The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [61]
Zlata said writing was her salvation during the war and it kept her sane. She suggested that writing might be one of the best vehicles for some of my students to escape their horrific environments and personal demons. Even though they’re not held captive in an attic or dodging bombs in a basement, the violence permeating the streets is just as frightening—and just as real.
For some of my students, my classroom is one of the only places where they feel safe. Room 203 is a place where they can seek refuge from all the mayhem. Outside my classroom walls, anything can happen.
Many of my students say they live in fear and are constantly looking over their shoulders. It’s not uncommon for them to stay until seven or eight o’clock at night doing their homework. If it gets too late, I feel obligated to drop them off on my way home. There have been times that I’ve been really scared. I’ve seen prostitutes propositioning men right in front of my students; I even had a crack dealer approach my car once and try to sell me rock. I’ve seen gangsters hanging out drinking 40s or playing dominoes. My students always seem to point out the makeshift altars of where the latest casualty went down. There are usually flowers and candles adorning the bloodstained concrete.
I always feel guilty when I drop them off and then head to Newport Beach. Although they’re only about forty minutes apart, the cities are worlds apart. Some of my students have security doors and bars on every window. I don’t even lock my front door. I’ve never had to worry about drug dealers loitering on street corners or helicopters patrolling from above. The parks aren’t strewn with hypodermic needles or broken glass.
Since their fears are legitimate, I need to let them keep their anonymity. Some of their diary entries deal with subjects like murder and molestation. By using numbers rather than names when we compile our diary, I think they’ll feel more comfortable and it will probably be safer for all of us. To ensure that no one embellishes or sensationalizes their stories, I’m going to ask them to sign an honor code.
This project makes me feel a certain sense of personal responsibility—resembling the commitment Miep Gies felt to the Franks. Now I understand what Miep meant when she said, “I simply did what I had to do, because it was the right thing to do.” This writing project feels like the right thing to do, and it will be worth making some personal sacrifices. Although I haven’t dug up any turnips in the snow like Miep did, I have dug up corporate support. I’ve asked several powerful adults to get onboard and help see this project through.
John Tu was the first to pledge his support. He thought it was a good idea to protect the students’ anonymity, too, but he was concerned that people might recognize one another’s handwriting. After several hours of discussing alternative solutions, he offered to supply the class with a set of computers. Thirty-five to be exact. Our computer lab in the library only has twenty outdated computers for the entire student body. After I managed to pick my jaw up off the floor, we came up with an idea. Since the “Toast for Change” wiped the slate clean for many of them, their grades have gone from Ds and Fs to As and Bs. John and I came up with a contract stipulating that once the computers arrived the 35 students with the highest grade point average would win a computer when they graduated. With computers in my class, the sky’s the limit.
To help me design an honor code, John recommended that I get advice from a lawyer. Realizing that I barely had enough money to pay for school supplies, let alone legal expenses, John suggested soliciting a big law firm because sometimes they do work pro bono. Pro bono is a nifty term for “free.” But he was right. With some