The Freedom Writers Diary (8 page)

It’s just too bad the two cholos were never given the same opportunity.

Diary 33

Dear Diary,

“You can’t go against your own people, your own blood!”

Those words kept ringing in my mind as I walked down the courtroom aisle to sit in a cold, empty chair next to the judge. I kept telling myself, “Get your shit together, you don’t want to contradict yourself on the witness stand, your homie’s future lies in your hands.” I was convinced that I had to lie to protect my own, the way I was always taught to do. As I walked through the courtroom, I kept my eyes focused straight ahead, afraid to make eye contact with anyone. It was so quiet that the only things I could hear were the steps I took walking across the marble floor and my heart.

As I sat in the chair, I felt as if I was exposed to different eyes. Those eyes, in some strange way, were touching a part of me that was deep inside, everyone was waiting for my reaction.

When I sat down, I noticed that the courtroom was divided. On one side, there was my family and my friends. Most of them are from one of the most notorious gangs in California. They had all come because they were worried about what the other side might do to me after the verdict. Even though they were there to protect me, I didn’t feel safe. I guess it was because they couldn’t protect me from the one thing I was actually afraid of, the guilt I had inside. But all I had to do was look in the eyes of my people for them to reassure me that I had no choice but to take care of my own. I had to protect Paco no matter what went down. We all knew, that no matter what, I wasn’t going to rat on my homeboy. He would give his life for me, without hesitation, the same way I would give mine for his. All I had to do was sit there and lie about what had happened that night. The night when Paco was only proving, once again, that he would do anything for his main girl. He was only protecting me, and sending out a warning not to mess with me again.

On the other side of the courtroom were the family members of the guy who was being falsely accused of murder. Those people, his family and his friends, of course, were looking at me with rage. I knew why, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t afraid of them. They were our rivals and they had it coming. They had already killed one of our friends, and they had jumped me a couple of weeks before. Then one person on his side caught my eye. Her look wasn’t filled with rage, there was strength and sadness, which made it painfully familiar. She looked at me, tears rolling down her cheeks, and hugged the little girl on her lap.

When I saw her tears, a little voice inside of me whispered very quietly, “Doesn’t she remind you of someone you love more than anyone else in the world?” I tried to ignore the little voice, but then the voice spoke louder. It told me that this woman was my mother, and that little girl was me. I couldn’t help but stare back, imagining how life would be for that little girl without her father. I pictured her waiting for her father to come home, knowing he wasn’t. I pictured her visiting him, and not being able to touch him because of an unbreakable window, and I imagined her wanting to unlock his cage, knowing she couldn’t. The same memories I have of my father in prison. The woman looked at me again, and I could see that she was suffering the same way my mother suffered when my dad and brother went to prison. I wondered how they could be so different. My mother is Mexican and this woman black, yet the emotions that made them cry came from a heart that was tearing apart the same way.

Throughout my life I’ve always heard the same thing: “You can’t go against your own people, your own blood.” It got so engraved in my head that even as I sat on the witness stand, I kept thinking of those same words. “You can’t go against your own…” Yet, my so-called
familia
, my so-called people, had put me in the worst position of my life. My feelings were starting to change, I began to have second thoughts. I was convinced that I was going to lie before I entered the courtroom, before I saw the woman, before I saw the little girl, but now I wasn’t so sure.

Suddenly, his lawyer interrupted my thoughts by busting out with questions. Who shot the guy? Then I looked at my friend. He was just staring at me with a smug look on his face. He wasn’t worried about anything even though he was guilty, even though he knew I had witnessed everything. When he shot the guy he looked at me and said, “This is for you.” He knew I was going to lie, he knew that I had always had his back before, so I had no reason to turn on him now. I turned to look at him, and my eyes stared getting watery. He was surprised, as if it wasn’t a big deal, but this time it was a big deal.

Then I glanced at my mom, she shook her head, and it was as if she knew that I wanted to say the truth. I never told her what actually happened that night, but she knew my friend had done it. When she had asked me what I was going to say, I told her, “I’m going to protect my own…you know how it is. You have to know, you and every other person in my family taught me about my own.”

“I know how it is, but why does it always have to be that way?” She never spoke that way to me before, after all, my father is in prison and most of my family is in a gang. I always figured that my mom accepted how things were. That’s just the ways things go when you’re in a gang. Then she asked me, “How does it feel to be sending an innocent person to prison? You probably feel like that man that sent your father to prison knowing he was innocent, you know, he was only protecting his own, too.” And for the first time in my life, the image of my mother made me believe that I could change the way things were. Because at that moment I locked eyes with Paco and said, “Paco did it. Paco shot the guy!”

Diary 34

Dear Diary,

You’re going to be so disappointed in me. Actually I’m more disappointed in myself for the way I’m tricking people into believing that I’m something I’m not. Since I’ve been in Ms. Gruwell’s class, everyone thinks I am “Little Miss Goodie Goodie.” It never fails; she always uses me as the “good” example. I’m seen as the kind of student that is quiet, has good grades, and is the teacher’s pet. The strange thing is that while everyone around me is changing because of our “toast for change,” I seem to be the only one who’s not going anywere. It’s hard for me, because I have a lot of people who always tell me that I am smart, and that I seem to have it all together, and they sometimes wish they were like me. If they only knew that on the inside I am just barely keeping it together.

I am living a lie. I am struggling with a deep secret—being a “closet drinker.” I walk around with my water bottle pretending to be better than what I am. Deep down inside it hurts me that I can’t bring myself to tell anyone about my problem. I do want to change, but it’s so hard. It’s so hard for me to change because I fear that people will not like the sober me. I’ve been doing it for so long, it’s just a daily routine like getting up in the morning, going to the bathroom, and brushing your teeth.

I can’t keep on hiding the fact that I’m an alcoholic. I’m hiding it from my mom, Ms. G, and all of my friends. I know I need help, but how do I go about getting it? It has got to be hereditary because not only do I have this problem, but my grandfather, my dad, and his mom had this problem also. I guess I was going to end up with it myself sooner or later.

Let me tell you about my day. I woke up craving orange juice with a little hint of vodka. Guess what I did? As usual, I went to my secret stash, and poured my favorite drink, vodka and orange juice. I started wondering how I am going to achieve anything in life, if I can’t even start the day without alcohol.

Of course my mom was already at work, so I walked out the door with my water bottle filled with O.J. and vodka and went to school like it was an everyday thing. The thing that really got me was when I got to school, no one, I mean not even Ms. G or even my best friend, had any idea that I was drunk. I talked to my friends and teachers and they didn’t know. You know why? Because I have a trick: I stop off at the donut shop and buy a pack of gum after I get off the bus. Smart, huh?

During P.E. I almost drowned because my legs gave out on me while I was in the pool. Everyone thought it was because I was feeling fatigued, but I knew it was because I was drunk. At lunch I could hardly stand. I ran to the bathroom and puked all over the stall. I tried to convince myself that it was because of the flu or something. By dinnertime I was back to the way people always saw me; sweet, smart, and innocent.

My drinking never really bothered me before we started reading all these books about people changing and wanting to make a difference. It makes me feel like such a hypocrite. The story that sticks with me the most is how the Nazis deliberately hurt innocent people like Anne Frank, and in my case, I’m the one who’s hurting myself. I’m the one choosing to hide. Unfortunately, Anne Frank was never free. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever be.

Diary 35

Dear Diary,

Tonight I just finished one of the books for our read-a-thon, called
The Wave
. This story is about a school experiment that shows how peer pressure can get out of hand. One of the main characters was a guy by the name of Robert Billing. He pressured and bullied other teenagers into acting like modern-day Nazis. The teenagers were like sheep blindly following a leader. After reading this book, I realized how teens are very gullible; getting tricked into doing things against their will because they want to fit in and be popular. That must be why Hitler preyed on children. It’s amazing how he controlled thousands of teenagers called the “Brown Shirts.” I can’t believe how peer pressure can take charge of a person’s life and change who they are. I know that stories like this are true because I’ve experienced peer pressure myself. I wanted to hang out with the so-called “cool” crowd so badly that I was talked into doing things I knew were wrong.

I came to school one time and found my usual friends, and someone was telling the others about how they just got away with shoplifting. I wondered how they did it without getting caught. I listened to them because I never had any stories to tell about stealing. They always said that I’m such a “goodie two shoes.” On this particular day, I felt like I should prove them wrong. Later that night, my family and I went shopping, and that’s when my nightmare started.

I jacked some makeup and thought to myself as I slowly walked toward the door, “I can just walk out that door, it will all be over. Please, don’t let anyone see me…”

“Yes, I’m out the door. I did it, I got away…” I thought as I passed the two automatic doors.

“Excuse me, Miss, I’m a security officer here, can you please step inside the store with me? We have evidence that you took some makeup…”

My parents froze in their steps.

Shit, I got caught, I can’t believe this. All the blood drained from my face. My parents were shocked. All they could do was stare at me in disbelief. My dad looked like he was going to slap me. My mom looked like she could kill me. All they said was, “What a disgrace. How can you do this to us? Do you know how humiliating this is?”

I could feel my body shaking. I had never done anything like this in my entire life. I knew my parents were going to kill me. “This can’t be happening, it’s just a dream, just a dream, wake up, hurry,” I kept telling myself as I stepped back into the store. They took me to a small weird room in the corner. It might have been a well-lit room, but it felt cold and dark.

They told me to have a seat while my parents stood by the door, glaring down at me. They told me to pull out the makeup I had put in my pocket. They totaled up the cost, which came up to $15. Then they brought out the wrappers that I had tried to hide between other things in the store. They had also taken snapshots of me. I felt like a big-time criminal.

As they were taking the pictures, they told me to lighten up for the camera. Why the hell were they telling me this when I just got myself into such a mess?

I kept asking myself, “Why am I so stupid that I stooped this low to impress my so-called friends? They’re not even here with me to help me out of this mess. My parents will probably never forgive me, or ever trust me ever again. How could I do this to them? They’ve always given me everything I’ve ever wanted.” After I finished signing some papers, they finally let me out. I didn’t want to face my parents. When we headed toward the car, I walked behind my parents as slow as possible.

When we got home they gave me a really long lecture that made me cry the whole night. That night before I went to bed, I made a promise to myself that I will never steal anything else or do anything stupid like that ever again. Not only did I cause my parents pain, but I also threw away my own pride and good judgment trying to be someone I’m not.

Diary 36

Dear Diary,

At first I asked Ms. G, “Why should I read books about people that don’t look like me? People that I don’t even know and that I am not going to understand because they don’t understand me!” I thought I was a smart-ass for asking her this question. I thought to myself, “She’s not going to give me an answer because this time I am right.” She looked up and said very calmly, “How can you say that? You haven’t even bothered to open the front cover. Try it, you never know. The book may come to life before your eyes.” So I started to read this book called
Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl
because I wanted to prove Ms. G wrong. I wanted to show her that what she said was bullshit, and that her little technique was not going to work for me. I hate reading, and I hate her, for that matter.

To my surprise, I proved myself wrong because the book indeed came to life. At the end of the book, I was so mad that Anne died, because as she was dying, a part of me was dying with her. I cried when she cried, and just like her I wanted to know why the Germans were killing her people. Just like her, I knew the feeling of discrimination and to be looked down upon based on the way you look. Just like her, “I sometimes feel like a bird in a cage and just want to fly away.” The first thing that came to my mind when I finished reading the book was the fact that Ms. G was right. I did find myself within the pages of the book, like she said I would.