The Freedom Writers Diary (13 page)

A group of mothers we call “The Dream Team” surround Ms. G.

Another late night in Room 203 working on one of the computers donated by John Tu.

Dr. Carl Cohn, Superintendent of the Long Beach school district.

Connie Chung and the Freedom Writers prepare for the “Prime Time Live” taping.

Junior Year Fall 1996

Entry 5. Ms. Gruwell

Dear Diary,

I can’t believe that school starts tomorrow and I’m taxiing down a runway in France. Even though I’m bound to have jet lag in the morning, it’s worth it. Since I couldn’t take my students with me on my two-week trek, I wanted to bring parts of Europe back with me. So I collected books, museum brochures, and postcards from all the places we studied in class, like the Tower of London and Anne’s attic. I can’t wait to show them my wooden shoes from Holland, my Blarney Stone from Ireland and all the pictures.

With a twelve-hour flight ahead of me, I have plenty of time to reminisce about the summer. I’ll “rewind the movie in my mind,” as Zlata would say, and replay the summer from the beginning, pausing on some of the highlights.

The first day of summer seems so long ago. I didn’t really have a summer break in the conventional sense because I started teaching at a university. A professor at National University, whose son is in my class, invited me to me to teach a seminar on how to inspire teens to read. It was an emotional two hours. Halfway through the seminar, people started crying. And at the end, the dean of National University offered me a job.

So I taught two education classes during the week and worked at the Marriott Hotel on weekends, which allowed me to save enough money to go to Europe to visit Zlata and Miep.

My first stop was the Netherlands. One of the perks of being a concierge at the Marriott is that I get to stay at other hotels with an employee discount, so I stayed at the Amsterdam Marriott in the middle of the city. It was my second time to Amsterdam, but since I’ve met Miep and seen the documentary
Anne Frank Remembered
, it meant so much more to me.

I made the arrangements to meet Miep and her friend Cor at my hotel. I gave her a care package from my students that had a “Miep Mania” jersey from our Basketball for Bosnia tournament, beautifully framed pictures from her visit and the issue of
People
magazine that had a picture of her with my students. Apparently, they made quite an impression on her, and she even said, “Several of your students’ faces have been engraved in my heart.”

We also talked about Anne. Even though it’s been over fifty years since Anne passed away, she said that not a day goes by that she doesn’t think about her. As she described their special relationship and all the sacrifices she made during their two years in hiding, I sat there in awe. She told me stories about riding her bike miles in the snow just to dig up turnips and about the time that Anne convinced her to spend a night in the attic. Not only was she generous, but she was also very courageous. She described how she stormed into Nazi headquarters and tried to bribe Gestapo agents to let her friends go after they were captured. Hiding Jews was a crime punishable by death, so she was lucky that she wasn’t killed. Although she couldn’t save her friends, she did save Anne’s precious diary. Now when millions of people think of the Holocaust, they think of Anne.

What impressed me most was her humility. Despite all the accolades she received, she doesn’t think her actions were heroic or even out of the ordinary. She told me that what she hopes people will learn from her life “is that every individual, even a very ordinary housewife or secretary, can make a difference.” I can’t wait to share her simple philosophy with my students that they too can make a difference—like Anne or Zlata.

Miep was so excited when I told her I was flying to Dublin to spend time with Zlata and her parents. She met Zlata a couple years ago on her book tour and said she had “Anne’s eyes.”

After I spent a few days in Amsterdam trying to see things through Anne’s perspective, I flew to Ireland to visit Zlata and her parents. They had just returned from their summer vacation on the Croatian coast. It was the first time they had returned to the Balkans since they fled the war in the winter of ’93. Mirna’s parents missed her, so she plans to stay in Sarajevo this year to go to school. Zlata and Mirna were inseparable since they left Bosnia, so they’re both going to have a hard time adjusting.

Zlata said that so much has changed in Sarajevo since the war began. We spent a lot of time looking at family photos before the war broke out. The soccer field that once held the 1984 Olympics is now filled with tombstones. Even though the buildings are in the process of being rebuilt, Zlata’s parents feel like it will take a long time to rebuild relations. There is still a lot of animosity and racial tension.

Although Zlata’s book sheds light on the problems occurring in Bosnia, it wasn’t until she left that she realized the magnitude of this war. So we spent hours talking about politics, looking at photos, and making predictions about what will happen when all the American soldiers leave.

Even though Zlata’s the same age as my students, she seems so much wiser. Sometimes she’s very philosophical and at others she’s a typical teenager. After we’d spent hours talking about politics over a traditional Bosnian meal, she wanted to take me shopping in Dublin and show off her adopted city. She took me to see a punk rock band, helped me pick out Doc Martens and she and her friend, Daragh, made a video for my students.

We got so close on this visit that we all cried when I left.

After leaving Dublin, I took a quick tour of London, but I couldn’t wait to get to Paris to meet Zlata’s cousin, Melika. Before moving to Ireland, Zlata and Mirna went to school with Melika in Paris. We met at the Eiffel Tower and I instantly felt like I was meeting a part of my family. As with my time with Miep and Zlata, sightseeing was secondary to sharing stories and photographs and building a relationship.

Since this trip will really help bring “World Literature” to life, I’ve got to think of a clever way to bring “American Literature” to life. I wonder if we’ll befriend any literary icons this year or travel to any historic locations. Last year is going to be hard to top.

Diary 54

Dear Diary,

When I was born, the doctor must have stamped “National Spokesperson for the Plight of Black People” on my forehead; a stamp visible only to my teachers. The majority of my teachers treat me as if I, and I alone, hold the answers to the mysterious creatures that African Americans are, like I’m the Rosetta Stone of black people. It was like that until I transferred to Ms. Gruwell’s class. Up until that point it had always been: “So Joyce, how do black people feel about Affirmative Action?” Poignant looks follow. “Joyce, can you give us the black perspective on
The Color Purple
?”

Maybe I am just looking at this all wrong, maybe I should feel complimented. I mean, I am being trusted to carry the weight of millions of people’s voices, right? Wrong! I don’t feel complimented. How the hell should I know what the black perspective is on Affirmative Action or
The Color Purple
? What is it, magic? Black people read, and
poof
, we miraculously come to the same conclusion? The only opinion I can give with some degree of certainty is my own.

I know some people would say “Now, Joyce, it’s not every day one finds an African American in advanced placement and honors courses.” People think that I should know that better than anyone else, considering I’m in these classes. As if I don’t notice, or better yet, could forget I’m the only black person around. Hum, must have slipped my mind.

I remember the teacher I had before Ms. Gruwell. Let’s just say for a teacher she isn’t very tactful. I dealt with all sorts of rude and stereotypical statements, but one day she took it too far. I was in class looking over our reading list for the year, along with our essay assignments, when I noticed a saddening lack of diversity. I asked her why, and her response was “We don’t read black literature in this class because it all has sex, fornication, drugs, and cussing.” Whoa there, slow down lady, a simple “it’s inappropriate” would have sufficed. But no, she had to take it to the extreme. I almost overlooked the blatant ignorance of her statement, but did she have to say it in front of the entire class? I mean, ouch!

I held my tongue, until lunch, when I told my friend. Her response was that I should tell my mom, tell the principal, tell the superintendent, but tell someone. I told my mom when I got home. I tried to tell her in a nonchalant, offhand sort of way. Can’t you just see it, me at the dinner table in between swallows of chicken and broccoli casually mentioning the day’s events.

“How was your day, Joyce?”

“I don’t know, the same, I guess.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, I had lunch with Alisa, and took a chemistry quiz. Oh, by the way, my English teacher’s a bigot.”

There’s a brief pause, followed by fork clinking and jaw dropping. She just looked at me. Then she asked me what I did. And I told her, “Not a damn thing!” Well, actually I can’t curse in my mom’s presence, so I said, “Nothing.” The next day I was called to the principal’s office and there was my mom with a list of books written by and about black people. I was told that my teacher has been contacted already and the principal personally apologized for her words. My mom gave me the list of books and sent me off to class with a kiss and a hug.

OK, what was I supposed to do? Walk into class with a smile and my new book list and present it to the teacher like a shiny red apple? “Mrs. Bigot, I just wanted to present you with this list of wonderful books. I hope they are all free of drugs, fornication, sex, and cussing. Furthermore, I want you to know that I hold no grudge against you, and I am really looking forward to your enlightening lectures for the next two years!” Yeah, right. I couldn’t imagine another term with this woman, and as long as I stayed on the honors English track I would be stuck being the spokesperson for the rest of my high school career.

I told Alisa about my dilemma and she told me all about her English class. She told me that her teacher actually earned the title of educator. She puts everything into her classes, cares and listens, and above all else, refuses to label people. I wasn’t really interested in all the other things, I just knew I wouldn’t have to keep sending Gallup polls out to Negroes all around the country.

And that is how I found myself starting my junior year in Ms. Gruwell’s class. It’s my personal tale of mystery and misgivings, hatred and heroism, scandal and sacrifice. Well, actually it’s a tale of how one woman, with an blind eye to stereotypes, had the eraser that took “National Spokesperson for the Plight of Black People” off my forehead. She replaced it with “Spokesperson for Joyce Roberts.”

Diary 55

Dear Diary,

For the past month, we have been studying different American writers like Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau. Emerson wrote about being self-reliant. He once wrote, “Who so should be a man, must be a nonconformist.” Our class is really intrigued by Emerson because Ms. Gruwell is encouraging us to be independent thinkers and to question authority. I am amazed at how much his philosophy applies to me. For the past four years I have blamed myself for something I couldn’t control. It was just one of those unexpected tragedies, that just smacked me over the head as soon as I turned around. I have constantly blamed myself for the death of my grandmother.

I was only twelve years old when my grandmother died from severe burns that were allegedly inflicted upon her by my father. She was burnt from head to toe. Allegedly my father had poured kerosene on her and lit the kitchen stove. She caught on fire immediately. When I saw her, she had blisters all over her body and all her hair was burned off. Her skin was black and it was peeling off. She had tears running down her cheeks. I could smell her raw, burnt flesh.

I felt like my heart was about to burst and my stomach was going to erupt at any moment, because I had a feeling she was going to die. The thought of losing the two people I loved most in the entire world made me feel dead inside.

The helicopter came and took her to another hospital. My aunt and I stood there until the helicopter disappeared. I felt so weak that I could hardly stand. I looked at my aunt. She was shaking. I didn’t want to go home, I knew that eventually I would have to face my dad. As I approached my dad’s house. I saw a scene that looked like an angry mob was ready to strike at anytime. I could see my dad standing in the window with a machete in his hand. I hated him. He made me tremble with fear because I knew he had tried to kill my grandmother. The crowd was yelling at him, and he was yelling back.

Finally, the police came and knocked on the door. I stood there, trying to move so my dad wouldn’t see me, but my feet had control, and they wouldn’t let me move. Tears were running down my cheeks. I watched as they handcuffed my father, read him his rights, and put him in the back of the police car. I watched as the car drove out of sight. I knew then that my life would change forever.

I looked around at everyone, trying to hide the embarrassment that was already written on my face. “Why did he do it? What made him so crazy?” I asked myself. I had so many questions, but no one could answer them. I don’t even think my dad could answer them. He had threatened to kill me, but he had killed my grandmother instead.

After the death of my grandmother, I couldn’t look anywhere except down. Whenever I walked, the ground was all I saw. Family members constantly reminded me about my grandmother’s death. I looked for ways to stop the hurting and constantly asked myself questions like, “How could my dad do something like that? How could he leave me with the guilt? I wonder what he’s thinking? Is he thinking about me?”

My dad spent only three months in jail. Sometimes I get so confused that I’m not even sure if he actually did kill my grandma. Maybe it is just too hard for me to accept the fact because he’s my father.

When Emerson ended his essay with “to be great is to be misunderstood,” it made me think about how many people have always misunderstood me. No one really understood what I was feeling. They were so caught up in what they thought about me that they didn’t really care. It really bothered me that they didn’t even try to understand me. Deep down inside I was just a scared little girl who was simply misunderstood. Maybe it’s not so bad to be misunderstood. Now it’s time for me to learn to hold my ground and be self-reliant.