The Freedom Writers Diary (21 page)

Diary 92

Dear Diary,

I have finally taken a real vacation. I have always had to go to summer school and I’ve never had time off. Well, thanks to the Freedom Writers, I got to go to the nation’s capital. I had the best time I ever had in my life. My only regret is that I didn’t have a camera during the whole trip to capture this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Everything in Washington, D.C., was great! It was my first time in a really nice hotel. I got to stay up late and didn’t have to worry about my parents telling me to go to sleep. The first two nights, I never slept because I kept thinking my parents were going to call. They never did.

On my way home from Washington, D.C., I finally fell asleep on the plane. I dreamed about the events that happened and how things were going to be when I got home. When we got off the bus, it wasn’t what I expected. My parents were there! At first, I just thought that maybe they were out getting gasoline for the car or eating out, but not to see me. Boy, was I surprised when they came up to me, gave me a hug, and asked me about my trip. I felt so welcome. This is something I’m not used to. Before I left, my parents always used to make me feel bad. They always thought I was bad, and I was constantly in trouble. I always argued with them and sometimes I even hated them! But tonight I forgot about all the bad times and I felt close to them.

When we got home, I walked in the house wondering why there was a lot more cars parked on the street. Everybody was at my house—from my closest relatives to people that I’ve only talked to once or twice. This was the first time since my sister got married that everybody was here. Were they here to see me? When I walked in, everybody started congratulating me! I felt really happy, as though nothing in the world would ever put me down. I wish I had taken pictures for them to see, but they were so excited just listening to me. And all their eyes were looking at me!

I sat in the middle of the living room telling them about my trip. I told them about how amazing the Capitol building was. I mean, I have never seen such beautiful paintings and magnificent sculptures. I described how the Lincoln Memorial was the biggest statue that I’d ever seen. I also told them about the cruise we took up the Potomac River. There was so much food that I ate until I could no longer get up. While I was outside on the deck, waving hello to everyone, it started to rain. But that didn’t stop anybody from having fun! Everybody went inside the boat and started dancing and singing. I also told them how I was hoping that we would get a tour of the White House. But at least I got to see the White House in person, even though it was from behind the front gate.

As I was describing Washington, they had the look of envy in their eyes. Tonight, for the first time in my life, I was the main attraction in my house. Everybody was congratulating me and congratulating my parents for having such a “good,” “smart,” and “fascinating” son. They said I am a role model for the family and hopefully for the world.

Diary 93

Dear Diary,

As I entered the school this morning, still tired from our trip, I noticed that everyone was acting weird, like something crazy happened. There were media vans in front of the school and the first thing I thought to myself was they were there to welcome the Freedom Writers back and to write an article about us. But they weren’t. So, I asked one of my friends, “What the hell happened?” He replied, “You know Jeremy Strohmeyer?” I said, “Yeah, Jeremy ‘Strombocker,’” which is the name we used to call him when we joked around with him. Then my friend said, “Well, Jeremy was arrested.”

Apparently Jeremy had brutally raped and murdered a seven-year-old girl in a Nevada casino. He had taken a Memorial Day weekend trip with a friend, another student at our school, and the friend’s father to Las Vegas. On the way, the father stopped at a casino in Prim, Nevada. While the father gambled, Jeremy and his friend hung out in the arcade. Jeremy began playing tag with the little girl, followed her into the women’s rest-room, where he raped and murdered her in a bathroom stall. The friend with Jeremy was also in the restroom at the time, but he left and did nothing to stop this crime.

At first I was shocked. I couldn’t believe it. I considered Jeremy an acquaintance because we had been on the same soccer team and we’d see each other around school. How could he possibly do such a thing? The more I heard, the more confused I felt.

Jeremy had a dark side to his personality. He had child pornography on his computer, and he was abusing drugs. This is a lethal combination. Although not an excuse, such things can make a person with such a dark and disturbed side commit acts they may never have if not under their influence.

I saw the media bombarding our campus with questions. We realized pretty quickly that they were not after our story. The Freedom Writers might as well have been on Mars for all the attention we got. It’s ironic that while the Freedom Writers were taking a symbolic stand against violence in our candlelight vigil at the Washington Monument, a murder was being carried out. No wonder young people are so easily stereotyped. The media seems to focus more on the negative rather than on the positive things that young people accomplish. It makes me sad that this horrible murder moved the Freedom Writers’ story to the back cover, while Jeremy’s got the front page.

Diary 94

Dear Diary,

Today I heard the news; along with the news, I heard the rumors. Jeremy and David killed a girl in Las Vegas. No, wait: It was just Jeremy, while David stood by and watched. Or was it that Jeremy murdered her without his best friend knowing about it?

Once school ended I decided to sort this whole thing out. I watched the news, and finally learned the supposed truth. David watched Jeremy drag the girl into the bathroom stall and he left before Jeremy killed her.

What a case of tragic irony. One hundred and fifty students travel to Washington, D.C., to actively acknowledge the violence in Long Beach; two travel to Las Vegas, where one eventually murders a young girl, and the other leaves while she is struggling.

How could David walk away without helping her?

This is a question that I can’t answer. Although I’ve never been in that type of situation, I do know that what he did isn’t right. It should never be solved with the “just look the other way,” normal approach to solving trials.

In any and every situation, nonaction is never a sane and rational approach. To illustrate this point, picture living in a small town filled with normal people, just like you. Every day loaded trains come in, make their deliveries, and leave. Factories constantly bellow smoke. Then one day you notice the trains aren’t making simple deliveries anymore. And the factories aren’t bellowing mere smoke. Would you rock the boat and speak out, or would you remain silent, as the people of Auschwitz did?

The saying is true, “If you’re not for it than you’re against it.” David Cash wasn’t for saving the life of that young girl, in the same way many Poles weren’t for saving the Jews. They watched the trains and smelled the ashes, ignoring tragedy. David had a chance to be a hero, to both Jeremy and that little girl.

Diary 95

Dear Diary,

I was late to school this morning because we had just come home from Washington, D.C., very late at night and I wanted to tell my mom everything we had done. When I got to school I had to go through the front door instead of my usual route. Guess what I saw? Swarms of news cameras! I was so excited! I thought they were all here because the Freedom Writers had just come back from our trip! I guess I was wrong! I found out they were really here because of a kid at our school named Jeremy Strohmeyer, who had gone to Las Vegas and raped and murdered a seven-year-old girl while we were in Washington.

I walked into school and there were mixed reactions throughout the campus. Some people were even crying. By this time, I was in shock. With news cameras surrounding the campus and students crying, I didn’t know what to think. Not a person on campus could concentrate on their schoolwork with all the chaos and confusion. There was gossip circulating the halls about what “really” happened. People were saying it was because of drugs, specifically speed, that led Jeremy to murder a seven-year-old girl. Bullshit! I used to be a “tweeker,” but not even at my lowest point would I ever murder anyone. The only person I was murdering was myself. How can they even factor that in? He may have been strung out, but don’t blame the drug, blame him.

When I finally got to Ms. G’s class, everyone was furious. The Freedom Writers decided to have a peace march similar to the one we had in D.C. where we circled the Washington Monument and prayed for all the victims that had died on account of violence. We thought we should do it again, this time in front of the school, and in front of the cameras. We wanted to show that we can all unite and stand together for a positive cause and think about the person who really deserves some attention, the seven-year-old child who lost her life. Why wasn’t anyone talking about her? She’s the innocent victim in all of this.

As I went to each class, I told people and those people told others. By 1:00 the whole school knew of the peace march, including the administrators. We were told that if we participated in the march we would be in trouble and that it was not allowed. The principal didn’t want to call any more attention to the situation at hand. When we heard that we couldn’t believe it. Why wouldn’t they want us to show a positive side to our school? We felt that our school should not be judged by the actions of one; so we did it anyway.

There have been more positive people that have come out of our school than negative ones. I figured that was a perfect reason to hold hands and walk together as one. Students who were stoners, football players, and even girls from my cheerleading team were planning to join the march.

The plan was for all of us to meet right after school as soon as the bell rang. As the group started to form I felt a feeling of unity. We were all together for one cause. Some faces were familiar and some were not, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was the label the media had put on our school, the little girl who had lost her life and that all of us were there together. As I stood there singing I thought about how in Washington, D.C., we did the exact same thing for almost the same purpose. I lifted my head high as I looked around to see all of us holding hands.

The media didn’t want to notice us in front holding hands. All the news cameras cared about was bribing students to talk about Jeremy. “Was Jeremy violent?” “Do you think drugs drove him to commit murder?”

So we sang and prayed until the news cameras left. I didn’t see us on TV tonight. Instead I saw the negative publicity, the questions they asked students, the humiliation we would have to deal with when all of this chaos is over. But at least for a brief amount of time, we stood strong for what we believed in.

Diary 96

Dear Diary,

The end of my junior year is coming up right around the corner. Next year I want to be very active, and end my senior year with a bang. How can I manage to do that?

Then Ms. Gruwell says, “Next year you guys, I want you to be very active and I want the Freedom Writers to be widely represented throughout Wilson High School. Student Council, athletics, and any other extra curricular activities.”

Wasn’t I just thinking about that?! Well, since I’m not very interested in sports, I think I’ll give student council a try. But what will I run for? I don’t want to be Governor of Publicity—that sounds too easy. I want an office position where I can have some sort of authority, because I know I like to be in control. How about Senior Class President?…Yeah, Senior Class President.

So, the next day I went to the meeting, entered my name on the ballot, and started my campaigning. The Freedom Writers supported me 100 percent, so at that moment, I knew I had at least 150 votes in my favor. Now it’s the rest of the school that I have to worry about. So I campaigned and campaigned up until the day of the election.

“Vote for me if you want to have a bomb-ass senior year! I have nothing but good things to offer you.” Those were the words that I shouted at school the day of the election, so that people who forgot today was election day would vote for me.

And then there was the period that I had to wait for the results. I had to wait around for at least a week or so until the spirit rally to know if I was the winner or not. At the spirit rally, I was a nervous wreck, but since I’m a smooth kind of gal, I didn’t let it show. Then it was time for the announcements.

“And your next year’s Senior Class President will be…” It was loud and I couldn’t hear the name that was called. Then I felt all kinds of pats on the back and people were hugging me.

“Get up there, girl, you won. You won.”

And the whole crowd was cheering my name and going crazy for me. As I walked up to the stage, I said, “You love me, you really love me.”

This is such a great accomplishment, I feel that I can do anything if I put my mind to it. Maybe next week, I’ll try out for the cheerleading squad.

Diary 97

Dear Diary,

I feel as though chaos is stalking me, sliding its slimy tentacles into every crevice of my life. It has already conquered my home life, now it’s trying to destroy the Freedom Writers, too. Every time I begin to get comfortable, someone goes and changes the rules on me. The whole reason I came to Wilson in the first place was to escape the uncontrolled environment I was raised in.

If “raising” is what you call it. My mother’s parenting capabilities consisted of “I’ll give you twenty bucks and the keys to my car if you leave me alone this weekend.” It wasn’t that she was a bad mother, she “was just tired of playing the role of mother,” as she so bluntly told me one morning. How could she teach me to be responsible if she wasn’t responsible herself?

Maybe it was her drinking, maybe it was her drugs…Maybe it was me. All I know is that absolute and complete freedom gets old very fast. My mother was simply tired of raising me, so I raised myself. There would be times I wouldn’t see my mom for days, even weeks. Sure I always knew where she was, but that is never the same thing as having a real parent there. I missed the little things; curfews and rules were nonexistent. Whenever I asked her when I had to be home, she would reply “By Monday,” even if it was Friday. Imagine being fifteen years old and feeling as though your own mother could care less about you. I not only wanted but needed guidance.