The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [8]
The next afternoon, when I got off the bus, the guys weren’t waiting for me. I didn’t see them for the next few days. I didn’t know if I had scared them off or not, but I hoped I had.
But my hopes were cut short, when one day, as I was walking home, I saw a guy mad-dogging me from across the street. We locked eyes, reached for our strap, pulled it out, and began shooting at the same time. The only thing between us was a major street and some parked cars. It was just like a movie, except in this movie when the characters bleed, the blood is real. I don’t remember when I actually pulled the trigger; all I remember is shooting and waiting until I was sure the other guy was out of bullets. After the last shot rang through the air, he disappeared. We both ran, and have never met eye to eye again.
I’m not afraid of anyone anymore. Now I’m my own gang. I protect myself. I got my own back. I still carry my gun with me just in case I run into some trouble, and now I’m not afraid to use it. Running with gangs and carrying a gun can create some problems, but being of a different race can get you into trouble, too, so I figure I might as well be prepared. Lately, a lot of shit’s been going down. All I know is that I’m not gonna be the next one to get killed.
Diary 6
Dear Diary,
A couple of days ago one of my friends was laid to rest.
His funeral was just like any other. Family members were crying. Someone said, “Not another one,” while his friends were swearing that they would get revenge. “An eye for an eye…payback’s a bitch.”
There were not a lot of people at the funeral, but the friends and family who showed up were very proud of him. We’re all going to miss him, but what could we have done to prevent his death? After he was lowered into the ground, our lives went on. His friends didn’t talk about him anymore. It was as if he had never existed. When his birthday comes, presents will no longer be given to him. They will be replaced by flowers, which will be put on his grave. That’s just the way it is.
I still remember exactly what happened the night my friend died. I was in the liquor store buying some candy. I was having trouble deciding what kind of candy I wanted. Then I heard gunshots. I turned to the door and saw that two of my friends were running into the store. When the first one came in, he dove to the floor; the other one simply fell. I looked down and saw that one of my friends had blood coming out of his back and mouth.
In a matter of minutes, his sister and mother ran into the store. I stood in front of the candy rack and watched his sister drop to her knees and gather him into her arms. She was crying and calling out his name. His mother stood behind her, watching with her eyes wide open with shock. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she didn’t bother to wipe them off. She stood there and didn’t make a sound. It was as if she was paralyzed with pain. It broke my heart to see his mother standing there, unable to help her baby.
After the last police car left, the people in my neighborhood were still standing against the yellow police tape, staring at the trace of white chalk. Nobody moved, but everyone was talking about “the young boy,” who had been taken away by the paramedics, but there was a lot they didn’t know. They didn’t know that he was my friend and that he had his whole life ahead of him. He was gunned down for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn’t pay attention to what they were saying. I just stood there, looking at my friend’s blood on the floor. He had never harmed anyone in his entire life. What were his parents going to do? What was I going to do?
It was late and I had to go to school the next day. I wasn’t sure