The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [76]
best recognize that you are you—
take it or leave it.
“MMM HMM!”
I knew you’d get it.
Get what?
The stuff—
the stuff called pride, that attitude, that aura,
your identity, your self, your pride, peace of mind,
worry free.
See, I can’t be you, but I’m a damn good ME!
Righteous.
Diary 89
Dear Diary,
We gave our book to the United States Secretary of Education, Richard Riley, tonight. As I watched him come into the Marriott ballroom, I couldn’t help but notice how different we were. He is a rich white Southern man from South Carolina with a Southern drawl, and I’m a young black male trying to make it in life, living check by check. But I realized we were both there for the same reasons—we care about the future of kids in America. As I sat there listening to his speech, I realized he actually cared about us. More important, I realized that this man would actually read my diary entry.
By reading my diary, he will know all the things that I went through and maybe be in a position to do something about it. As I was listening to him tell us about how he fought against discrimination in the South, I couldn’t help but remember the night that my brother got shot, purely based on our race.
We were just driving on the freeway when a car full of Mexicans drove up next to us. All of a sudden I saw sparks flying, glass shattering, and blood splattering. A bullet actually ricocheted all through the car. Another bullet went through the backseat of the car and grazed my friend in the back. My brother, who was driving, was shot four times. Twice in his chest, inches from his heart, once in his thigh, and once in his calf. He turned to me, with his shirt soaked in blood, and said, “I can’t breathe no more. I can’t drive!” He pulled off the road while my two friends were yelling in the backseat, “I’m shot! I’m shot!”
Trying not to panic, I pulled my brother into my seat. Then I jumped into the driver’s seat, which was full of blood, and started looking for a hospital. I finally pulled into a gas station to call the police to tell them my brother got shot. While I was by the phone, I couldn’t help but notice that there must have been about twelve bullet holes in the side of the car. The car was totaled. It looked like it had been through a war. In two minutes an ambulance came and they took my brother and my friend to the hospital. Then the police took me to the hospital.
The hospital was only a block away. When I got there, the doctor took me into the room to see my brother. He had tubes all in him. I didn’t know what to think. Then my brother made this joke from a movie. He said, “The doctor told me I’m never gonna walk again.” I knew that was a line from a movie, but I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Then my brother went into surgery for six hours so they could remove the bullets. Apparently his lungs collapsed. I thought he was going to die. If he died it would have been for the simple fact that we were black and in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Luckily, he came out of the surgery OK and was only in the hospital for one week. His doctor told me that if I didn’t react like I did by getting my brother to the hospital so soon, he would have died. The doctor said, “That makes you a hero!” I guess it does. It made me realize that a real hero should try to prevent this from ever happening again.
I guess that’s why I want Richard Riley to read my story. I want him to know that the guys with guns were absolute strangers. All they saw was our color because they were ignorant. If they were educated, like I am, they’d learn to see past shades and beyond exteriors and see people. I guess that’s why the Freedom Writers had to write about our lives and share them with him, because he’s in a position to educate kids like that.
Unfortunately Secretary Riley can’t change what happened to my brother and me, but maybe he can help us spread our message so it doesn’t happen to another innocent teen.
Diary 90
Dear Diary,
Last night we had a candlelight vigil for