Living Arts
Freedom Writer Diary 24:
Finding Inspiration Through Adversity
Dear Diary,
5 a.m.—The sound of my alarm clock woke me to a dark room this morning. The sun wasn’t out yet, so I decided not to get up. My clock saw things differently and kept beeping.
I thanked my clock by throwing it on the floor. The beeping stopped. As I looked over to see where the clock had landed, I realized I, too, was lying on the floor. Why? Because I don’t have a bed. I turned on the lights so I could get started on my day. I walked past the closet mirror in the room to get my clothes. The mirror showed my sleeping space—a thick blanket and a pillow.
The mirror’s reflection also revealed that the room does not belong to me. It made me feel sad—to the point of crying. I grabbed my clothes from the closet and wailed down the long hallway to the bathroom. During my shower, I cried. Tears mixed with water streamed down my face. I welcomed the pain that came with the tears. It’s the only way I can deal with my current situation. The room, hallway, and bathroom don’t belong to me. This is not my home. My mom is down the hall sleeping in a room, but this is still not my home. I don’t have a home anymore.
5:30 a.m.—I’m out of the bathroom, done with my shower, and ready to go. I have to remind myself that today is the first day of my tenth-grade year at Wilson High School. I should be happy that I get a chance to see my friends after not seeing them all summer. But I wonder if my friends’ summer was as bad as mine. My summer was the worst in my short fourteen years of life. It all started with a phone call that I will never forget.
My mom was crying, begging, and pleading; asking for more time as if she were gasping for a last breath of air. Though I never paid attention to “adult matters,” this time I was all ears. I never wanted to see my mom cry.
As she hung up the phone, she turned around to see me standing there, confused and scared. I didn’t know what was wrong. She quickly held me as tight as she could, and said that she was sorry. She began to cry again, this time, harder. Her tears hit my shirt like bullets. She told me that we were going to be evicted and she kept apologizing to me, saying she failed me as a mother and provider. She was a month behind on the rent. The landlord was already money-hungry, so it made the situation worse. I was too young to get a job. The only job I could get in my neighborhood was selling drugs—so I decided to pass.
While kids were having fun enjoying the summer, I was packing my clothes and belongings into boxes and wondering where we were going to end up. My mom didn’t know what to do or where to go. We had no family to lean on. No money was coming in. Without a job, my mom didn’t have enough money to get another place. What to do? No father to help out either, just a single mom and her son.
The night before the sheriff was supposed to pay us an unwelcome visit, I prayed to God for a way out of this madness. Sad and depressed, I attempted to get some sleep that night in the hope that something good would happen.
The morning of our eviction, a hard knock on the door awoke me. The sheriff was here to do his job. We were moving all our stuff out as fast as we could. I started to look up to the sky, waiting for something to happen. I looked at my mom to see if she was all right because she was silent as she moved the stuff out.
Our pastor had a friend who had a nice big house where he lived by himself. The pastor’s friend, who was informed of our situation, welcomed us with open arms. The arms of a stranger were a lot more comfortable than the arms of the sheriff.
6 a.m.—I’m waiting for the bus. Flashbacks of this summer pass through my mind like a song repeating itself over and over. I try to tell myself it could have been worse. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. I started to think the situation was my fault because I always asked for the top video games every Christmas and birthday. I should have asked for something less expensive; something we could afford.
6:45 a.m.—I’ve ridden one bus to catch another bus that will now take me directly to school. School…why bother going to school? What’s the use of going if I don’t have a place to live? When friends ask how my summer was, what am I going to say? I was evicted from my apartment? I don’t think so. I’m not going to tell a soul what happened. I knew everyone would be wearing new clothes, new shoes, and have new haircuts. Me? I’ll be wearing outfits from last year, old shoes, and no new haircut. I feel like it’s hopeless to try to feel good and make good grades. There’s no point to it.
7:10 a.m.—The bus stops in front of the school. My stomach feels like it’s tightening into a tiny little ball. I feel like throwing up. I keep thinking that I’ll get laughed at the minute I step off the bus. Instead, I’m greeted by a couple of my friends who were in my English class last year. At that point, it hits me: Ms. Gruwell, my crazy English teacher from last year, is really the only person who made me think of hope for my future. Talking with my friends about our English class and the adventures we had the year before, I begin to feel better.
7:45 a.m.—I receive my class schedule and the first teacher on the list is Ms. Gruwell in Room 203. I walk in the room and I feel as though all the problems in my life are not important anymore. I am home.
For more information on the Freedom Writers’ diary project, visit www.freedomwritersfoundation.org