The Freedom Writers Diary (30 page)

After watching them hit the pipe like there is no tomorrow, I know that they have a serious problem. Getting high is their daily routine. It is like they don’t care if they have children or not. All they really care about is feeding their urge for drugs. Because of their behavior, I sometimes starve. There is never enough food. I try to study and do my homework to keep my mind off of the food shortage, but the sound of my stomach growling doesn’t help. I’ll go to watch TV and all of a sudden the lights will cut off. I’ll go to find the power switch, but it’s not the power, it’s because my parents didn’t pay the utility bill. We are always behind on our car payments and rent, too. I once brought a friend home after school and there was an eviction notice on the door. I was the laughing-stock of the neighborhood.

When I was younger, they would lock me up in the closet because they wanted to get high and beat up on each other. One day it got so bad that my father smashed my mother’s head in between the couch and the wall. I became so used to being in the closet that I put snacks in there and a mini TV to watch. All I could hear on the other side was screaming and yelling. I felt as if there were some type of war between my parents and the drugs. Of course the drugs were winning. Being in the closet was my only escape. I felt like Anne Frank in her attic, except the Nazis were roaming outside her attic and my parents were outside the closet door. Even though the closet was my safe haven, I never felt completely comfortable inside it. I always wanted to be set free. I felt as if they were going to forget that I was in there.

I can’t believe it’s a few days before my graduation and they’re still taking! They don’t get it. When is it going to stop? My parents took more than they ever gave. It’s like they had no conscience. Unfortunately, there are people who are like my parents, who shamelessly take from others with no remorse, but I will break that cycle and be a giver. I realize that I am like Shel Silverstein’s
The Giving Tree
and my parents are stealing all my apples. Soon there will be nothing left for me to give. I know that tomorrow they will be doing it again. They will be getting high from my gold charm. Now I see what is really special to them…the drugs instead of me.

Diary 139

Dear Diary,

I can’t believe it! I’m actually going to be the first person in my family to graduate!!! I have so much excitement to share with my relatives that I can hardly contain myself. I wish that each one of them would stand in that crowd in six days and scream my name as I cross the stage, switching my tassel from left to right with a diploma in my hand.

But it hurts to say that I don’t have their support. In my relatives’ eyes, my destiny is like the rest of my cousins’. My parents and I fight to prove to them that I can make it, that I
will
make it. But often I feel like they just want me to fail.

The only true family that God has given me is my loving parents and the supportive Freedom Writers. They have all motivated me to go above and beyond everyone’s expectations. They saw potential in me that no one else saw, including myself. Recognizing my potential is what gave me the courage to enter a contest to be Graduation Class Speaker.

While I wrote and revised my speech, the Freedom Writers gave me constructive criticism. While I rehearsed, my parents listened patiently. They gave me hope that I could make it. But deep inside I knew I wasn’t going to win. I was terrified when the list that announced the graduation speaker was posted. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it. Reading the list would mean finding out whether my dream had come true, or whether it would just be another triumph for those who had no faith in me. I closed my eyes, folded my hands, squeezed them tight, took a deep breath, turned, counted to three, and opened my eyes. I wanted to scream and cry at the same time, but all I could think about was running to the Freedom Writers, and calling my parents because I had won the contest to be Graduation Class Speaker.

It won’t be until June 11, 1998, when I can proudly say, “Now my dream of being the first person in my family to graduate is coming true!” I have learned that it doesn’t matter if your inspiration in life comes from negative or positive events. The most important thing is to learn and go on. Twenty or thirty years from now, when we have accomplished world peace, when we have succeeded in ending racism and intolerance, the world will remember that the Freedom Writers kept their promise.

Diary 140

Dear Diary,

I can’t sleep. Funny though, it’s for different reasons than it used to be when I was just a kid strung out on speed. Sleeping under cars. Skin and bones. Well, a lot has happened since then. I’ll take you back to freshman year.

“You butt heads with me and you’re going to lose.”

“Well, we’ll just see about that.”

Those were the last words spoken between my mom and me before I took off. I was obsessed with independence, but I was yet to realize I was trying to reap the benefits of being in charge of my life without taking any of the responsibilities that came along with that. But can you tell that to a fifteen-year-old boy trying to find his niche in the world? Not me, anyway. So I had enough. “Learning the hard way” is a nice way to describe the next few years after I walked out that door.

I don’t need to go into all of my war stories of the streets. There are too many of those. But here’s one moment at the end of ninth grade. It was the last week before summer and I was making the transition from weeks away from home to a month. And not a day could pass without the help of that white powder. I didn’t even need it to get high anymore. Now it was just vital to function. My body needed it the same way it needed air. Well, just when I thought I couldn’t take another night out there, someone else decided it for me. I wanted to take some sugar cubes laced with LSD and I flipped out. The police ended up taking me into custody for assault under the influence. In one heartbeat things would never be the same.

“I’m going to take your ass, white boy.”

The first words spoken to me in jail. Words I will never forget. This was a whole new world, and I didn’t have a clue how I got there. By the grace of God, the courts sentenced me to spend the next year in rehab. As much as I hated the system at that time, looking back I realized that they saved me from myself, and saved my life. I was no longer capable of functioning in the outside world. So I went to spend the next year in an adolescent rehab facility.

Rehab was a long, hard road. It was full of laughter, crying, and everything in between. But in those long twelve months I found out some things. I found out who I was. The real me. I didn’t need to use drugs to be a happy person. I was worthwhile and special. I realized my family loved me very much and this world could be such a great place to live if you just realized the structure for coexisting with the other five billion inhabitants. I took summer school for two years and actually got a semester ahead. Finally it was time for the real test. To rejoin society as a new and improved person. I left in mid-1996 on outpatient status. Not an easy feat. The majority of my friends in there didn’t last, and out of the few that were still with me when I left even fewer survived as outpatients. Only the strong survived.

I graduated from outpatient after ten months. They sent me off two months early because I worked my program so well. Things were a lot different when I came home. Therapy brought me back together with my family, and we were getting along great. I had my freedom now, and it was because I earned it this time. There was new sense of appreciation for the outside world now. It was such a great feeling to pick what I wanted to eat instead of eating what was put in front of me, but to sit here and say it was easy being back home would be a bold-faced lie. We moved to a new house to give me a fresh start. I went to a new high school, too. I saw a lot of my old friends, but I found we had just grown into different people. That wasn’t the life I wanted. There was a lot of pressure at school, so I had to surround myself with good people. And I went to support groups. And that brings us up to now.

Like I said, I can’t sleep tonight. Don’t get the wrong idea—Kleenex is about the only thing I put near my nose these days. It’s because I’m graduating tomorrow. I never thought I would make it, but I did. I’m not just graduating, though. I’m going to get some awards, too. I kept up my overall GPA above a 3.5 all four years. I even got a 4.0 one semester. I also made the honor roll and got an award for taking extra classes. In twelve hours I’ll be in my cap and gown getting ready to walk, and the minutes can’t go any slower.

Not only is school great, but a lot of other things have taken a turn for the better. I got a job soon after leaving rehab and have been working real hard. Two months ago I got an even better one and I have been working full-time. Just last week I got a brand new truck for graduation. I’m making the payments on it myself. I’m going to need it, because I’m starting college in the fall. Oh yeah, I put a little meat on my bones, got some color in my skin, and those pimples even went away. Yes, I’d definitely say things are looking up. It has been a bumpy ride these last four years, but I found out that there is something better to live for than drugs…me.

Diary 141

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow is the big day. I am graduating from high school. I have proven to everyone that I would graduate on time with everyone else in my class. Very few people believed that I would graduate. I proved to the nonbelievers that they were wrong.

From the day I was born I have lived with hardships that most people couldn’t even bear. At birth I was not expected to survive past my first birthday. It took four months before doctors diagnosed me with cystic fibrosis. Most CF patients succumb to death before the age of thirty. Here I am eighteen years later knowing that I will graduate tomorrow. I just can’t wait to see the look on my mom’s face as I walk down the aisle and receive my diploma. My mom is the person who’s supported me every step of the way.

The last few years have been truly tough on me and my family. Knowing that my health was deteriorating every day took its toll on my mother. My sophomore year was the first time I had actually struggled in school. I had two sinus surgeries and missed ten of the first twelve weeks of school. I would try to keep up by going to school once a week to pick up work. Some of the Freedom Writers would take time to help me if Ms. G couldn’t. They always seem concerned about me. I continued to fall behind in school, so that left only one option: I had to enroll in home school. I thought that would help me and lessen the stress in my life, but it didn’t. The tutor that was assigned to me was very intelligent, but not very reliable. I became my own teacher for the next two years. Even though I was in home school, I would still try to participate in Freedom Writer events. I met Zlata and went to the Museum of Tolerance. Due to my fragile health, I couldn’t go to Washington, D.C. One thing that was good is that I was always welcomed at school even though I no longer had classes there.

On June 10, 1997, I received my gift of life, a double lung transplant that I have waited over two years for. I was so happy and excited, but not scared that it might be a failure. I have learned to deal with the fact that I might not make it through the transplant. I knew deep down that it would be a piece of cake and I was right. I did not lose any weight and I actually stood an inch taller. I didn’t look pale anymore; my skin had turned a healthy pink because of the oxygen flowing through my body. I felt great. In October of that same year I returned to school with my doctor’s permission. In April 1998, I received the Most Inspiring Student Award, given to those who have overcome great obstacles and succeeded in life. I also received a $1500 scholarship for college. I was proud of myself for not giving up and proving everyone wrong.

Once I finish telling you this, I plan on trying on my cap and gown and pretending I am walking down the aisle like I will be tomorrow. Yeeessssss!!!!

Diary 142

Dear Diary,

If four years ago someone would have told me that Ms. G was going to last more than a month, I would have laughed straight in their face. She wasn’t supposed to make it;
we
weren’t supposed to make it. But look at us now, the sure-to-drop-out kids are sure to reach higher education. No one would have thought of the “bad-asses” as high school graduates—as any kind of graduates. Yet, in four years we will be college graduates. Our names will be on the alumni lists of Columbia, Princeton, Stanford, and even Harvard.

Who would have thought of the “at risk” kids making it this far? But we did, even though the educational system desperately tried to hold us down. By labeling us at an early age, they were almost able to affect our school record for life. It wasn’t until someone realized that “tracking” is wrong that the stereotyped “at risk” urban high school kids were given their chance. These urban kids, however, were never truly given the chance to prove that if only given the opportunity, we could rise to the occasion; and rise to the occasion we have.

Four years ago, it would have been unimaginable for us, a group of diverse kids, to work together in class discussions, and today, we learn together, we laugh together, we cry together, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. We managed to make it past all the superficial labels like “at risk,” or “below average”; even the ones that were put on Ms. Gruwell, like “too young and too white.” Not only did we make it past all these small obstacles, but also through a wide range of triumphs and tragedies.

I remember back in our freshman year, people still didn’t understand the importance of a pen instead of a gun. They were always either getting shot or jumped, sometimes they were even the jumper. We’ve come a long way since our days of race riots and Proposition 187 walkouts, though. I look back and I can’t believe the way we used to be with Ms. G. We used to do anything and everything to try to break her, and just when we thought she was broken, she would prove us wrong.

Then came sophomore year, and everything started to become a little more focused, all the blurry faces became a little clearer, and we all got a little closer. East Siders, Bloods, and Crips turned into Oskar Schindlers. Then came what we still view as our salvation, the “Toast for Change.” We took fake champagne and plastic cups, and toasted to a clean slate, a second chance. A second chance to prove everyone’s assumptions wrong and a second chance to prove to ourselves that we could make it.