The Freedom Writers Diary (24 page)

It’s amazing. I remember when we got back from Washington, D.C., Ms. G said that kids will think of us as heroes and will want to become Freedom Writers, too. We laughed at Ms. G’s analogy, and did not take her seriously. We have come to learn not to doubt Ms. G.

Diary 108

Dear Diary,

I didn’t realize writing was so hard. It’s very tedious and overwhelming, but satisfying at the same time. The writing assignments I do for Ms. G’s class require draft after draft until everything is perfect. I can’t begin to imagine how hard Nancy Wride has it when she goes through everything over and over to finish a story. That’s what she does, she tries to make her work perfect for the
Los Angeles Times
.

Nancy Wride is a wonderful reporter who just wrote a story about us. It seems as though she really cares about our past and our future. She is a tiny little thing, but she’s all heart, and she is very thorough with her work. She makes sure what we say is reported accurately word for word in the newspaper.

When Nancy’s story was published, it felt as if the entire world had read it and then decided to call Room 203. We’ve had to assign a student to act as receptionist in each class period. We’ve been receiving so much mail from people all across the country, and we have no idea what to do with it all; the donations for our college fund are amazing and quite touching. People have thanked us for the work we have done in educating others and ourselves. Even people in prison wrote to us, telling us that they hope our future is successful, because they were doubtful about their own. Children wrote to us saying they look up to us and adults encouraged us to keep going. I never knew that one article could get such a response. A journalist from the Associated Press called us and wants to do another story. I wonder what the response to that article will be.

Diary 109

Dear Diary,

I’ve received lots of letters from people in prison before. In fact, all through my childhood I got letters once a week from my dad when he was doing time. I didn’t get emotional about them; the letters were just a reminder that my father was still in prison. So it never crossed my mind that a letter from a complete stranger would make me cry.

My mom has always told me that the past always comes back to haunt you. Well, she’s right. My past always seems to find me. Only this time it hit me where it hurts the most, my family. I received a letter from a complete stranger, a prisoner from West Virginia who read an article in the newspaper about the Freedom Writers, and who was able to remind me of the values and the rules with which I was raised. He reminded me of the barrier I had to break to be where I am today.

With his letter I was reminded of all the years my father spent in prison. Leonard is only eighteen years old and he is facing life in prison for a crime that he did not commit. The worst part is that he has a little girl that’s eight months old. She is going to grow up without a father just like I did. Leonard is innocent, but because of the way he was raised, he is going to stay in prison for the rest of his life. He, like me, was brought up to believe that you don’t rat on your homeboys. That’s why my father spent so many years in prison—he refused to turn in his friend—and I so many years without a father.

Maybe Leonard’s daughter will develop a phobia of birds being locked up in cages. Every time she sees them, she’ll be reminded of her father in the cage that is his jail cell. The same image I used to have when I was a little girl. Since he reminds me of my dad, I’m going to write back to him and encourage him to do the right thing. He must tell the Judge he is innocent so he can be a father for his daughter.

In his letter to me, he quoted Anne Frank by saying that he, too, felt “like a bird in a cage and sometimes just wanted to fly away.” That is the power of the written word. Leonard didn’t know who Anne Frank was but he quoted her, because I had quoted her in the newspaper. The power of the media to reach people in every corner of the world is amazing.

Diary 110

Dear Diary,

I used to think my father was a coward because he left my mom when she was pregnant. Even though my father and mother were never married, I assumed he left my mom because he didn’t have a job at the time and he couldn’t afford to take care of me. Sometimes I thought he was a bad person who did drugs, drank all the time, and stayed home doing nothing. Most of the people who knew my father put these thoughts in my head.

My father has missed so much of my life, especially the last few years while I’ve been a Freedom Writer. He missed my trip to Washington, D.C., to meet the Secretary of Education, and I think the biggest thing my father will miss is my graduation in June.

When Ms. G made us read the book
Jesse
by Gary Soto, about a teenager who had a father but lived with his stepfather, it made me think about my real father and what it would’ve been like to have him around. After we finished the book, Ms. G made us do an assignment dealing with other cultures where we had to interview fellow Freedom Writers about their family heritage. I was afraid of what I would say when one of the Freedom Writers interviewed me. I didn’t want to do the assignment because I grew up not knowing anything about my family’s past. My father was never there to teach me about my roots.

I think I am Latino, so I interacted with friends and other classmates who are Latino, so I could learn about some of my past. When I met my friends’ fathers I began to wonder about my dad. Do I look like him? Is he tall like me? Do we have similar interests? So I thought about trying to meet my father.

After I learned about my culture, I asked my mom if we could go meet him. For days and days I kept asking her, but she kept saying “No!” Then one day when there was no school, my mom surprised me and asked, “Do you want to go meet your father?” I was shocked! My mom felt it was time that I knew who my father was, since I am getting older. I never thought she would take me to meet him after saying no so many times. I was so happy! I started jumping up and down as if I was a little kid.

On the day that we went to meet him, I was nervous but happy. After all the years of not knowing anything about him, this would be the day I would find out why he left my mom. It took us a while to find where he lives. When we finally found him, my mom approached the door and asked if my dad lived there. The owner of the house, who was my grandmother, told my mom that my dad lived here. I had a big smile on my face because now I knew where my dad lived. My mom and my grandmother started talking and my mom told her why we were there. My grandmother told my mom that my father was very sick and that he did not want to see anyone. I asked her if I could just say “Hi” and then we would leave. She said no. I ran to my mom’s car and I cried.

This was supposed to be the time when I finally got to meet him after all these years, and I was hoping we could spend the day together. I got out of the car and went up to her one more time and asked her “Please, I would like to meet my father, I do have the right, you know!” My grandmother still kept saying no. I told my mom I wanted to leave and I went to the car and waited. I was so disappointed that my mom and I drove all the way to his house to see him, but ended up going away not knowing the truth about why he didn’t want to see me.

Now I know my father is a coward. A coward because he had someone cover for him. He could not face his own son like a real man. From this experience, I don’t want to try to meet him again. Learning from my father’s mistakes, I know I am not going to be a coward like him.

Diary 111

Dear Diary,

“Jingle balls, jingle balls, Jingle all the way…” That’s right! Balls, not bells! Literally speaking. I watched the most popular guys at my school that I once thought were gentlemen, standing in front of these freshmen girls yelling obscenities at them. The random chanting of “Touch my balls, you slut,” or “Look at my fucking balls, you stupid bitch!” sprayed the air with the sour stench of beer. After being hazed into the most popular sorority at our school, these innocent girls didn’t stay innocent for long.

All of the older girls that are a part of this sorority, including myself, watched the guys as they laughed and yelled at the pledges. I was there watching and wondering how this ritual went and I reminisced back to when I was a freshman pledging for this sorority.

A couple of my senior friends invited me to join this sorority in the fall of my freshman year. I didn’t think much of it, so I thought, “Hey, why not?” It would be a good way to meet people and make new friends. My best friend and I happened to be the lucky ones. We got the presidents of the sorority as our “big sisters,” which meant that throughout pledging, we escaped a lot of the hazing. Luckily, I never had to do what my fellow pledges did. I didn’t even know about some of the pledge nights, and I didn’t care.

After every pledge night that I missed, I would hear all the horror stories from the pledges. The pledges, who weren’t as fortunate as I was, would always laugh and joke around about what happened to them the night before. “You are so lucky you didn’t have to go last night,” one of the pledges said. “We had to play a game called Jingle Balls. Well, the most popular senior guys were standing in front of us…” Then they went on to tell me how all the guys were screaming at them and telling them what to do. They said the guys had their balls out of their pants and the pledges had to kneel in front of them and sing. They told me how they had to sit on guys’ laps, sing to them, and even kiss them. At the time, I thought, “That sucks!” but it didn’t affect me because I was at home. But what none of us realized was how demeaning and degrading this actually was. Unfortunately, it was the price we were willing to pay to be popular.

Now that I’m so-called “popular” I stood in shock listening to the young girls sing “Jingle balls, jingle balls, Jingle all the way…” I couldn’t believe it! I watched the pledges on their knees, inches away from the guys standing in front of them with their balls out of their pants. The freshmen girls were singing this song, in disgust, as the high school participants crowded around to watch. After a couple of minutes, the males were getting frustrated. I didn’t know why at first until I heard, “The fucking bitches are closing their eyes. Make them open their eyes!” The senior girls disregarded their comments and continued watching. When they went through this ceremony four years ago, the males were allowed to wipe their balls on the pledges’ faces, but this year the girls were spared this. The irony being that the seniors thought they were actually saving the girls from being too exploited. Slowly everyone lost interest and this game ended, but the hazing still continued…

As I watched the people participate in hazing, I suddenly realized how unnecessary all of this was. I couldn’t understand why these freshmen were putting themselves through this torture just to be “popular.” And yet, I was an active member of this sorority and I was allowing all of these awful things to happen to them. Why didn’t I say anything? Why didn’t I do anything? Being a Freedom Writer, I couldn’t understand how I just stood by and let all of this go on. I wish I had spoken up and told them how unnecessary all of this really is. Suddenly, I realized that “popularity” was just a word and has no meaning in real life! At that point, I knew I didn’t want to be a part of this group or any group that degraded or humiliated people like that ever again. But I guess popularity always has and always will take its toll on people.

Diary 112

Dear Diary,

It’s Christmas time 1997, and I’m really excited about getting together with my dad. Every moment I’m with him, I realize how important he is to me and how lucky I am to have him. I understand that there are people out there who don’t even know their fathers, and I cherish every moment spent with him.

This makes me think of the time that I almost lost my dad.

“Sean, what happened? Who is that on the phone?” I couldn’t hear what my brother was telling my mom, but right after he spoke to her and handed her the telephone, she walked to her room and closed the door behind her.

I was thinking about what could be bothering my mom when she interrupted my thoughts and slowly began to talk to me. “Teres, I have to tell you something and when I do, baby please try to stay calm. The phone call I received was from the hospital. They called to inform me that your dad has been shot. He was shot in the head and is now in critical condition. I am so sorry, baby.” I couldn’t breathe after she told me this. The pain that my stomach was feeling when my mom began to tell me had now traveled up through my chest, into my throat, and took a seat right in my head. I didn’t know what to think, what to do, or what to say. I thought I was going to die because of the lack of oxygen my body was receiving. I began to cry so loud that I would have thought everyone around would have heard me at that moment. What else was there to do but cry?

While in the elevator, on our way to the sixth floor of the intensive care unit, I thought about how my dad would look. Would his head be distorted? Where in his head did he get shot? What would I say to him? Will he know who I am? As I exited the elevator, I walked slowly to the doors where my dad was placed. Walking through seeing so many sick and diseased people made my stomach hurt. I saw my grandmother and for a split second, I didn’t know whose bed she was at until I saw the person in it. My dad looked horrible. His head was huge and he had about seven or eight patches all over his body. He was hooked up to four or five different machines and had a very thick tubes going down his throat with more going up his nose. Not knowing what to do or what to say, I began to cry. I cried so loud and so hard, the nurse had to come over and asked me to leave. “Dad, wake up. Wake up, Dad! NOW! You can’t go now. Please wake up. We need you. I love you. NO!” I was forced to leave the room because of my behavior, and when I did I was taken to a different room, full of chairs, with two huge glass windows. I saw these windows and started to charge at them. If my dad was going to die, why should I stay alive? My life meant nothing without my dad.