The Freedom Writers Diary (19 page)

Dairy 81

Dear Diary,

I’m writing to you from Washington, D.C. We went to Arlington Cemetery today where J.F.K. and many soldiers were buried. As the bus pulled up, I could feel a flood of tears forming in my eyes. I saw the cemetery filled with rows of graves. Like these soldiers, I, too, have witnessed many die. Many of my friends have been shot in the head, and stabbed a number of times, yet their deaths will never be recognized like these men and women. To me, my friends are soldiers, not soldiers of war, but soldiers of the street. With them, it wasn’t a fight for territory, it was a fight for their lives.

I didn’t want to enter the cemetery to see the rest of the graves and memorials for the lost soldiers. I was not being disrespectful, but it made me think back to when I was twelve years old and my father died of AIDS. He never had a headstone to commemorate his life. To this day, he still has nothing but a section of grass that you have to use a map to find. He was just another number, another statistic, someone that no one knew.

It makes me sad to see the media only concentrate on the deaths of famous people. I’ve always asked myself, “Why do only famous people make the headlines?” The media makes a big deal out of a movie star breaking a leg or fracturing a toe, but if a man with as much wisdom as my father passes away, no one cares.

Diary 82

Dear Diary,

I would say this has been the best night of my life! As we pulled up in our bus at the Lincoln Memorial, I felt as if I was a part of history. It was raining, but we still wanted to see the statute of Abraham Lincoln. It has always been my dream to see the world-famous statue of Abraham Lincoln.

At first I didn’t understand why Ms. G wanted us to go to Washington so badly. But now that we’re in our nation’s capital, it hit me! I will never be the same! I finally realized what being a Freedom Writer really means. Everyone was standing around the monument reading the passages on the wall. We all wanted to know what each passage meant, when it was written, and who wrote it.

After that I heard a small voice excitingly yell, “It’s time to go back outside in the rain.” I knew Ms. G was up to something, because she’s always trying to do something spontaneous that has some kind of symbolism in it. This time, it would be the most symbolic of all. We went outside and stood on the stairs of the monument and held hands facing the city, facing the world.

To think that Dr. Martin Luther King recited his famous “I Have a Dream” speech here where he dreamt that someday “little black children and little white children…will come together.” Ironically, when I looked at the Freedom Writers holding hands in the rain, I realized that we are his dream come true. Then all of a sudden, one, two, three, we screamed “Freedom Writers have a dream!” The rain stopped and the sound of our voices echoed across the city!

Diary 83

Dear Diary,

As I walked with my group down Pennsylvania Avenue, my eyes filled up with excitement, my lips followed what I saw with a smile, and my heart was full of enjoyment to be in a city that is so different than Long Beach. At that moment I felt as if I had entered a place were violence and hate did not exist. But in a few seconds that safe feeling would be all taken away…

“Damn! Check out this swastika, can you believe it? Just blocks away from the White House and the Holocaust Museum.” “Look, there goes another one on that wall,” I overheard as we walked down Pennsylvania Avenue. Those feelings I had within me were now found at the tips of my toes. I knew those symbols meant hatred and represented Nazi organizations. My judgment about Washington being perfect was wrong. I guess I kind of judged it for its cover.

Anyone can cover up the swastika with paint; but then again another idiot would probably come back and spray it again. I know from experience. It’s sad to say that I once was much like this idiot that sprays on walls, but had different causes. We both destroyed property, but what was being sprayed was way different. The swastika he sprayed is a symbol of hatred. I used to hit up streets with a spray can to get name recognition, not spread hatred.

Early the next morning at my breakfast table my homie and I knew something had to be done. Then we both made up a Freedom Writers logo. So the next time we saw a swastika spray painted on a wall or newspaper stand we could represent ourselves, the Freedom Writers, without destroying property. I then took the logo we came up with to the hotel concierge and asked if he would be nice enough to make several copies of it. I also asked if he would be willing to give us masking tape to tape our logos and not destroy outside property. Then we left the hotel armed with logos and tape in our hands. We attacked the first swastika we saw on the streets. Everyone joined in and surrounded the symbol. Once we had covered it up with our logo, everyone filled up with joy and started to clap. Once again my eyes filled with excitement, my lips followed what I saw with a smile, and my heart filled up once again with enjoyment because we had made a difference and I felt safe again.

Diary 84

Dear Diary,

We took a trip to the Holocaust Museum today. Inside the museum, many memories from my past resurfaced. We sat in a room to watch a movie on how Jewish people were treated during the Holocaust. They were beaten, starved, and forced to watch their loved ones killed before their own eyes by Hitler’s troops. As I watched the movie I began to zone out…

“Please get off me!” I screamed at the boys who were at least two feet taller than me and had extremely deep voices.

“Shut up you fucking nigger, your kind don’t belong here,” they screamed as they kicked me harder and harder.

I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. I was being beaten to the ground for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and not to mention for being the wrong color. Each blow was more powerful and furious than the one before. I tried to open my eyes, but I couldn’t. I wanted to see their faces. Who could do this to me? Then in that brief moment, my body went numb. I blacked out. I don’t know how much longer they beat me, but when I came to, I was in the middle of the street. I got up to go home and as I walked, no one tried to help.

When I got home, my cousins were asking me what happened. I chose not to say anything. It hurt too much to do anything, so I just went to my room, and cried myself to sleep. I slept for about four to five hours. I would have slept longer, but I was awakened by an unfamiliar smell.

“Johnny, what the hell are you burning in there?” I asked.

“I don’t know where that’s coming from, it’s not me or anything in here,” he said.

I got up to see what was going on. What was burning? Was the neighbor’s house on fire? I could hear the crackling sound of the wood being burned. As I walked into the living room it was lit up as if a small lamp was on.

“Johnny, call the police, I think the neighbor’s house is on fire,” I said.

I moved toward the door and the light from outside began to hurt my eyes, and the closer I got to the door, the warmer it got. I opened the door and I saw five people dressed in white robes. One of them was little and petite. In each of their evil eyes, I saw the reflection of the fire from the cross that was burning on my aunt’s lawn.

I stood, staring at them, as if it were an illusion that I was seeing. I closed my eyes, thinking that the vision would go away, but when I opened my eyes, the cross was still there. I came to realize that these were the same people who had beaten me earlier that day, and they continued to beat me, not physically, but emotionally. I stepped back, but careful not to take my eyes off of them, and I closed the door, and waited for help to arrive. My heart was beating so fast as I sat on the couch, nervous, and scared for my life.

“Hey, come on,” a classmate said.

When I looked up, the movie was over. My palms were sweaty and I felt as though I had just gone through the same experience again.

It seems as though everything tied together; the Jews and a little girl, both victims of a hate crime, and now the graffiti we saw in the nation’s capital. I guess some things never change…

Diary 85

Dear Diary,

Yesterday I was up all night having fun with my roommates. I was planning to go to bed earlier, because we were supposed to be ready to leave for the museum at 8:00
A.M.
but my roommates wouldn’t shut up. I put a pillow over my head and tried to tune them out. I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Holocaust Museum. I wondered what it’s going to be like? I was so curious, but at the same time I was scared. Scared of what I might see. My roommates didn’t fall asleep until 4:00
A.M.
so when the alarm went off at 6:30, I thought I was going to die.

God! I can’t believe what I saw at the Holocaust Museum. I tried to hold back the tears as I walked through the museum, but I couldn’t help it. As I walked through the entrance, I thought about Renee Firestone and Gerda Seifer, two Holocaust survivors who were visiting the museum with us. I couldn’t stop thinking of the pain and suffering they went through.

As I walked from room to room, I saw videos about thousands of people being buried in a single grave. How could this have happened? Why didn’t someone stand up for these people? How did people just allow them to die? I asked myself these questions as I headed to the next room. I looked at the wall and something caught my attention. It was a quote from a German preacher that summarized the outcome of what happens when no one takes a stand. “They came for the trade unions, but I was not a trade unionist, so I didn’t respond. Then they came for the Socialists, but I was not a Socialist, so I didn’t respond. Then they came for the Jews and since I was not a Jew, I didn’t respond. Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak out for me.” Next to this quote there was a picture of the concentration camp. I looked at that picture for a while repeating the words in my head. The more I thought about it, the more I cried.

Gerda caught up with me and started telling me about the cattle cars that the people were squeezed into. We walked into the next room and she just stopped. She started crying and when I asked her what was wrong, she raised her arm pointing at the cattle car right in front of us. We had to cross through a real cattle car in order to exit the room. She was afraid. She must have imagined her friends and family being shoved into one just like it. I asked her if she was OK. She took a step forward and then started describing how crowded the cars were. She told me that many of the people died before they even got to the concentration camps. When we finally got across it, both of us were crying. Gerda grabbed my hand and thanked me. But I should be the one thanking her.

On our way back to the hotel, I saw the swastikas that we had covered. Before, if I saw something bad happen, I probably wouldn’t have done anything. I used to think, “If it doesn’t affect me, why bother?” With the covering of the swastikas, and everything that happened today, I now know that there is not a day that will go by, when if I believe something is wrong, I won’t do anything about it. It is better to take a chance and make a change, than it is to pass and pity.

Diary 86

Dear Diary,

As we walked through the double doors and entered the cold and scary room at the Holocaust Museum, silence fell upon me as I looked at the death of millions. I never saw so many people dead in one place at the same time. What made it even worse was that it was for no reason at all. I was shocked when I saw all those dead people, but I was particularly devastated when I looked at all the twin carcasses. Quicker than a bolt of lightning, it was as if I was going through the same pain and suffering as those innocent twins who were so exploited and mutilated. The more pictures of identical twins I looked at, the more it seemed as if I, I mean, we were there.

They say one twin can’t last without the other. I couldn’t believe that all those twins were forced to test that theory. Dr. Mengele, a doctor at Auschwitz, was obsessed with doing experiments with twins. Rather than using lab mice, twins became his human guinea pigs. He became the Angel of Death and tortured every twin on the European continent that he could get his hands on. It made me wonder how it would be if I were to lose my twin. Would I have tried my hardest to run away if Mengele singled me out? Would I have tried to fight him? I really don’t know because I wasn’t there, I wasn’t in their shoes. Or would I have even tried to do anything to save any of the other twins? These are some of the questions that ran through my mind as I saw those kids lie there helplessly.

The more evil I saw that this man had in him, the more angry I became. All of these horrific pictures of children with their arms and legs cut off of their bodies and put together on another adult or child’s body was like looking at a collage of bad dreams that was put together like a picture puzzle. How could one man crush so many dreams? He must have been a man with no heart, and no mercy. He got pleasure from someone else’s sorrow.

Being at the museum made me think about how much I really need and love my twin sister. Even though growing up as a twin has had its good points and bad points, at least I always have someone to talk to, share clothes with, and experiment with. My twin gets on my nerves sometimes, but I would never dream of trading her in for anything in the world.

Kids these days have the chance to dream about what they want to be and want to change. It’s the changes that affect people’s lives for either good or bad. Unfortunately, Dr. Mengele took so many people’s chances from them when he took “change” into his own hands. Taking dreams away is the problem, making them happen is the solution. Unfortunately, those twins never had a chance to dream the same dream we are making come true…change.

Diary 87

Dear Diary,

The big day is here. I can’t believe this is my fourth day here in Washington, D.C., and I am actually meeting Secretary of Education Richard Riley. It has been a long day and there is still more to come. We’ve just got back from visiting a couple of museums and getting a tour of the Capitol. This has been the longest and most exciting day of my life.