The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [58]
Celie, who coincidentally, was in the exact same role as my mother, didn’t have somebody to stop Mr.—from abusing her. Seeing how scared my mom was made me think about all the women like Celie who have no one to rescue them. After seeing the fear in her eyes, I vowed I would never let anyone physically or mentally abuse her again.
On the way to my aunt’s house, I could see that same color again, like it was haunting me. The color purple was coming from my mother’s eye where my stepdad had punched her. That’s when I began to understand that the color purple isn’t just a color or the name of a book.
Diary 65
Dear Diary,
I can’t believe what I did today! I told them everything! Well, not everything, but almost everything. It’s unbelievable how much I revealed. I had a feeling Ms. Gruwell was going to pick on me. I knew she was going to make me get up and talk to everyone. I just knew it!
Ms. Gruwell took some of her students from Wilson to her college diversity seminar at National University. We were supposed to teach graduate students about diversity in the classroom because they were going to be the future teachers of America. We didn’t know we were in store for an emotional healing. A healing that no amount of money spent in a psychologist’s office could buy.
I’m still in shock. I was always taught not to tell anyone about anything that happens our household, but tonight I guess you could say that I spilled the beans. I knew Ms. G was going to pick on me because of the topic we were discussing. I knew there were at least two or three more people who were in more or less the same situation that I was in. But she picked me. I still can’t get over it. I tried to scoot down in my chair and hide behind the person that was in front of me, hoping Ms. G had forgotten I was there. No such luck. She pointed her finger around the class and asked, “Where is she? Oh, there you are. Why don’t you stand up and tell my college students a little more about your experience with homelessness?”
My legs were shaking as I stood up. I didn’t know what I was going to say to a roomful of strangers. Why did she have to pick me to speak to these people? I didn’t think they’d listen to my story, and if they did, I thought they’d forget it once they went home. My intent was to say a couple of words and sit down. I wasn’t going to elaborate and go into detail about my life. I wanted to say something like “It’s not fun being homeless and I wouldn’t try it if I were you.” Of course, Ms. Gruwell wouldn’t let me get away with saying something like that.
So I decided to tell the class about my father. I also told them that I didn’t think he deserved the skin God blessed him with. I told them how he makes my mother go out because he doesn’t want to get up off his butt and get a job to provide for us. I explained that “going out” means that my mother stands on the corner with a “Homeless! Will Work for Food” sign. She stands outside for hours with that sign, hoping people will give her some money to feed her children. She goes out in the hottest and coldest weather just to make sure we had something to eat. When my mother comes home, he has the audacity to take the money and go buy beer and drugs, more specifically cocaine. My mother has to lie and say she only made half the money she really made so she can get us something to eat for the day. I don’t know why she puts up with his shit. She has the education to get a good career. If it weren’t for my father she wouldn’t have done drugs and believed that she couldn’t do any better than standing