The Freedom Writers Diary (10 page)

Moment

Let him wish his life

For the sorrows of a stone

Never knowing the first thread

Of these

Never knowing the pain of ice

As its crystals slowly grow

Needles pressing in on the heart

To live forever

And never feel a thing

To wait a million lifetimes

Only to erode and become sand

Wish not for the stone

But for the fire

Last only moments

But change everything

Oh to be lightning

To exist for less than a moment

Yet in that moment

To expose the world to every open eye

Oh to be thunder

To clap and ring

To rumble into memories

Minds and spines

To chill the soul and shake the very ground

Pounding even the sand

Into smaller pieces

Or the mountain

Brooding, extinct

Yet gathering for one fatal moment

The power to blow the top clean off the world

Oh to last the blink of an eye and leave nothing

But nothing unmoved behind you

Vincent Guilliano

January 9, 1991

Ms. G gave us this poem, written by someone who had gone to college with her. Ironically, he died shortly after he wrote the poem by drowning in the San Francisco Bay. After we read the poem, Ms. G broke it down to its simplest form, she wanted no part to be misunderstood. She wanted this poem to become our motto in class, and our principle in life.

She told us to be the kind of people that have enough passion to change the world. If we let ourselves be fire, thunder, or lightning, we could alter everything.

We all thought that Ms. Gruwell’s lesson was really powerful and all, but us? Lightning and thunder? Not likely. The below-average sure-to-drop-out kids? Please, ever since I can remember, we’ve been put down and stepped on, and now all of a sudden we have the potential to change the world? Leave it up to Ms. Gruwell to come up with some crazy shit like that.

She tried to convince us that we were capable of anything. But it wasn’t until Miep’s visit that it finally made sense. I remember talking about how much we admired her for risking everything to care for Anne and her family. She said that she had only done it because it was the “right thing to do.”

Someone stood up and said that Miep was their hero.

“No, you’re the real heroes,” she answered. There she was, one of the most heroic women of all time, telling
us
that
we
were heroes.

“Do not let Anne’s death be in vain,” Miep said, using her words to bring it all together. Miep wanted us to keep Anne’s message alive, it was up to us to remember it. Miep and Ms. Gruwell had had the same purpose all along. They wanted us to seize the moment. Ms. Gruwell wanted us to realize that we could change the way things were, and Miep wanted to take Anne’s message and share it with the world.

That’s when it all became crystal clear. Anne’s message of tolerance was to become our message.

At that moment, I became like the fire, and like the lightning and like thunder.

Diary 44

Dear Diary,

I can’t believe that Zlata Filipovic is coming! Our letters actually paid off. After reading her book, I couldn’t do anything but relate her life with mine. It was so interesting to realize that another person my same age, went through such a horrible experience seeking refuge from a war. Even though I didn’t physically experience a war, my family managed to escape one just in time from Nicaragua. Blasts of gunfire thundered throughout my country, too.

I can candidly say that in the back of my mind I didn’t think Zlata would actually respond to our invitation. I felt like we were writing to a celebrity, and all we would end up hearing in return was a letter from her agent saying thank you and here’s a signed photograph. Zlata’s response, on the other hand, was much more gratifying. Not only did she personally write back to us, but she also mentioned that she would be more than happy to meet us. I feel like I’m about to meet a person whom I could relate to.

Diary 45

Dear Diary,

March 24, 1996, was the most unforgettable day ever. I had the pleasure of going with my family to the Newport Beach Marriott Hotel to meet Zlata Filipovic and her parents, Malik and Alicia, and her best friend, Mirna. My parents got dressed up in their nicest clothes for the occasion. I wore a suit.

We drove to the hotel not knowing what to expect from the evening. As soon as we walked inside the Marriott Hotel, we felt important and excited to be there. A photographer took our pictures and waiters in tuxedos and white gloves served us appetizers off silver trays. They even served us punch in champagne glasses. Since Ms. Gruwell works there, she made sure that everyone went out of their way to treat us like royalty.

When Zlata came down to meet us, all of us surrounded her as if she was a celebrity. We all wanted to take pictures with her and ask her questions about herself. It was so interesting to see how we had a girl our own age that is such a role model to us. The fact that she was actually here was so unbelievable.

I found out we had a lot in common. We both like listening to music and being with our friends. Zlata left such a good first impression that I’ll never forget her. As we continued to celebrate, we had a formal dinner in her honor. The food was delicious. There must have been at least five courses. There were so many knives and forks at our table. I’m glad Ms. Gruwell went over which ones we’re supposed to use first.

Before the night was over, Ms. Gruwell told us that this was just the beginning and there’s more to come. I left the Marriott with a good feeling and high expectations about our future.

Diary 46

Dear Diary,

My friendship with Mary reminds me of Zlata and Mirna’s friendship. They have been through a war together because of race and religion, and they are still best friends. The only difference is that neither of their families want to prevent their friendship. There’s not even a war in this country, yet I can’t even go to a movie with my friend because she’s white. Why does that matter any more? I thought we were in a new era and were getting over the race issue. Yeah, right! I’m living in a big fantasy world. The time hasn’t come for people to overcome hatred of others because of something as insignificant as race.

She’s the best friend a person could ever have. She’s fun, smart, she doesn’t just hear me she listens to me, and we have so much in common, but…she’s white. There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s not a problem to me, anyway. To everyone else it is a problem, especially my family. More specifically, my father.

My father gets angry when I spend time with her. He says, “Why don’t you have any black friends?” or “So you’re going over to those honky’s house again?” Come on, who uses those words anymore? He warned me to watch my back because those white people always stab you in the back. He has no idea what kind of person she is. I can’t believe how incredibly ignorant he is. I think it’s because he grew up in an era of pure racism. Worse, he grew up in the South, and racism was all he saw. Does that make it OK to take his anger out on me and my friends? I don’t think so!

My father thinks she is turning me into a white girl, because she’s my best friend and I hang out with her all the time. She has never done anything negative toward me, and even if she did I wouldn’t look at her as if the whole race did something negative toward me.

Color is the last thing that comes to mind when we hang out together. We have more important things to be concerned about.

Diary 47

Dear Diary,

Knowledge comes in strange ways. I never thought that a person who lived over 10,000 miles away could impact me, but tonight, that changed. Zlata has been with us for four days now and we’ve really gotten to know her well and she’s just like us. When I met her, we were wearing the same shoes! I couldn’t believe she was wearing Doc Martens. When we started to get to know each other, we talked about the same things. About Pearl Jam and how cute Eddie Vedder was. If I hadn’t known that she was Zlata Filipovic, “the famous teen author from war-torn Bosnia,” I would have just assumed that she was a normal fifteen-year-old girl who liked to shop and hang out with her friends. The best part is, that she
was
a normal fifteen-year-old girl.

When she came, we were invited to the Croatian Hall where she would be speaking. We didn’t want to go empty-handed, so we gathered medicinal supplies, clothes, and even old toys. All these were going to be sent back to Bosnia. This would be our first encounter with people who had been persecuted in Bosnia. We expected nothing less than for them to be accepting and tolerant. I thought they would care less what color, creed, or race any of us were. Unfortunately, some proved me wrong.

As Zlata was speaking in front of the people from Croatia, they were all nodding their heads. “Yes, yes,” they would say. She spoke about all of the injustices that one must go through for a simple label or belief. She mentioned her experience as a fourteen-year-old growing up in war-torn Bosnia. How hard it was for her to lose friends because of the way they looked, or what they believed in. At this point, we were the ones nodding our heads.

There is one thing that really stands out in my mind from that night, however. As she was answering questions, a couple of adults asked her what ethnicity she was, Croatian? Muslim? Serbian? I was upset that instead of getting the message that she was trying to convey, they were too preoccupied with what nationality she was. Were these the same adults that preached how wrong racism and discrimination are? Were these the same people that a minute ago agreed that we shouldn’t care about labels? Zlata looked around, stared at us, and simply said, “I’m a human being.”

That’s exactly what we all are. We spend so much time trying to figure out what race a person is when we could just get to know them as individuals. I felt like answering their question with a question. Does it matter? Will it make a difference if she is Croatian, Muslim, Serbian?

She taught me the most valuable lesson that anybody could ever have and to think that she is only fifteen! Ever since that day I’ve tried not to accept society’s labels, but to fight against them.

I have always been taught to be proud of being Latina, proud of being Mexican, and I was. I was probably more proud of being a “label” than of being a human being, that’s the way most of us were taught. Since the day we enter this world we were a label, a number, a statistic, that’s just the way it is. Now if you ask me what race I am, like Zlata, I’ll simply say, “I’m a human being.”

Diary 48

Dear Diary,

Today I went to the Croatian Hall with Zlata and met a little boy named Tony who lived a nightmare because he is Croatian. One night while he was asleep, Serbian soldiers came into his home and shot him in his face; at point-blank range. A Bosnian woman living in L.A. sponsored Tony’s trip to the United States to have his jaw reconstructed. When we met him, he had only a medal plate holding his jaw together.

When I saw Tony, I was grateful my family made it out of Peru before we were harmed—or worse, killed. I thought of my three-year-old brother, and pictured him standing in Tony’s place, telling this ghastly story. Like the life of my family, Tony’s life has been permanently altered by the terror of war. He was a survivor of ethnic cleansing; we survived a revolution that turned into terrorism. Even though the Bosnian war was one of ethnicity and religion, it was just as senseless as the terrorism that ransacked my country. It forced many to leave behind their homes, and their lives.

Although the terrorist struggle in Peru started as a good cause, it turned many people’s lives into a nightmare. Just walking by a parked car, you couldn’t help wondering if there was a bomb hidden in its trunk. As you passed, you wondered if it was going to explode in your face.

I remember my dad saying, “Everything will turn out OK. In the United States. there are more opportunities, better jobs, and no terrorism.” When my Dad said that I didn’t really understand what it meant. I was only ten. I only thought about homework, food, TV, and going outside to play with my friends.

I’d been to the U.S. before to visit family, but never thought I would end up living there. Four weeks after my dad told us we were moving, my grandmother called for us. My dad went to the American Embassy to take care of the paperwork for our green cards. We would get our social security numbers and green cards three months after our arrival in the States.

Three weeks before flying to the U.S., terrorists blew up the house next to mine. The explosion woke everyone in the neighborhood. My eyes snapped open as a wave of warm air hit my face. I got out of bed realizing there was only smoke and bright light where my bedroom window once was. I saw my mom running toward me screaming, but couldn’t hear her. All I heard was the ringing in my head. She grabbed me, shaking the ringing from my ear. I heard the turmoil in my neighborhood. She carried me outside, my feet were bleeding from stepping on broken glass blown from my window. The firemen told my father that out of twenty sticks of dynamite, ten exploded. If all had ignited, my house would have exploded also. I realized the magnitude of what was happening, and was glad to be moving to the U.S.

My first day of school in the United States was very hard. I didn’t understand any English words. Everything was so different. I had had some English classes in Peru, but nothing like this. Everybody spoke so fast, their words were hard to follow. Everything sounded like Rs and Ss. I couldn’t talk, read, or write English. The third day of school, some Mexican guys spoke to me. We talked, played, and they taught me English.

Like my first years in the U.S., Tony didn’t understand English. My only way to communicate was to play with him. It lifted my spirit to see his joy despite his tragic story. Though it hurt him to smile, he laughed anyway. Though he couldn’t understand a word we were saying, he understood that we felt his pain. We too knew what it felt like to live amid war.