The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [11]
When I came home that night my mother almost cried when she saw me. I reeked of beer that had been poured on me multiple times. The combination of beer and the raw eggs smashed on my head were a putrid mixture. There was a retched taste in my mouth from food coloring the members used to make us remember their names, and my clothes and face were stained green. They made us run a mile from the park to the beach, so I was covered in sand and still gasping for air. Then I started to cry. Not because of the smell or my stained clothes, but because there was no way out. I had gone through so much already that it would have been pointless to quit now. Besides, I didn’t want to end up with no friends, like Sarah. I reminded myself that soon it would be over, and that I wasn’t even treated as badly as some girls. I heard that one girl had to lie on the ground as Matt Thompson, a senior I used to think was cute, peed on her.
Now that I’ve been initiated, and I’m officially in, my only concern is parties and stuff. All of the older girls drink and really “party.” And like I said, I’m practically sinless. I’ve never done that stuff before. I guess everybody in high school drinks, though, so it’s not too bad. I’ll get used to it. I hope. I guess now that I look back, it was worth it. All the humiliation, the shame and embarrassment…yeah, it was worth it. The members are nice now that it’s all over, and I get into Kappa Zeta parties free. We all get to wear our Kappa sweatshirts to school, and go to meetings and everything. Maybe if I would have had to do something really bad I would have dropped out, but I doubt it. It’s just a matter of how far you’ll go to be accepted.
Diary 9
Dear Diary,
Ms. Gruwell just asked us to write or draw a picture describing our neighborhood. I can’t believe she’s allowing me to draw. I wonder if she knows how much I hate writing.
I hate my neighborhood. It’s surrounded by gangsters and drug dealers. There are too many opportunities that seem out of my reach. What goals do I aim for? I don’t aim, because I don’t have any goals; instead, I deal with what comes. Raised in a shitty neighborhood, I have had to adapt to what is happening around me. During the day racial tensions rule the streets, at night gunshots are heard from drive-by shootings, and twenty-four hours a day, the gangs and drug dealers control the block, trying to hold down their territory. I can never ignore it because if I do, I will only become part of the problem, or I will become the next victim in this undeclared war going on in our streets.
I got into tagging, because bangin’ and dealing drugs or kickin’ it with gangsters was not my thing. I started to hit up on walls with markers or cans. Kickin’ back with the homies, smoking bud, and fuckin’ shit up. I went to school, but I never really hit the books. My teachers always said, “I’m here to help,” but when the time came to start helping they were never dependable, so what I do at school is what I do out on the streets. Every day I bring my markers to school. I ditch my classes, hide from the staff, and go to the restroom to kill it (write all over the walls). Who cares if I get caught? My mom won’t do anything and my father is always too tired to give me a lecture.
Tagging is what gives me a thrill. The chance to express my talent. To hear people talk about my art gives me the “ganas” (strength) to continue what I do. I never do any of my classwork, so I spend my time in class sketching on my notebook, handouts, backpack, or on anything in sight. I’m an artist and I love what I do. I know it sucks for the people’s property, but getting away with it is a part of the thrill. Getting smoked out with my homies, then going out and canning walls is what I call a day.
Diary 10
Dear Diary,
Everybody was talking about Proposition 187 and the planned walkout in school today. I heard a lot of people