- I took my students to see Schindler’s List in Newport Beach, at a predominately white, upper-class theater. I was shocked to see women grab their pearls and clutch their purses in fear. A local paper ran a front-page article about the incident, describing how poorly my students were treated, after which I received death threats. One of my disgruntled neighbors had the audacity to say, “If you love black people so much, why don’t you just marry a monkey?” - She walked in here on “I’m sweet and I care about you” mode. It’s not going to work. We all know she’s going to treat us like everyone else has. The worst part is, I’m pretty sure she thinks she’s the one who’s going to change us. She alone, the “too young and too white to be working here” teacher is going to reform a group of helpless “sure to drop out” kids from the ’hood. - My probation officer thinks he’s slick; he swears he’s an expert on gangs. That dumb-ass actually thinks that the problems going on in Long Beach aren’t going to affect me at Wilson. - My P.O. hasn’t realized yet that schools are just like the city and the city is just like prison. All of them are divided into separate sections, depending on race. - 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. - 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. - Maybe if I would have had to do something really bad I would have dropped out, but I doubt it. It’s just a matter of how far you’ll go to be accepted. - Raised in a shitty neighborhood, I have had to adapt to what is happening around me. During the day racial tensions rule the streets, at night gunshots are heard from drive-by shootings, and twenty-four hours a day, the gangs and drug dealers control the block, trying to hold down their territory. I can never ignore it because if I do, I will only become part of the problem, or I will become the next victim in this undeclared war going on in our streets. - Who cares if I get caught? My mom won’t do anything and my father is always too tired to give me a lecture. - Most of the people in class can relate to Rufus. If they haven’t been in jail, they have a cousin, brother, or friend who has. Before reading this book I was ashamed of having gone to jail. I was afraid Ms. Gruwell would hold it against me. Rufus had problems with a gang called the Gassers. They were always picking on him. I had a similar problem when I was in junior high. - The characters were a lot like the characters in the book—but more important, they were a lot like us. Like Rufus, most people didn’t expect them to do well. They proved everyone wrong. I guess it just goes to show that if your passion is deep enough, you can do anything. - It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that if you tell kids they’re stupid—directly or indirectly—sooner or later they start to believe it. - It’s totally unacceptable to be a “schoolboy.” So to avoid the stigma, one kid even turns in his homework wadded in a ball because he’d get beat up for carrying a folder. - I think the key is to build on what they already know. I’ve been trying to pick stories they can relate to and then challenge them to bring the story to life. - It sounds strange, somewhat on the line between irony and absurdity, to think that people would rather label and judge something as significant as each other but completely bypass a peanut. I think this is one of the most important realizations I’ve ever had. World peace is only a dream because people won’t allow themselves and others around them to simply be peanuts. We won’t allow the color of a man’s heart to be the color of his skin, the premise of his beliefs, and his self-worth. We won’t allow him to be a peanut, therefore we won’t allow ourselves to come to live in harmony. - The biggest treat of all was when John Tu sat at my table. Here was this man who had so much to say, but wanted us to do all the talking. When I introduced myself to him, I was really nervous. Why would he pay attention to me? After all, no one, including my dad, ever has. Since my dad left, I’ve always felt shunned and that it was my fault. I’ve always felt like I don’t have anything important to say. But here was this man who actually paid attention to me. - Within the next week, she has managed to fit me into her class. She plays reading and vocabulary games to help us learn, and she listens to our questions. She actually cares. She talks to us on a level I can understand. It’s wonderful to feel like a real person and not just someone for my teachers to belittle. - War? In America? It was sad to think that kids like Tommy feel like they live in the middle of a war zone. War is not something I think of as a domestic problem. I read about wars in the newspaper and watch reports on the evening news. I näively assumed that war occurred in far-off places with hard to pronounce names, not in Long Beach. - She tried to convince us that we were capable of anything. But it wasn’t until Miep’s visit that it finally made sense. I remember talking about how much we admired her for risking everything to care for Anne and her family. She said that she had only done it because it was the “right thing to do.” - There is one thing that really stands out in my mind from that night, however. As she was answering questions, a couple of adults asked her what ethnicity she was, Croatian? Muslim? Serbian? I was upset that instead of getting the message that she was trying to convey, they were too preoccupied with what nationality she was. Were these the same adults that preached how wrong racism and discrimination are? Were these the same people that a minute ago agreed that we shouldn’t care about labels? Zlata looked around, stared at us, and simply said, “I’m a human being.” - I wish she wouldn’t trust me so much. I mean how can she trust me if I can’t even trust myself? She shouldn’t trust anyone who steals money from their family, begs friends for change, and digs through her couch just to support her drug habit. - <mark style="background: #FFF3A3A6;">The majority of my teachers treat me as if I, and I alone, hold the answers to the mysterious creatures that African Americans are, like I’m the Rosetta Stone of black people. It was like that until I transferred to Ms. Gruwell’s class</mark> - When Emerson ended his essay with “to be great is to be misunderstood,” it made me think about how many people have always misunderstood me. No one really understood what I was feeling. They were so caught up in what they thought about me that they didn’t really care. It really bothered me that they didn’t even try to understand me. Deep down inside I was just a scared little girl who was simply misunderstood. Maybe it’s not so bad to be misunderstood. Now it’s time for me to learn to hold my ground and be self-reliant. - What she showed me today is that a truly self-reliant person takes action, leaving nothing to chance and everything to themselves. She showed me that excuses will not bring about success and that adversity is not something you walk with, but something you leap over. The only obstacles are the ones you allow. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. A truly self-reliant person finds his weak link and strengthens it. I want to be a self-reliant person, now and forever. - I instantly developed respect for the author because of his unique style of writing, not to mention the fact that he didn’t throw in some stupid preachy message. (You know, an attempt to save today’s youth.) Those sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice type of endings make me want to barf. - Now I’m not a virgin and everyone looks at me as though I am a tramp or a ho. Of course, if I were male, I would be congratulated. I wish that things were different, but they aren’t. - The whole time this was happening it felt like a bad dream. A dream I could never wake up from. Unfortunately, we gave each other what we were both missing. He had anger all built up inside that he needed to release on someone and I was a ball of emotions just looking for someone to love me. He was the security I needed. - <mark style="background: #FFF3A3A6;">For some of my students, my classroom is one of the only places where they feel safe. Room 203 is a place where they can seek refuge from all the mayhem. Outside my classroom walls, anything can happen.</mark> - I have great respect for Anne Frank for writing about her life in the attic, but to me, my neighborhood is somewhat like her attic. I would rather write about something fictional, because I do not want to be reminded of where I come from. Writing about where I come from will bring up a lot of things that I want to suppress. - It feels good to start off with a clean slate. Not many people get a chance like this since most people seem to make judgments based on the past. Unfortunately, the education system tends to dismiss kids based on their past and not on their potential. Throughout my years of education, only Ms. Gruwell took action to help me with my learning disability. As a matter of fact, when I told one teacher in jr. high that I thought I had dyslexia, he told me that I was just lazy. - Thanks to spell check, now I feel like there are no limits or boundaries enclosing my ideas and feelings. Sitting in front of the monitor with my fingers on the keyboard makes me feel powerful in a way I never have before. - The more I stared at the words, the more I began to realize I have been blessed through someone else’s misfortune. Maybe someone will feel the same way after learning about my experience. I wanted to reach out to her to let her know she wasn’t alone. I wanted to tell her I know how she feels, to show sympathy, to be a true friend to her. I never found her. But now I know that I am not alone—and that has made a difference. - I’m like a prisoner in my own home! I’m not even allowed to talk on the phone. If I do, my dad disconnects it. If anybody calls me, he tells him or her “She doesn’t live here” and hangs up. Then I get screamed at. - With the covering of the swastikas, and everything that happened today, I now know that there is not a day that will go by, when if I believe something is wrong, I won’t do anything about it. It is better to take a chance and make a change, than it is to pass and pity. - Before I left, my parents always used to make me feel bad. They always thought I was bad, and I was constantly in trouble. I always argued with them and sometimes I even hated them! But tonight I forgot about all the bad times and I felt close to them. - It’s ironic that while the Freedom Writers were taking a symbolic stand against violence in our candlelight vigil at the Washington Monument, a murder was being carried out. No wonder young people are so easily stereotyped. The media seems to focus more on the negative rather than on the positive things that young people accomplish. It makes me sad that this horrible murder moved the Freedom Writers’ story to the back cover, while Jeremy’s got the front page. - Whenever I asked her when I had to be home, she would reply “By Monday,” even if it was Friday. Imagine being fifteen years old and feeling as though your own mother could care less about you. I not only wanted but needed guidance. After a while I would give myself curfews so that people wouldn’t know my mother was oblivious. It is hard raising yourself. If it was easy, then we wouldn’t have parents. But we do, or most people do at least. - Unlike my biological family, the Freedom Writers understand me and have been there for me for a long time. They have actually had the time and patience to listen to me, to help me, and to support me. Even though my mother left me when I was young, I have had many people try to fill the role of a mother. Many have not accomplished the position very well, but Ms. Gruwell has succeeded. I appreciate her and the Freedom Writers for what they have done and given me. They have helped me become a stronger person. - “I was born poor and I will probably die poor. No one from my neighborhood has ever made a difference and I probably won’t make one either.” This was my mind-set. For so long, society has told me that because of my neighborhood and the color of my skin, I would never amount to anything. - Except for Ms. G., I don’t know a single female who’s graduated from high school, let alone gone to college. Instead, all the girls my age are already knocked up by some cholo. Like they say, if you’re born in the ’hood, you’re bound to die in it. So when Ms. G. kept saying that “I could do anything,” “go anywhere,” and “be anyone”—even the President, I thought she was crazy. - He isn’t the only one living with the scar, because I am also. Even though I am living with his scar, I sit back every day and remember that it is only a scar, and count my blessings that my dad is still alive. - 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. - The more attention we’re getting, the more protective I’ve become. I feel like a mockingbird, dive-bombing anyone who wants to disrupt the dynamics of Room 203. If I feel they have ulterior motives or are the slightest bit disingenuous, I try to shelter the kids from them. - I was very enthused and ready for the trip, so I decided to call my father and explain that I was leaving tomorrow. He didn’t ask me if I was prepared for New York. He didn’t offer to take me shopping or even to give me any money for the trip. Nothing! After a disappointing conversation with him, I started to think. It’s a shame how a company that does not even know me personally is willing to help me me so much. Yet I have a father who knows who I am, where I live, my telephone number, and he acts like I don’t exist. - <mark style="background: #FFF3A3A6;">Some of my former teachers have had four or five favorite students in the class and overlooked the rest entirely. Ms. Gruwell is so much different. She gets to know you…she wants to get to know you.</mark> - Ms. Gruwell says that the only way the Freedom Writers could be destroyed is from someone on the inside. That is just it, plain and simple! These people (the Mollys) need to get their act together, or get the hell out! - When I told people in my AP Government class, a class that is predominantly white, with one black person besides myself and two Latinos, instead of congratulating me, they immediately asked “What’s your GPA? What did you get on your SATs?” As if to imply that I didn’t deserve my acceptance. One girl simply lost her mind. She began to yell about how unfair it was that I got in and she didn’t. It didn’t stop there. She began telling other people that I didn’t deserve it, and that I only got in because of my race - It wasn’t until someone realized that “tracking” is wrong that the stereotyped “at risk” urban high school kids were given their chance. These urban kids, however, were never truly given the chance to prove that if only given the opportunity, we could rise to the occasion; and rise to the occasion we have. - Without the comfort of Room 203, they had to adjust to new environments and their newfound freedom. Initially the transition was difficult. Room 203 wasn’t just a classroom, it was home, a safe haven. I realized that in order for them to grow, they had to branch out and explore new ground. - Before my students found the safety of Room 203, many saw violence as a solution. It wasn’t until the students learned about the pain of Anne Frank, Zlata Filipovic, and others—and saw themselves—were we able to come together as a “family” and label ourselves the Freedom Writers. It wasn’t until we established a supportive classroom environment in Room 203 and were allowed freedom of expression that the students realized violence is never the answer.