The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [50]
I told Alisa about my dilemma and she told me all about her English class. She told me that her teacher actually earned the title of educator. She puts everything into her classes, cares and listens, and above all else, refuses to label people. I wasn’t really interested in all the other things, I just knew I wouldn’t have to keep sending Gallup polls out to Negroes all around the country.
And that is how I found myself starting my junior year in Ms. Gruwell’s class. It’s my personal tale of mystery and misgivings, hatred and heroism, scandal and sacrifice. Well, actually it’s a tale of how one woman, with an blind eye to stereotypes, had the eraser that took “National Spokesperson for the Plight of Black People” off my forehead. She replaced it with “Spokesperson for Joyce Roberts.”
Diary 55
Dear Diary,
For the past month, we have been studying different American writers like Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau. Emerson wrote about being self-reliant. He once wrote, “Who so should be a man, must be a nonconformist.” Our class is really intrigued by Emerson because Ms. Gruwell is encouraging us to be independent thinkers and to question authority. I am amazed at how much his philosophy applies to me. For the past four years I have blamed myself for something I couldn’t control. It was just one of those unexpected tragedies, that just smacked me over the head as soon as I turned around. I have constantly blamed myself for the death of my grandmother.
I was only twelve years old when my grandmother died from severe burns that were allegedly inflicted upon her by my father. She was burnt from head to toe. Allegedly my father had poured kerosene on her and lit the kitchen stove. She caught on fire immediately. When I saw her, she had blisters all over her body and all her hair was burned off. Her skin was black and it was peeling off. She had tears running down her cheeks. I could smell her raw, burnt flesh.
I felt like my heart was about to burst and my stomach was going to erupt at any moment, because I had a feeling she was going to die. The thought of losing the two people I loved most in the entire world made me feel dead inside.
The helicopter came and took her to another hospital. My aunt and I stood there until the helicopter disappeared. I felt so weak that I could hardly stand. I looked at my aunt. She was shaking. I didn’t want to go home, I knew that eventually I would have to face my dad. As I approached my dad’s house. I saw a scene that looked like an angry mob was ready to strike at anytime. I could see my dad standing in the window with a machete in his hand. I hated him. He made me tremble with fear because I knew he had tried to kill my grandmother. The crowd was yelling at him, and he was yelling back.
Finally, the police came and knocked on the door. I stood there, trying to move so my dad wouldn’t see me, but my feet had control, and they wouldn’t let me move. Tears were running down my cheeks. I watched as they handcuffed my father, read him his rights, and put him in the back of the police car. I watched as the car drove out of sight. I knew then that my life would change forever.
I looked around at everyone, trying to hide the embarrassment that was already written on my face. “Why did he do it? What made him so crazy?” I asked myself. I had so many questions, but no one could answer them. I don’t even think my dad could answer them. He had threatened to kill me, but he had killed my grandmother instead.
After the death of my grandmother, I couldn’t look