The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [117]
There’s only one way to describe this insane, chaotic, crazy, fun, happy senior year: the time of my life. Thanks to the media, our message exploded. We were in the L.A. Times, on Prime Time Live, and won a lot of awards, and every other minute there was a phone call. The message that we had been trying to build for four years affected everyone in its path, like a huge wave.
Looking back, I can’t believe that those same unteachable kids who refused to speak to each other are today’s Freedom Writers…the same Freedom Writers who became a family. I wonder how we’re going to follow up on this one. How can you top off four years of the greatest experiences a teenager could have? I don’t know, but I’m sure Ms. G has something up her sleeve, she always does. I can’t believe we actually made it, we actually have a diploma that says that we can get out of high school. Four years ago that’s all we wanted to do, we wanted to get the hell out. If we would have, though, what would have become of that guy that used to carry a gun, or that other white kid that actually turned out to be my friend? I bet if it wasn’t for this second family, a lot of people wouldn’t even be with their first. Like that girl that ran away with her boyfriend, or that other guy who used to be all into drugs and ended up back with his family. I guess we have more than just great experiences to be thankful for. I’m going to miss all of those things, but what I’m definitely going to miss most is our classroom, Room 203.
That room wasn’t only a room, though, it was our attic, our basement, and our “kick-it spot,” like Ms. G used to call it. I wonder what it’s going to be like turning the lights off for the last time. The room is definitely never going to be the same. It’s never going to be witness to brilliant ideas at eleven o’clock at night, or police escorts because someone set off the alarm. It’ll probably never see a group of kids who went from little bad-asses to role models, proving everyone, even themselves, wrong. Our lives were shaped in this room and now it will never again be the place of people crying, hugging, hating, commiserating, or tolerating, but who knows? It’s always been said that “All good things come to an end,” but I’m learning that they don’t have to.
Epilogue
I have a dream that…little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.
—MARTIN LUTHER KING, Jr.
While the Freedom Writers were standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., in the spring of 1997, something magical occurred. As if on cue, all 150 of them joined hands and began to slowly retrace the same steps Martin Luther King, Jr., walked down over thirty years ago. Many were reciting lines from his “I Have a Dream” speech when someone began to chant, “Freedom Writers have a dream!” Soon everyone joined in, and their voices became one. I watched them in awe, knowing this was the “dream” Martin Luther King had envisioned. I was so proud of them! I felt like they were my kids, and for the first time I understood why moms cry at school plays and graduations.
When they got to the bottom of the steps, someone said, “Ms. G., now that we’ve followed in the footsteps of the Freedom Riders by coming to Washington, D.C., our next field trip should be Anne Frank’s attic. After all, that’s where our journey began.” Upon hearing this suggestion, several people started to cheer. Unfortunately, I was not one of them. I was still in “mom” mode and I had to deal with the practical matters of our trip, such as making sure no one got lost or got on the wrong Metro. So planning another trip, especially one to Amsterdam, was totally out of the question. I thought if I just ignore them and their allusions of grandeur, then they’ll eventually forget about it.
But, the seed was already planted. There was no chance of