The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [65]
At the end of the day, I was surprised to see that I didn’t have to substitute a word in my story just because I couldn’t spell it. Thanks to spell check, now I feel like there are no limits or boundaries enclosing my ideas and feelings. Sitting in front of the monitor with my fingers on the keyboard makes me feel powerful in a way I never have before.
Diary 71
Dear Diary,
To inspire us in our new writing project, Ms. G gave us a letter she received from Miep after her trip to Amsterdam. It really inspired the whole class to keep up with our work and gave us the impression that the sky is the limit.
The class was very thankful that Miep Gies took the time to write to us. I admire her for the nice things she did for Anne Frank. I think we are very similar to each other because we both had innocent friends die. Even though fifty years have gone by, Miep still thinks about Anne and all she went through in the secret annex. Not a day goes by that she doesn’t think about Anne.
I had a friend who was shot in the eye and killed in cold blood. It’s been a year since he died and like Miep, not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. I think to myself, “Was his death in vain?” No! I have to do something about it because he was an only child. Now I want to write his story so others will know his death was not in vain!
Diary 72
Dear Diary,
“As his penis twirled in my mouth, thoughts of the popcorn he promised me ran through my mind…” As I read these words, I began to wonder who the author of this story was. My mind began to think, “Damn, I’ve been through the same thing.” Bad things always happen to the wrong people. I read the sentence repeatedly, then scanned the room to see any body language that would reveal who wrote it. I looked, yet no one gave me any evidence who the author was.
I can’t believe that I got a story to read and edit that I could have told. I stared down at the words and began to think back on the terrible act of violence I suffered at the hands of a family member. I felt a sense of relief that someone else had been molested, someone else had a story to tell also. I was supposed to edit the story, but after reading it over and over, I felt the words needed to remain the way they are. Untouched. The words held power.
Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Did someone know I had been molested? Maybe Ms. G knew. Or maybe the others. Oh shit, what if they all knew? Why does it seem that everyone is looking at me? Damn! After all this time, has my little secret been discovered?
Then Ms. G decided to read the story aloud, so everyone would know the degree of individuality put into our stories. She told us this was our chance to speak up on the tragic things that have happened to us in our lives. Some girls left the room, too overwhelmed with emotions to stay and hear the rest. Some stayed in the room and cried. But not me, however. I remained cool, cool as a cucumber. A muscle didn’t even move. I hardly even breathed or blinked. I just sat still and asked myself, “Why in the hell did we have to do this damn editing anyway?”
The more I stared at the words, the more I began to realize I have been blessed through someone else’s misfortune. Maybe someone will feel the same way after learning about my experience. I wanted to reach out to her to let her know she wasn’t alone. I wanted to tell her I know how she feels, to show sympathy, to be a true friend to her. I never found her. But now I know that I am not alone—and that has made a difference.
Diary