The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [68]
At the end of the video, a fellow classmate asked the question, “They fought racism by riding the bus?” That was it! The bells were ringing, the sirens were sounding. It hit me! The Freedom Riders fought intolerance by riding a bus and pushing racial limits in the deep South. Then somebody suggested that we name ourselves the Freedom Writers, in honor of the Freedom Riders. Why not? It’s perfect! But those are huge shoes to fill, so if we’re going to take their name, we better take their courage and conviction. It’s one thing to ride a bus, but they eventually had to get off and face the music. So, it’s one thing for us to write diaries like Anne and Zlata, but if we want to be like the Freedom Riders, we need to take that extra step. Just like Anne’s story made it out of the attic and Zlata’s out of the basement, I hope our stories make it out of Room 203. Now when I write, I’ll remember Jim’s work and what he risked his life for. Like him, I am willing to step forward, unafraid of who or what lies ahead. After all, history tells me that I am not alone.
Diary 76
Dear Diary,
“Me, cleaning my mother’s blood off the wall, represented the ‘tornado’ breaking and destroying her face (I liked to call my mother’s boyfriend the ‘tornado’.) After he would hit, everything would look like it had been caught in a whirlwind—our apartment, our sanity, and my mother’s face. I was cleaning up after the tornado hit my house and diminished everything. Washing my mom’s blood, which was shed from time to time; a sacrifice to make him happy. He lived for blood—her blood, enjoying every fist that hit her flesh, and every scream that took place. While he broke televisions, stereos, VCRs and the dining room table, it didn’t compare to the breaking of her mind. My mom was never the same, and neither was I…”
Damn! That was really deep. I think now that we’re “Freedom Writers,” we’re taking the “freedom writing” part to heart. We’ve decided to bind all our diary entries, and call it An American Diary…Victims of an Undeclared War. Someone said he refused to be called a “victim,” and we all agreed, so we came up with Voices instead.
Since we titled it An American Diary…Voices from an Undeclared War, we felt that someone should hear our voices, but who would be the right person to listen? We wanted to shoot big! The mayor? No. The governor? Hell no! (Some of us are still upset about Proposition 187!) The President? Nah. We wanted somebody who had a direct effect on education. Ms. G mentioned some guy named Richard Riley. Supposedly, he’s the top dog in his field. I think he’s the United States Secretary of Education.
He claims he wants to get to know America’s youth, and as part of America’s youth, we would give it to him straight. He’s adamant about changing education, and we’re adamant about revolutionizing it. He’s perfect, but there’s a catch—he’s in Washington. Just when we were about to leave that idea alone, someone said, “That would make it even better because that’s where the Freedom Riders started their mission.” It made perfect sense, but one question: How the hell are we gonna get there?
Since we became the Freedom Writers, people have been acting even crazier than ever. They stay after school, and even come in at lunch. Last night we didn’t leave here until 10 P.M. and the custodian had to kick us out. We tried to bribe him with pizza, but it didn’t work. That’s nothing compared to the other night, though, when we almost got arrested. We were editing stories, and before we knew it, it was