and territory; we are killing each other over race, pride, and respect. They started the war in our Aztlán, a land that belongs to us by nature, and by nature we will bury them.

They might think they’re winning by jumping me now, but soon enough, they’re all going down!

Diary 4

Dear Diary,

Damn! It’s the second week of school and I’m already getting busted up because of the people I hang with. A fight broke out today. I don’t know how it started, it happened so quickly. Rumor has it that a little freshman got punked a couple of days ago and her gang was planning to retaliate. I heard people were even planning to bring bats to school with them. I was hanging out with a couple of friends when the fight broke out, and like every other kid on campus, I wanted to see it up close. I moved closer and closer until I got too close. Before I could move away, I felt a fist hit me straight in the face. What are you supposed to do when someone swings at you? Swing back.

After what seemed like hours (but I’m sure were only a few minutes), the fight continued to grow. By this point, my nose was bleeding, but other than a few bruises, I was OK, seeing as how I wasn’t on the floor getting the shit beat out of me. Then I heard someone say, “Watch out!” Everything from that point on was in slow motion, like a low-budget kung-fu movie with bad voice-overs. A football helmet had nailed me and I blacked out. When I came to, everybody was shouting, “Run, run!” Run? Why? Then I saw half of the school staff running toward the scene of the fight. I wasn’t about to stick around and get blamed for starting the fight, so I pulled myself up and ran.

It’s kind of sad when you have to run away from something that isn’t your fault. Since I’m Mexican and Mexicans were involved in this stupid race war, I figured no one would have listened to what I had to say anyway. I’m not a bad person, but because of my friends, I sometimes get blamed for shit I have nothing to do with.

I really don’t know how I made it through the rest of the schoolday; hell, I don’t even know how I made it to my next class. I couldn’t see straight, couldn’t walk straight. All I know is that after the fight today, the shit’s really gonna hit the fan on the streets of Long Beach.

Diary 5

Dear Diary,

For many, it’s the start of a new day, but for me, it’s the continuation of a nightmare. Every day before I leave my mom
me percina
with the sign of the cross, praying that I come home safely.

Going to school is less of a problem, ’cause that’s when the city sleeps, but on my way home, it’s a whole other story. I’m fourteen, and people think I should be scared because I’m surrounded by violence, but around here it’s an everyday thing. The first thing I see when I get off the bus is graffiti on walls, beer bottles filling trashcans, empty cigarette packs, and syringes.

On the way home, I get chased mostly by older fools with bats and knives. I try going different ways, but they always notice me and chase me anyway. At first I didn’t know the reason why they always hunt me down, but then I figured it out, it was simply because I was of a different race.

I figured I had to find a way to protect myself from these fools, and the only way was to get a gun. At school, some of my friends have been talking about a homie being strapped. I asked them where he got it from, and they told me that some guy sold it to him. With memories of my homies getting smoked and all my problems on the way home, I decided to get one. It’s so damn easy to get a gun; it’s like getting bubble gum from the corner liquor store. All you need is $25. All I had to do was ask my parents for money to buy school supplies. It was easy, ’cause in the ’hood, for the price of a backpack, you can get a gun, a couple of rounds, and probably even have some money left over. The next day, I met my friends in the bathroom and I bought a .22 caliber with a clip. I quickly stashed it into my backpack and left.

The whole day at school, I couldn’t keep my mind off my new gun. I felt like a little boy with a shining new toy. When school was out, I began my journey home. As I got closer to my stop, I looked out the window and saw the guys were waiting for me. Then I thought to myself, “Damn, here we go again.” I got nervous and my hands began to sweat. I opened my backpack, took the gun out, and put it in my waist, then I slowly walked to the back and waited for the door to open.

As I walked off the bus, they began to call me names. “What’s up,
ése
?” “Wait up, fool.” Fuck them niggas. I kept on walking. I checked out of the corner of my eye, and I saw that one of them was eager to catch up to me. Usually, I would have run, but this time I had a gun. I knew they were getting closer, so I turned around, reached for my gun, took it out, and pointed the gun at his head. Luckily, he ducked and ran, ’cause I didn’t want to smoke him. The others were still after me, but once they saw I had a gun, they also ran. I put the gun back in my waist, and went home. No big deal, just another day in the ’hood.

The next afternoon, when I got off the bus, the guys weren’t waiting for me. I didn’t see them for the next few days. I didn’t know if I had scared them off or not, but I hoped I had.

But my hopes were cut short, when one day, as I was walking home, I saw a guy mad-dogging me from across the street. We locked eyes, reached for our strap, pulled it out, and began shooting at the same time. The only thing between us was a major street and some parked cars. It was just like a movie, except in this movie when the characters bleed, the blood is
real
. I don’t remember when I actually pulled the trigger; all I remember is shooting and waiting until I was sure the other guy was out of bullets. After the last shot rang through the air, he disappeared. We both ran, and have never met eye to eye again.

I’m not afraid of anyone anymore. Now I’m my own gang. I protect myself. I got my own back. I still carry my gun with me just in case I run into some trouble, and now I’m not afraid to use it. Running with gangs and carrying a gun can create some problems, but being of a different race can get you into trouble, too, so I figure I might as well be prepared. Lately, a lot of shit’s been going down. All I know is that I’m not gonna be the next one to get killed.

Diary 6

Dear Diary,

A couple of days ago one of my friends was laid to rest.

His funeral was just like any other. Family members were crying. Someone said, “Not another one,” while his friends were swearing that they would get revenge. “An eye for an eye…payback’s a bitch.”

There were not a lot of people at the funeral, but the friends and family who showed up were very proud of him. We’re all going to miss him, but what could we have done to prevent his death? After he was lowered into the ground, our lives went on. His friends didn’t talk about him anymore. It was as if he had never existed. When his birthday comes, presents will no longer be given to him. They will be replaced by flowers, which will be put on his grave. That’s just the way it is.

I still remember exactly what happened the night my friend died. I was in the liquor store buying some candy. I was having trouble deciding what kind of candy I wanted. Then I heard gunshots. I turned to the door and saw that two of my friends were running into the store. When the first one came in, he dove to the floor; the other one simply fell. I looked down and saw that one of my friends had blood coming out of his back and mouth.

In a matter of minutes, his sister and mother ran into the store. I stood in front of the candy rack and watched his sister drop to her knees and gather him into her arms. She was crying and calling out his name. His mother stood behind her, watching with her eyes wide open with shock. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she didn’t bother to wipe them off. She stood there and didn’t make a sound. It was as if she was paralyzed with pain. It broke my heart to see his mother standing there, unable to help her baby.

After the last police car left, the people in my neighborhood were still standing against the yellow police tape, staring at the trace of white chalk. Nobody moved, but everyone was talking about “the young boy,” who had been taken away by the paramedics, but there was a lot they didn’t know. They didn’t know that he was my friend and that he had his whole life ahead of him. He was gunned down for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn’t pay attention to what they were saying. I just stood there, looking at my friend’s blood on the floor. He had never harmed anyone in his entire life. What were his parents going to do? What was
I
going to do?

It was late and I had to go to school the next day. I wasn’t sure how the neighborhood was going to handle the death of a kid who was raised in front of everyone’s eyes. I know that that night many of my neighbors, like me, went to sleep, thinking, “Another one…” Knowing that it would happen again, probably another drive-by, but when? Anytime, it could happen to me, it happens to everyone.

The next day, I pulled up my shirt and got strapped with a gun that I found in an alley by my house. I hate the cold feeling of the metal next to my body. It makes me shiver, and the shivers remind me of all the lives this gun has claimed, but sometimes it’s the only way. I hurried to catch the bus, hoping the gun wouldn’t fall out of my waist. I didn’t worry about getting caught with the gun, because the only time the school’s staff searched the students was the day after the race riot. Now the staff only check every fifteenth student. All I had to do was pay attention and wait for the right time.

At school, I didn’t say anything to anyone. I heard people talking about the shooting, but they didn’t know the person who had been blasted. They didn’t know the whole story. I walked into class just in time to beat the tardy bell. I went straight to my chair and sat down. I couldn’t stop reliving the nightmare of my friend’s death. I went through the rest of the day just sitting, not saying a word. I didn’t even write down my homework. I kept closing my eyes, and I would see his face. I know he is watching me from wherever he is. And when it’s my time to go, I know I’ll see him when I get there. All I have to do is wait.

My friend shouldn’t have died that night. He should still be here having fun and enjoying life with the rest of us. He’s not the first nor will he be the last friend that I lose. I’ve lost many friends, friends who have died in an undeclared war. A war that has been here for years, but has never been recognized. A war between color and race. A war that will never end. A war that has left family and friends crying for loved ones who have perished. To society, they’re just another dead person on the street corner; just another statistic. But to the mothers of all those other statistics, they’re more than simple numbers. They represent more lives cut short, more cut flowers. Like the ones once placed on their graves.

Diary 7

Dear Diary,

Once again, flowers on another grave and cigarettes to another friend. These days, with so many of my soldiers either dying or going to prison, it looks like we’re gonna have to start recruiting. We have to be real picky, though. The people have to be down, they have to be willing to take a bullet or pull the trigger, but it’s worth it. Life is easily given up to protect and respect the homies and the barrio we claim…the same barrio that we were born in, raised in, and hopefully, will be buried in. After we put
los tres puntos
on your wrist, it becomes survival of the fittest, kill or be killed. No wonder they call it
mi vida loca
. It’s true, it is a crazy-ass life. Once you’re in, there’s no getting out. Sometimes I wonder if they know what they’re getting into.

Every time I jump somebody in and make someone a part of our gang, it’s another baptism: They give us their life and we give them a new one. All they have to do is prove they’re down. It doesn’t matter if you’re a guy or a girl, you get your ass kicked, you can’t show weakness, and you gotta pass either way. And we don’t give a damn if you end up in hospital, ’cause as soon as you come out, you’re considered a working soldier.

I remember when I got jumped in and became a member of the gang; I was in the hospital for over three weeks. I only had a broken arm and a broken leg, even though I could’ve sworn everything was busted. I had scratches and bruises all over my body. My eyes were so swollen, I couldn’t even open them all the way, but it was worth it. To the soldiers and me it’s all worth it. Risking life, dodging or taking bullets, and pulling triggers.

It’s
all
worth it.

Diary 8

Dear Diary,

I told my friends I was going to pledge a sorority because it “looked like fun.” I told my mom I was doing it because it was a “community service” sorority, but I don’t think she bought it. I tried to justify it to myself by saying that it was only because my friends were pledging, and I didn’t really care that much about the stupid club. However, I soon realized I was denying the obvious. I wanted to fit in just like every other high school freshman. Who wouldn’t want to be in a prime club like Kappa Zeta? It’s a predominantly white sorority, made up of mostly cheerleaders, rich kids, and the occasional Distinguished Scholar. All of the Kappa Zeta girls dress like they just stepped out of a Gap ad, their nails are perfectly manicured, their hair perfectly curled under at the tips. All of the upper classmen in Kappa Zeta are so elite that when they ask someone to do something, they do it. Even if it means doing something extremely degrading. So, when I received a flyer to attend a Kappa Zeta pledge meeting, I went without hesitation.