• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 946 0

didn’t feel right. When I came home, I noticed something new. She was on a respirator, but for some reason, I thought nothing of it. I thought it was just another piece of her medical equipment she got from the hospital because each week, she got something new. So I went to my room to prepare for our Freedom Writer holiday party that was taking place later that evening. As I was about to leave, my neighbor (who was visiting my mother at the time) yelled my name frantically from the other room. She told me that my mother had just passed away. I couldn’t believe her. I had to see for myself. As I walked toward her room, I could hear my sister crying. Then I saw my mother and I froze for a moment. I couldn’t do anything but stare. She was lying lifelessly in her bed. I knew deep down that if I had cried at that moment, I would have lost my mind.

Now I have unanswered questions and a lack of resolve. I am instantly an adult. Who’s going to be there for me when I need help? I am alone; I don’t have a parent living with me, I have no guidance.

Ms. Gruwell and the Freedom Writers want to help me get through my difficult time, but I keep pushing them away. I always tell them “I’m OK!” and “I’m fine…don’t worry about me!” But the truth is, I’m not okay and I’m nowhere near being fine. I don’t know why I won’t let anyone in my life. I don’t know why I won’t ask for help. I was always taught that people don’t give without receiving.

Now I need to make the choice to open up and not push people away. Being a Freedom Writer has taught me that people do so much without asking people for anything in return. Maybe they could help me get through my loss, and in return, I could open up to them and accept them as my second family. Then I won’t be so alone.

Senior Year Spring 1998

Entry 8. Ms. Gruwell

Dear Diary,

We just returned from Christmas vacation, and I just got a call congratulating the Freedom Writers for winning the Spirit of Anne Frank Award. The Anne Frank Center USA honors “those who have followed the courage of their convictions to step forward and actively confront anti-Semitism, racism, prejudice, and bias-related violence in their community.” But there’s a catch: We have to accept the award in person—next Thursday in New York!

During my college craze in October, I encouraged the students to apply for scholarships. I saw an advertisement in Scholastic’s Scope magazine promoting the Spirit of Anne Frank scholarship for students who “combat discrimination in their own communities.” It sounded too perfect to pass up, so I entered all 150 students as one entity. As I was filling out the application, my competitive side kicked in and I was convinced that my students had to win!

The day the Anne Frank Center received our application, a woman named Beatrice called and said she’d been “crying in her coffee all morning” because our application was so amazing. She went on to explain that the application was totally unorthodox because the Center only picks individuals, not groups. She wanted to know if I would resubmit my application and pick only one student as a representative of the group. I said no, we’re a package deal. It’s all or nothing.

In November, I went to New York and met with people from the center. We were clearly the front-runners to win the award, but the center was in a precarious position—how would we get the Freedom Writers to New York? I said, “Hey if we win, somehow, some way, I’ll find a way to get the kids here.”

Coincidentally, while I was in New York, the L.A. Times article about the Freedom Writers reran in a New York paper. When I got home on Sunday, my answering machine was filled with messages. I don’t know how they tracked me down, but all these TV shows, magazines, and newspapers called, wanting to do a story on us. It was all very surreal, since we’ve lived in virtual anonymity for three years and in one weekend we suddenly had the opportunity to win an award—and now perhaps to appear on a TV show.

I tried to keep all the TV shows at bay until I could process everything. But when Connie