The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [9]
The next day, I pulled up my shirt and got strapped with a gun that I found in an alley by my house. I hate the cold feeling of the metal next to my body. It makes me shiver, and the shivers remind me of all the lives this gun has claimed, but sometimes it’s the only way. I hurried to catch the bus, hoping the gun wouldn’t fall out of my waist. I didn’t worry about getting caught with the gun, because the only time the school’s staff searched the students was the day after the race riot. Now the staff only check every fifteenth student. All I had to do was pay attention and wait for the right time.
At school, I didn’t say anything to anyone. I heard people talking about the shooting, but they didn’t know the person who had been blasted. They didn’t know the whole story. I walked into class just in time to beat the tardy bell. I went straight to my chair and sat down. I couldn’t stop reliving the nightmare of my friend’s death. I went through the rest of the day just sitting, not saying a word. I didn’t even write down my homework. I kept closing my eyes, and I would see his face. I know he is watching me from wherever he is. And when it’s my time to go, I know I’ll see him when I get there. All I have to do is wait.
My friend shouldn’t have died that night. He should still be here having fun and enjoying life with the rest of us. He’s not the first nor will he be the last friend that I lose. I’ve lost many friends, friends who have died in an undeclared war. A war that has been here for years, but has never been recognized. A war between color and race. A war that will never end. A war that has left family and friends crying for loved ones who have perished. To society, they’re just another dead person on the street corner; just another statistic. But to the mothers of all those other statistics, they’re more than simple numbers. They represent more lives cut short, more cut flowers. Like the ones once placed on their graves.
Diary 7
Dear Diary,
Once again, flowers on another grave and cigarettes to another friend. These days, with so many of my soldiers either dying or going to prison, it looks like we’re gonna have to start recruiting. We have to be real picky, though. The people have to be down, they have to be willing to take a bullet or pull the trigger, but it’s worth it. Life is easily given up to protect and respect the homies and the barrio we claim…the same barrio that we were born in, raised in, and hopefully, will be buried in. After we put los tres puntos on your wrist, it becomes survival of the fittest, kill or be killed. No wonder they call it mi vida loca. It’s true, it is a crazy-ass life. Once you’re in, there’s no getting out. Sometimes I wonder if they know what they’re getting into.
Every time I jump somebody in and make someone a part of our gang, it’s another baptism: They give us their life and we give them a new one. All they have to do is prove they’re down. It doesn’t matter if you’re a guy or a girl, you get your ass kicked, you can’t show weakness, and you gotta pass either way. And we don’t give a damn if you end up in hospital, ’cause as soon as you come out, you’re considered a working soldier.
I remember when I got jumped in and became a member of the gang; I was in the hospital for over three weeks. I only had a broken arm and a broken leg, even though I could’ve sworn everything was busted. I had scratches and bruises all over my body. My eyes were so swollen, I couldn’t even open them all the way, but it was worth it. To the soldiers and me it’s all worth it. Risking life, dodging or taking bullets, and pulling triggers.
It’s all worth it.
Diary 8
Dear Diary,
I told my friends I was going to pledge a sorority because it “looked like fun.” I told