The Freedom Writers Diary (17 page)

It only got worse in high school, where there were more spelling and essays tests, with more complicated words that seemed too impossible to memorize. Finally, I just started to think, “Why should I even try? I am just going to end up with an ‘F’ anyway.” It seems that an “F” was going to symbolize what I would end up in the future. I felt especially hopeless and depressed when I had to take an essay test where spelling counted toward my grade. I wanted to do well, but no matter how many great answers I had in my head, if I couldn’t spell words right, I was going to fail. It wasn’t like I could ask someone sitting next to me how to spell a word, and I couldn’t just bust out the dictionary, because that would be considered cheating. That’s why I always hated turning my essays in, because the teacher would look at me as if he knew that I was going to fail. On one essay test, my sociology teacher even told me that he “didn’t expect me to do well anyway.” When he told me this, I felt hopeless because I couldn’t prove him wrong, at least not yet.

When I heard that we were going to write stories, I can’t tell you that I was too happy. I started to picture me with a dictionary, looking up words all night long. Since Ms. Gruwell was my new English teacher, I didn’t want her to think that I was stupid like the other teachers did. This was my chance to prove the other teachers wrong. Then I heard the bad news: She expected us to crank out a story in a couple of days. My friend said that it would be easier for me now because we had the computers. I was still scared because I didn’t want anyone to know that I couldn’t write. As I turned on the computer, I still was uncertain if Bill Gates’s creation was going to help me in any way…

At the end of the day, I was surprised to see that I didn’t have to substitute a word in my story just because I couldn’t spell it. Thanks to spell check, now I feel like there are no limits or boundaries enclosing my ideas and feelings. Sitting in front of the monitor with my fingers on the keyboard makes me feel powerful in a way I never have before.

Diary 71

Dear Diary,

To inspire us in our new writing project, Ms. G gave us a letter she received from Miep after her trip to Amsterdam. It really inspired the whole class to keep up with our work and gave us the impression that the sky is the limit.

The class was very thankful that Miep Gies took the time to write to us. I admire her for the nice things she did for Anne Frank. I think we are very similar to each other because we both had innocent friends die. Even though fifty years have gone by, Miep still thinks about Anne and all she went through in the secret annex. Not a day goes by that she doesn’t think about Anne.

I had a friend who was shot in the eye and killed in cold blood. It’s been a year since he died and like Miep, not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. I think to myself, “Was his death in vain?” No! I have to do something about it because he was an only child. Now I want to write his story so others will know his death was not in vain!

Diary 72

Dear Diary,

“As his penis twirled in my mouth, thoughts of the popcorn he promised me ran through my mind…” As I read these words, I began to wonder who the author of this story was. My mind began to think, “Damn, I’ve been through the same thing.” Bad things always happen to the wrong people. I read the sentence repeatedly, then scanned the room to see any body language that would reveal who wrote it. I looked, yet no one gave me any evidence who the author was.

I can’t believe that I got a story to read and edit that I could have told. I stared down at the words and began to think back on the terrible act of violence I suffered at the hands of a family member. I felt a sense of relief that someone else had been molested, someone else had a story to tell also. I was supposed to edit the story, but after reading it over and over, I felt the words needed to remain the way they are. Untouched. The words held power.

Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Did someone know I had been molested? Maybe Ms. G knew. Or maybe the others. Oh shit, what if they all knew? Why does it seem that everyone is looking at me? Damn! After all this time, has my little secret been discovered?

Then Ms. G decided to read the story aloud, so everyone would know the degree of individuality put into our stories. She told us this was our chance to speak up on the tragic things that have happened to us in our lives. Some girls left the room, too overwhelmed with emotions to stay and hear the rest. Some stayed in the room and cried. But not me, however. I remained cool, cool as a cucumber. A muscle didn’t even move. I hardly even breathed or blinked. I just sat still and asked myself, “Why in the hell did we have to do this damn editing anyway?”

The more I stared at the words, the more I began to realize I have been blessed through someone else’s misfortune. Maybe someone will feel the same way after learning about my experience. I wanted to reach out to her to let her know she wasn’t alone. I wanted to tell her I know how she feels, to show sympathy, to be a true friend to her. I never found her. But now I know that I am not alone—and that has made a difference.

Diary 73

Dear Diary,

Today we were given another damn story to edit. When I was handed this story, I just thought, “Oh wow, another story to edit. Gee, this is great! I wish I could do this every day.” When I started to read the story, all of a sudden everything hit me: “I sat on the operating table, shivering…my stomach flipped as I lay back and placed my feet in the stirrups.” How was I so lucky to get a story about abortion? It was my secret come to haunt me once again. It was as if my subconscious was speaking to me about everything that I kept penned up inside of me.

This story was so graphic and depressing, describing details I never thought about before. I wonder if my girlfriend went through all the things that the girl went through in the story. She wrote about how a counselor walked in and took her hand. “If you need to, just squeeze my hand,” she said and held her tightly. I wonder if my girlfriend had anyone there to support her. It makes me sad that I wasn’t there to hold her hand. Was it lonely and bleak in the office? She said, “I wanted to erase this place from my mind.” Did she have all those terrible thoughts going through her head? How could they make these places so dark and dreary? It has to kill the girls inside to even step into the office, because she wrote, “With the death of my unborn child, part of me died.”

I wish my girlfriend had told me all these things. It would have been so much easier to know that she was pregnant in the first place. I suspected she was, but before I knew the facts, she had an abortion. Even though the decision was up to her and she knew that I would support her no matter what she chose to do, I just wish that I knew beforehand so I could have at least gone with her.

Now that I’m sitting in class thinking about what she went through, all I can say is that I’m glad we’re still together. And as always, what didn’t push us apart brought us closer. With something like this, I will always look back and wonder what would have happened if we kept it? Where would I be now? All there is in life is questions and temporary solutions, and even though this was a major solution—it will always stir up questions.

When I finished reading the story, I didn’t feel so alone. Somebody in my class shares my secret. I actually wrote her an anonymous note and simply said, “I feel your pain—you’re not alone!”

Diary 74

Dear Diary,

My mom always told me that “one person can make a difference that can change the whole world.” It sounds unbelievable to me that one person can be a catalyst for such a change. She also told me that when she was young, during the sixties, there were many men and women that made significant changes that affected her life, as well as the world around her. Rosa Parks was one of those incredible people that changed the world.

Rosa Parks is an African American woman who was living in the segregated South. One day she was coming home from a hard day’s work and had to ride the bus. At that time African Americans were not allowed to sit in the front of the bus, and when the front section filled up, they had to give up their seats in the back to white passengers. Most people don’t know that Rosa Parks actually sat in the black section in the back of the bus that day. When the white section filled up and the bus driver ordered her to stand, she refused. No one had ever challenged that racist practice before, but she was tired, her feet hurt, and she just didn’t feel like getting up. Even though she was a law-abiding citizen, she felt so strongly that she should be able to sit that she refused to move from her seat and was then arrested.

Her bold action astonished many people. They believed that if this small, lone African American woman could take such a courageous stand, then they could, too. Many people believed she had done nothing wrong, so they started to boycott the buses. No one rode the buses for weeks. Rosa Parks opened the door for one of the most famous boycotts of our time and introduced the struggle for civil rights. I can see from this one person’s act that my mother was right.

After listening to my mom’s account of Rosa Parks’s protest, I thought about the power she had. The power to challenge segregation and to stand up for what she believed was right. Rosa Parks was a true catalyst for change and she was only one person.

Hearing about Rosa Parks and her protest showed me that there is hope for me and all the students in Ms. G’s classes to truly be catalysts for change. Imagine if there were 150 Rosa Parks standing up for tolerance, what a difference we would make.

Diary 75

Dear Diary,

I feel like I finally have a purpose in this class and in life.

That purpose is to make a difference and stand up for a cause.

Ms. G showed us a video during Black History Month, about a group of Civil Rights activists, in the 1960s, who were inspired by Rosa Parks. They decided to challenge segregation in the South. Rather than boycott buses, they took their challenge a step farther. They integrated their bus and traveled from Washington, D.C., through the deep South.

There were seven whites and six blacks on the bus, most of them college students. They were called the Freedom Riders, and their goal was to change segregated interstate travel, along with everyone’s life forever. The Freedom Riders had faith that what they were doing was right, and they wanted the world to know that change was necessary and that being tolerant of each other is good.

I can picture myself on the road with that bus. I can visualize pulling into the bus station in Montgomery, Alabama, to discover the unsettling quietness. Even though they didn’t expect a warm welcome, no one was to be seen at the station, not even the attendants. All of a sudden, Ku Klux Klan members were everywhere. Hundreds of them surrounded the bus, some carried bats or metal poles, and others held vicious German shepherds, growling and ready to attack these unarmed people. The mob was just waiting to get their hands on the riders. The Freedom Riders were barricaded on the bus. The mob, armed and hungry to attack, was just waiting for their first victim to step off that bus.

By choice, the seating arrangement on the bus was integrated: Blacks sat by whites, and vice versa. They were breaking a law that had been established in the South. This was unheard of! Jim Zwerg, a white man, stood up from the back of the bus. He wanted to be the first person to step off, even though he knew at the other side of the door was a mob of bigots drooling for a victim. What was he thinking? He felt this was his chance to fight back, nonviolently, and show his feelings to others. These strong feelings put his life at risk. Jim took that first step off of the bus, and the mob pulled him into their grasp. It was as if he had been swallowed up and disappeared, like bees on honey. Jim was almost beaten to death. He suffered a cracked skull from being hit with an iron pipe, a broken leg, and many cuts and bruises. During the moments the mob was beating on him, the other Freedom Riders got a chance to run for shelter.

I was impressed that Jim made a choice to be on that bus when he didn’t have to. After all, he was white and could sit wherever he wanted and risked everything when he didn’t have to. He wanted to fight for others who didn’t have the same privileges or rights as he did, which made me realize that’s been my role for the last two years. Since I’m white and my parents make a lot of money, I probably could have gotten out of Ms. G’s class if my parents had made a big enough fuss. I’m sure that because of Jim’s choice of riding the bus with black people, a lot of his peers must have thought he was crazy; after all, he didn’t have to, so why get himself into trouble? I guess in my way I’ve been like Jim, and I didn’t even know it. By making the choice to stay in Ms. G’s Class since my freshman year, I’ve forced myself to fit the cause. People gave those riders a chance to get off the bus, and they didn’t, and I’m going to face intolerance head-on as well.

The way I feel about segregation in school is the way Jim must have felt about segregation in the sixties. I want people to interact with different cultures and races. I don’t want segregation like you see in class or in the school quad. The way Jim must have felt when he stepped off the bus is probably the same way I felt those first couple of days in the class. I remember feeling scared, like a wimp. I was the only white student in the class. I felt helpless. But after I stayed in the class and toughed it out, a lot more white students transferred in, just like more people joined the Freedom Rider movement after Jim’s first step.