The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [7]
After what seemed like hours (but I’m sure were only a few minutes), the fight continued to grow. By this point, my nose was bleeding, but other than a few bruises, I was OK, seeing as how I wasn’t on the floor getting the shit beat out of me. Then I heard someone say, “Watch out!” Everything from that point on was in slow motion, like a low-budget kung-fu movie with bad voice-overs. A football helmet had nailed me and I blacked out. When I came to, everybody was shouting, “Run, run!” Run? Why? Then I saw half of the school staff running toward the scene of the fight. I wasn’t about to stick around and get blamed for starting the fight, so I pulled myself up and ran.
It’s kind of sad when you have to run away from something that isn’t your fault. Since I’m Mexican and Mexicans were involved in this stupid race war, I figured no one would have listened to what I had to say anyway. I’m not a bad person, but because of my friends, I sometimes get blamed for shit I have nothing to do with.
I really don’t know how I made it through the rest of the schoolday; hell, I don’t even know how I made it to my next class. I couldn’t see straight, couldn’t walk straight. All I know is that after the fight today, the shit’s really gonna hit the fan on the streets of Long Beach.
Diary 5
Dear Diary,
For many, it’s the start of a new day, but for me, it’s the continuation of a nightmare. Every day before I leave my mom me percina with the sign of the cross, praying that I come home safely.
Going to school is less of a problem, ’cause that’s when the city sleeps, but on my way home, it’s a whole other story. I’m fourteen, and people think I should be scared because I’m surrounded by violence, but around here it’s an everyday thing. The first thing I see when I get off the bus is graffiti on walls, beer bottles filling trashcans, empty cigarette packs, and syringes.
On the way home, I get chased mostly by older fools with bats and knives. I try going different ways, but they always notice me and chase me anyway. At first I didn’t know the reason why they always hunt me down, but then I figured it out, it was simply because I was of a different race.
I figured I had to find a way to protect myself from these fools, and the only way was to get a gun. At school, some of my friends have been talking about a homie being strapped. I asked them where he got it from, and they told me that some guy sold it to him. With memories of my homies getting smoked and all my problems on the way home, I decided to get one. It’s so damn easy to get a gun; it’s like getting bubble gum from the corner liquor store. All you need is $25. All I had to do was ask my parents for money to buy school supplies. It was easy, ’cause in the ’hood, for the price of a backpack, you can get a gun, a couple of rounds, and probably even have some money left over. The next day, I met my friends in the bathroom and I bought a .22 caliber with a clip. I quickly stashed it into my backpack and left.
The whole day at school, I couldn’t keep my mind off my new gun. I felt like a little boy with a shining new toy. When school was out, I began my journey home. As I got closer to my stop, I looked out the window and saw the guys were waiting for me. Then I thought to myself, “Damn, here we go again.” I got nervous and my hands began to sweat. I opened my backpack, took the gun out, and put it in my waist, then I slowly walked to the back and waited for the door to open.
As I walked off the bus, they began to call me names. “What’s up, ése?” “Wait up, fool.” Fuck them niggas. I kept on walking. I checked out of the corner of my eye, and I saw that one of them was eager to catch up to me. Usually, I would have run, but this time