The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [124]
Growing up, my only exposure to gangs had been through the media or through movies. My “hip” high school English teacher made us watch West Side Story to understand how the Montagues and the Capulets in Romeo and Juliet were like modern gangs. In that movie-musical, the “gangs,” the Jets and the Sharks, fought in choreographed rumbles and threw heads of lettuce. In real life, Jerome Robbins wasn’t choreographing Friday night fights in Long Beach, and real gangsters weren’t slinging vegetables at each other.
“I’d hate to see you get caught in the cross fire,” Mark said. “Just be careful.”
“I will,” I said, hugging him goodbye.
The security guard, who had been eavesdropping on my entire conversation, said, “He’s right, you know. Long Beach has changed a lot.”
At that moment, I just wanted to escape. I’d had enough negativity for one day, so I ducked into the teacher’s lounge to seek solace. The moment I walked in, conversation stopped. They looked me up and down and said nothing. They didn’t offer me a chair, a cup of coffee, or a word of encouragement. I looked down and noticed their open-toed Birkenstocks, earthy in contrast to my pumps. I was definitely overdressed. I must have looked like I’d just stepped out of a Talbots catalog.
Their disapproving glances brought out insecurities in me that had never surfaced before. Obviously, I hadn’t made a good first impression. Maybe it was the polka dots. Maybe it was my new Coach attaché. Or maybe it was my Tiffany pearls that pushed it over the top. Even though I craved their acceptance, it was clear that these particular teachers didn’t want me in their clique, or in their lounge, for that matter. Maybe I was too young, too preppy, or maybe they assumed I’d been born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Their uncomfortable silence made it pretty obvious that I didn’t belong.
I stood against the wall and listened to disgruntled banter about the new crop of students dubbed as rejects. Apparently my class was not the only place where things had gone awry. The teachers, many of whom had been teaching at Wilson since the good old days, were discussing how the school was going to hell in a handbasket.
“This place has gone downhill ever since those kids started getting bused in from the projects,” one teacher said.
“They don’t even care about school,” said another.
“They don’t care about anything!” said yet another.
Their casual banter about those kids was startling. I was troubled by how nonchalant they were with their pejorative comments. After a string of generalizations, the teachers moved on to something more specific.
“Did you hear about the latest disciplinary transfer from Poly?” one of the teachers asked.
I instantly suspected that they were talking about Sharaud, because he had sauntered into my classroom wearing his Poly jersey.
“I heard he brought a gun to Poly last year and was planning to shoot everyone in the teacher’s lounge,” the teacher said.
“No, I heard he was planning to shoot his English teacher,” said another.
“I can’t believe they let him in here. It’s just a matter of time before that boy blows someone away,” a different teacher said.
After being sufficiently ignored and having heard tales of how Sharaud would single-handedly destroy the institution, I decided I couldn’t handle it anymore. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. No one said goodbye. Why would they? They hadn’t even bothered to say hello.
I fumbled for my keys as I dashed to my car. The lingering conversation about Sharaud had struck fear in me. What if I was the next teacher to trigger him?
The Freedom Writers Foundation
The story did not end in Room 203. Erin Gruwell and the Freedom Writers created the Freedom Writers Foundation to positively impact communities by decreasing high school drop-out rates through the replication and enhancement of the Freedom Writers Method. Ultimately, the Foundation seeks to provide all students