The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [36]
“Tommy, you’re done already?” I asked.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been grounded for the last two weeks, so all I did was read.”
Read? Wait a minute, is this the same Tommy who used to hate reading? Tommy was a disciplinary transfer like Sharaud. He had been transferred into my class mid-semester as a favor to our vice principal. Apparently, his last English teacher was afraid of him. Actually, I was, too, at first, but when he asked for more books, I couldn’t help but give him a hug. Then I called his father.
It was the first time I called a parent to report good news. Obviously, it was the first time Tommy’s father ever received such a call because he began the conversation with, “OK, what did Tommy do this time?” He was pretty surprised to hear that Tommy was my star pupil.
And Tommy’s not alone. Grounded or not, they’ve all become voracious readers. They even carry around the plastic Barnes & Noble bags to show off their new books. They call it “flossing.” I call it a miracle.
Their excitement has motivated me even more. I wanted to put a face on the genocide in Bosnia. Without really thinking about the logistics, I foolishly suggested that we write letters to Zlata and invite her to our class. It was a ploy to get them to write letters, but I didn’t think they’d take me so seriously. I underestimated the power of suggestion. Some of them truly believed that if they wrote to her, she would come, as if it were a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Their letters were so compelling that I took them to the school’s computer lab to type. Then I had them bound into a book at Kinkos. I put Tommy’s letter near the top because he drew parallels between the war in Bosnia and senseless gang violence. His letter began: “They say America is the ‘Land of the Free and Home of the Brave,’ but what’s so free about a land where people get killed?”
Despite being on the other side of the world, he pointed out similarities between their lives: in Sarajevo, innocent kids get shot by snipers; in Long Beach they get shot in drive-bys. Zlata’s friend Nina was killed by shrapnel; Tommy’s best friend was murdered. He ended his letter by stating, “Now that I’ve read your book, I am educated on what is happening in Bosnia. I would like the opportunity now to educate people on what is happening in my ‘America’ because until this ‘undeclared war’ has ended, I am not free!”
War? In America? It was sad to think that kids like Tommy feel like they live in the middle of a war zone. War is not something I think of as a domestic problem. I read about wars in the newspaper and watch reports on the evening news. I näively assumed that war occurred in far-off places with hard to pronounce names, not in Long Beach.
Whether it’s declared or not, there is a war being fought on the street corners and alleyways of Long Beach. And even though there aren’t tanks rolling down the streets, there are uzis, semi-automatics, and other weapons of war. One student even said, “Gangs don’t die, Ms. G, they multiply,” as if there was no solution in sight.
A casualty of war—be it at the hands of a Nazi soldier, a sniper in Sarajevo, or a gang-banger on the streets of America—is a universal tragedy. After one student hopelessly said, “Zlata survived her war, but I’m afraid I may not survive mine,” I was convinced that Zlata must read their letters. Once that realization sunk in, I began to panic. I had no idea where to send the letters. In fact, I had no idea where Zlata lived, if she spoke English, or how much it would cost to bring her here. There was so much I didn’t know. Would we have to bring her parents, a translator, or an entourage?
In a feeble attempt to squelch the idea of inviting her, I put the onus back on them. “If you want her to come, then you have to raise the money to get her here.” Nice try, but that didn’t stop them.
The next day, a student brought in an empty Sparklet’s water jug and set it in the middle of the classroom. He announced, “We need to start collecting money for Zlata,” and then he dropped in a few coins. He was