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By Root 914 0

F in my twelve years of schooling. My teachers always told me I was an example for the rest of the students. I was always known as one of the most responsible students in my classes and I feel like I’m letting everyone down. I haven’t been attending school on a regular basis either. When I do show up, my teachers look at me like they want to lecture me about how irresponsible they think I am. The teachers’ disapproving looks really hurt. I feel like they’ve turned on me. I try to explain to them that I’m going though really bad times, but they don’t seem to care. All that matters to them is that I am not doing their work. Most teachers don’t want to be bothered with the reasons why. In my yearbook class, I volunteered to do the Freedom Writer page and I did. I did it at home, but when I finished it, it was after midnight. Unfortunately, the day it was due, the collection agency showed up at my door trying to get the money and I didn’t make it to school. The following day I showed up at school and my advisor didn’t accept my yearbook page. She said it was too late and someone else had to do it for me.

These few months have been the worst of my whole life. My senior year was supposed to be the most fun of all my years, but I guess things happen for a reason. I hate to pour out all my problems to you, diary, but I have nowhere else to turn. After all, I always dreamed of going to college and being someone in life. Now I feel like I only have one alternative—dropping out of high school and getting a full-time job to help my parents with all their payments until they come back home.

After my advisor rejected my yearbook page, it made me want to say “Forget this!” This was just enough to make me want to quit everything I was doing. At the end of the day, out of desperation, I went to talk to Ms. Gruwell and my fellow Freedom Writers. I told them I felt like dying and was going to drop out of high school. I just broke down in tears. They just hugged me and listened. They didn’t judge me or put me down like the others. I couldn’t believe how understanding they were. They even convinced me to stay in school and offered to help me catch up on my assignments. Despite all this drama, I’ve decided not to give up. I’ll get the money for rent somehow, I’ll catch up in my classes and I’m even going to make time to go with everyone on a college tour with Ms. Gruwell. With such a loving “extended” family, I got back the strength to fight for my dreams: to graduate from high school and go to college.

Diary 102

Dear Diary,

Everyone in Ms. G’s class is talking about their college application essay that was due today. The essays are supposed to be about a significant event that occurred in our lives. I thought to myself how lucky all the Freedom Writers are to be able to say, “I’m going to college.” For me that statement is impossible to say because of one little reason: I am an illegal immigrant.

I wish my essay could have been about the most significant event in my life; how my family immigrated to America. My mother brought her children here to provide them with a better life. My mother kept us away from my drunk and abusive father, she wanted us to have a better future, and the opportunity in life that she never had—to have a successful education. Who would have thought that getting an education would be so tough? The irony is that I was brought here to get an education, yet at the same time, I feel like I am being deprived of an education in the future.

When I read The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan, it made many things clear to me. I could identify the mothers in the book with my mother. Even though I’m not Chinese, I can relate to the feelings the four daughters had toward their mothers. Even though there were cultural differences between them and their mothers, they still appreciated all that they had done for them. Now when I think about this book, it makes me appreciate my mother that much more. If the girls in The Joy Luck Club were able to overcome all the obstacles that they were faced with, why can’t I overcome mine?

The