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By Root 943 0

11, at night! Fred made all of us, even Ms. G, climb out the window so the alarms wouldn’t go off. Somebody must have seen us, ’cause within thirty seconds Ms. G’s car was surrounded by five cop cars. They thought that we were jacking our own computers. They found it hard to believe that we were studying, and it was even harder to believe that some of us hoodlums were still at school. What was worse is that they didn’t believe Ms. G was our teacher. Maybe it was because she looked somewhat like us. She was wearing my big-ass sweats because we had made her change out of her suit to be more comfortable. Her hair was up in a ponytail, so she looked like a teenager. They must have thought that her car was our “G ride.” They were about to arrest us all, until we found Ms. G’s “Teacher of the Year” plaque in the back of her four-runner.

It’s weird, but this incident brought us all closer together; how many people could say that they almost got arrested with their teacher? The fact that Ms. G was willing to get arrested to help us complete a writing assignment was a sign of loyalty, and we respect her more for it. It’s ironic how Ms. G is helping us write about an undeclared war, and that night she was helping us fight it.

She proved to us that she was down for us, so now we had to be down for her. We have to trust her, even if it does mean doing the impossible to make our trip to Washington, D.C., possible.

Diary 77

Dear Diary,

We decided to have a concert in order to raise money for our Washington, D.C., trip. There is no better satisfaction than watching our small ideas become a big show; I am so excited. The people who bought tickets to our Echoes of the Soul fundraising concert did not simply support one hundred and fifty high school kids, they supported a cause. Tonight is our night to shine. We’ll have Latin dances, singing of all types, Cambodian dances, a fashion show, and even skits. The diversity of ideas, traditions, and spirit is the true purpose of the Freedom Writers.

It used to be that no one believed in us, but now our whole community is behind us and cheering us on.

Diary 78

Dear Diary,

I read this poem at the Freedom Writers concert:

An Innocent Freedom Writer

A young black boy filled with innocence and care,

looking for someone, but no one is there.

His first day of school, the father’s not around,

to comfort his son when he’s sad and down.

Looks up to his brother who knows money and power,

watching his back every single hour.

An innocent boy is now twelve years of age,

and finds himself locked up in a human-sized cage.

An innocent young man is now a criminal mind,

having nightmares of murders every single time.

But this time you’ll think this fool should see the light,

but he’s jumped in a gang and they nickname him “Snipe.”

Kicked out of the house and left in the cold.

Have you been through this at eleven years old?

He says to himself “no one cares for me,”

then makes his bed in an old park tree.

The next time a park bench, how long can it last?

Will he forget this dreadful, dreadful past!

He goes to Wilson High with a messed-up trail,

and meets a guardian angel named Erin Gruwell.

He learns about the Holocaust, Anne Frank and the Jews.

Now the time comes that he should choose.

He meets Anna, Terri, Tommy, and others.

These are the innocent boy’s new sisters and brothers.

A 0.5 now a 2.8—

Change is good, for those that wait.

He’s back to innocence, but still has fear,

that death is upon him and drawing near.

But people say it’s hard to see,

this life of emotions is all about me.

All this is true, because I’m not a liar

just a brokenhearted male with a label—Freedom Writer!

Diary 79

Dear Diary,

I think I’m pretty lucky. I have a good life, a loving family, and a beautiful home. My friends, however, are not as fortunate as I am. Some have been in trouble with the law, have family disputes, or are just alone and have no one to turn to. I did not find out how much other teenagers go through