The Freedom Writers Diary (20 page)

What am I going to wear? I have to look nice for tonight’s dinner. This is the most important night of all. The people from the Marriott even had a rehearsal for us. I never realized how important this man really is. Now I know that he represents a lot in education. I wonder what he looks like. Is he young or old? Either way, I know I should never judge a book by its cover, like Ms. G taught me. “He has to be a really important and educated man to be the Secretary of Education,” I said to myself. I can’t wait to meet him. He will probably be surprised when he sees all of us, a diverse group of teenagers in front of him. I hope he gets excited when he finds out that we came all this way to hand-deliver a copy of our book to him. I also hope he can help us pursue our future education.

“This is going to be a boring night, you know, long speeches on things I don’t even know or understand. This is for grownups, what am I doing here?” I said to myself at the beginning of the dinner. Richard Riley said, “You are the future leaders, don’t give up,” His words really got my attention. I couldn’t believe he was the Secretary of Education. I imagined him differently. I thought he would be stuck up like all those other important people, but I was wrong. He’s cool. I didn’t think he would tell us about his life, but he did. He talked about his life and how he relates to some of us. He told us about all the struggles that he had to overcome to become who he is today. I can’t believe I’m here, only five feet away from the most important man in education. Hopefully he will take a good look at us and realizes that it will only take a few of his words to change our future. He seems like he’s moved by what we have accomplished.

He made me realize that with education you can become whoever you want. He made me see things from a very different perspective. “I hope one day I can become someone important like Richard Riley,” I said to myself while he was walking away. Tonight has been a really good experience. I even got a rose from my date, which was very exciting. Hopefully many nights like this will come, but for tonight the memories will stay in my heart forever.

Diary 88

Dear Diary,

This is the poem I wrote that Ms. G asked me to read to Richard Riley at the dinner. I couldn’t believe that I was sitting at the head table with all the big shots. I sat next to Ms. G’s parents. Her stepmom, Karen, held my hand because I was so nervous. When I finished reading the poem, I got a standing ovation.

Stand

Stay Black—

Stay Proud

Stay White—

Stay Proud

Stay Brown—

Stay Proud

Stay Yellow

Stay Proud…

Don’t be afraid to be what you are,

’cause all you can be, is you!

You’ll never be anything else but you,

so be the best you, you can be.

Keep it
real
—

     by all means,

               at all times.

Whether a lawyer, a doctor, a football player,

a toilet cleaner, a garbage handler, a panhandler—

keep it
real

     and still—

               be the
best
you can be.

Have pride, have dignity,
stand
!

Stand proud, talk proud, act proud, be proud!

Don’t lay down,

back down,

bow down,

run away,

sell out yourself,

sell into criticism.

Be
real
and
realize
that the ones who criticize,

best recognize that you are you—

take it or leave it.

“MMM HMM!”

I knew you’d get it.

Get what?

The stuff—

the stuff called pride, that attitude, that aura,

your identity, your self, your pride, peace of mind,

worry free.

See,
I can’t be you
, but I’m a damn good
ME
!

Righteous.

Diary 89

Dear Diary,

We gave our book to the United States Secretary of Education, Richard Riley, tonight. As I watched him come into the Marriott ballroom, I couldn’t help but notice how different we were. He is a rich white Southern man from South Carolina with a Southern drawl, and I’m a young black male trying to make it in life, living check by check. But I realized we were both there for the same reasons—we care about the future of kids in America. As I sat there listening to his speech, I realized he actually cared about us. More important, I realized that this man would actually read my diary entry.

By reading my diary, he will know all the things that I went through and maybe be in a position to do something about it. As I was listening to him tell us about how he fought against discrimination in the South, I couldn’t help but remember the night that my brother got shot, purely based on our race.

We were just driving on the freeway when a car full of Mexicans drove up next to us. All of a sudden I saw sparks flying, glass shattering, and blood splattering. A bullet actually ricocheted all through the car. Another bullet went through the backseat of the car and grazed my friend in the back. My brother, who was driving, was shot four times. Twice in his chest, inches from his heart, once in his thigh, and once in his calf. He turned to me, with his shirt soaked in blood, and said, “I can’t breathe no more. I can’t drive!” He pulled off the road while my two friends were yelling in the backseat, “I’m shot! I’m shot!”

Trying not to panic, I pulled my brother into my seat. Then I jumped into the driver’s seat, which was full of blood, and started looking for a hospital. I finally pulled into a gas station to call the police to tell them my brother got shot. While I was by the phone, I couldn’t help but notice that there must have been about twelve bullet holes in the side of the car. The car was totaled. It looked like it had been through a war. In two minutes an ambulance came and they took my brother and my friend to the hospital. Then the police took me to the hospital.

The hospital was only a block away. When I got there, the doctor took me into the room to see my brother. He had tubes all in him. I didn’t know what to think. Then my brother made this joke from a movie. He said, “The doctor told me I’m never gonna walk again.” I knew that was a line from a movie, but I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Then my brother went into surgery for six hours so they could remove the bullets. Apparently his lungs collapsed. I thought he was going to die. If he died it would have been for the simple fact that we were black and in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Luckily, he came out of the surgery OK and was only in the hospital for one week. His doctor told me that if I didn’t react like I did by getting my brother to the hospital so soon, he would have died. The doctor said, “That makes you a hero!” I guess it does. It made me realize that a real hero should try to prevent this from ever happening again.

I guess that’s why I want Richard Riley to read my story. I want him to know that the guys with guns were absolute strangers. All they saw was our color because they were ignorant. If they were educated, like I am, they’d learn to see past shades and beyond exteriors and see people. I guess that’s why the Freedom Writers had to write about our lives and share them with him, because he’s in a position to educate kids like that.

Unfortunately Secretary Riley can’t change what happened to my brother and me, but maybe he can help us spread our message so it doesn’t happen to another innocent teen.

Diary 90

Dear Diary,

Last night we had a candlelight vigil for our family and friends we’ve lost to senseless violence. Right after we dedicated our bound copy of the book to the Secretary of Education, Richard Riley, we all held hands to form an unbreakable chain and marched out of the hotel toward the Washington Monument. The chain we made was so long that we held up traffic while crossing the busy intersection on Pennsylvania Avenue. When we were crossing the street, some guy asked what we were doing. Someone said, “Changing the world,” but the weird thing about that is the fact that this candlelight vigil was one of the stepping stones used by us to get in a position where we can truly make a change for the better and influence others to change, too. So we really were changing the world.

When we reached the Washington Monument, we formed a huge circle around it and we all began to sing “Stand by Me.” During that moment tears of mourning began to fall from everyone except me. I didn’t want to think about the painful memories of close friends whose lives were blown away like dust in the wind. We held hands again and walked back to the hotel after we pinned the buttons that had names of people who were killed because of violence on a tree in front of the Washington Monument.

The pain that everyone was feeling didn’t hit me until we arrived back at the hotel. I just couldn’t hold it in anymore. I began to think about all the times that I was almost killed and the fact that my name could have been on one of those buttons. Right at that moment I felt like I was going to have a nervous breakdown. My heart was beating fast as the tears ran down my face because all of those painful memories that came back. I had constant flashbacks of all the guns put to my head, all of the bullets that barely missed me, and all the times I thought to myself, “Just give up, they’re gonna kill you anyway.” But I couldn’t give up, I didn’t give up, and I will never give up!

Diary 91

Dear Diary,

I’m thousands of feet in the air in a “Freedom Writer Only” plane, on my way home from Washington, D.C. As I look at the clouds, ice crystals build up on my window, and my eyes become heavy with fatigue. (It was hard checking in our baggage and then running to the plane. The girls’ bags were ten times heavier than when we left.) I’m sitting here thinking, “OK, so this is what it’s like to fly first class.” This is my second time on a plane, the first was when we went to Washington. Me, on a plane? If I’d never met Ms. G, this would have never happened!

“Yeah right,” my sister said when I told her I was flying to D.C. Even my stepdad was skeptical. I saved my plane tickets, just so I would have proof that I’d actually gone, to show him when I get home. Actually, I saved just about everything—my movie ticket, a handkerchief from the hotel, even the soap and shower cap!

You’re probably wondering how one little female high school teacher brought such drastic changes into my life. Well, I have about four hours before we land in LAX, so I’m going to sit here and tell you a story of how my life was changed by this “little” high school teacher…Just thirteen years ago, I felt helpless, like I’d never be free. Thirteen years ago may seem like a long time ago, but to me, it seems like yesterday…

“Give me some money!” A deep, booming voice yelled at my mom.

“I don’t have any,” my mom cried.

“Yes you do! I know you do! You just got your welfare check. You better give me some money or I’m gonna fuck yo’ son up!” Afraid this man would hurt her child, my mom foolishly gave him all the money she had in her purse. It couldn’t have been more than twenty dollars. “Yeah, I thought you didn’t have any money, you lying bitch! When I get back, that little nigga better be gone,” he said. I sat trembling on the couch, his prized possession. “And get the hell off of my couch!” He grabbed me by my shirt and threw me across the room. Then he picked me up by the neck. All I could think of was why is he was doing this to me. I didn’t do any thing to defend myself, it’s kind of scary having a six-foot-four giant, with arms built to play football, grab you by the neck and throw you into the trunk of a car. While in the trunk I could hear my mom screaming. I could hear the sound of his fist smashing against her face.

I stayed in that grease-infested trunk for at least a day. It was morning when my mom finally let me out. The daylight burned my eyes. My pants were soaking wet with a combination of dirt, car oil, and urine. We didn’t have any soap or hot water, so my mom bathed me with dishwashing liquid, in a tub of ice-cold water. All of my mother’s welfare money supported her maniac boyfriend’s cocaine habit. There was never any money left for food, just enough for Top Ramen noodles; it was our breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Most of the time we had to eat that raw.

My mom was eight and a half months pregnant. With all the stress in her life, she had to be rushed to the hospital in premature labor. And I was stuck in the house with a child abuser, woman beater, murderer, drug user, and ex-convict. I was constantly being hit. Constantly being told I would never be anything, I ain’t shit, I’ll never be shit. I knew there would be trouble as soon as my mom left for the emergency room. The second this thought entered my mind, this madman started yelling at me. “It’s your fault that she’s gone! Don’t start that crying shit. I ought to beat your ass.”

I was home by myself most of time my mom was in the hospital. My mom’s boyfriend exchanged all her jewelry with his dealer so he could buy his drugs. When my mom came home, the rent and all the bills were overdue, so we were evicted. We were given a week to move, but we didn’t have anywhere to go. We couldn’t move in with my grandmother because her boyfriend caused too much trouble. Our only option was his mother’s house.

We left everything behind—which wasn’t much—and moved into a dingy garage. For two years we lived in a garage with the gardening tools, old furniture, a tiny black and white TV, and a lone mattress in the center. There was no heat, no air-conditioning, no fan, and no restroom. It was just mom, her new daughter, her boyfriend, and me.

When we finally got our own house, her boyfriend took the bedroom, and my mom, my sister, and I slept in the living room. So in essence we’d come full circle. The only difference this time is that I’m older, I understand more, and I have more fear in my heart due to previous beatings. At least once a week there was an argument between the two either over money or me living in the house. Sometimes they just argued over why there’s money in the house and no cocaine. For years he sold drugs out of the house where my mom paid rent. Where my mom paid the bills and bought food.

After living in such chaos for so long, I began to believe my mom’s boyfriend. Maybe I wouldn’t amount to anything, but Ms. Gruwell helped me prove him wrong by making me realize the things he said were not true, and that nothing that happened between him and my mother was my fault.