Entry 3 – Ms. Gruwell

Sophomore Year

Fall 1995

Entry 3 – Ms. Gruwell

Dear Diary,

Ever since I started student teaching at Wilson High, it seemed like

some teachers had it in for me. According to them, I was too enthusiastic,

too preppy, and my teaching style was too unorthodox. The students they

criticized in the teachers’ lounge were the same students celebrated in a

local newspaper article. And to top it off, when my students received an

invitation to meet Steven Spielberg, it put some teachers right over the

edge.

After enduring all the rumors during my student teaching, I had been

pretty hesitant to return to Wilson last fall. When I was assigned to teach

freshmen with below-par reading skills, the head of the English department

challenged me, saying, “Let’s see what you can do with these kids,

hotshot!”

Hotshot? If she only knew how nervous and overwhelmed I really was

as a first-year teacher. She never even took the time to get to know me—

and yet she was labeling me. Just like the students I defended, I was being

stereotyped. Teachers called me a prima donna because I wore suits; I made

the other teachers “look bad” because I took my students on field trips; and

some had the audacity to say that John Tu was my “sugar daddy.” At that

moment, I understood why almost half of new teachers leave the profession

within the first few years.

I contemplated leaving Wilson after a teacher printed and then

distributed a letter I’d written to Spielberg’s secretary thanking her for

helping with my spring field trip to the Museum another teacher brought me

a copy of my letter—with certain sections highlighted—I lost it. Why

would a teacher, someone who was supposed to be my colleague, access my

computer file and print a private letter? And then why would she make

copies of it? In my opinion, she invaded my privacy, and that’s where I

drew the line. All my suppressed animosity came to the surface, and I

decided it was time for me to leave Wilson.

I interviewed at another high school and was offered a job. I was inches

away from a clean getaway, until I made the mistake of telling my principal

that I was planning to leave. He was shocked and asked me why.

“All of the teachers are out to get me!” I blurted out.

“But what about your students?” he asked. “Didn’t they sign up for

your sophomore English class? Won’t they be disappointed if you’re not

here on the first day of school?”

Then my hypocrisy hit me. All year long I had encouraged my students

to avoid using labels like “all” and other gross generalizations. I even had

people who were the victims of stereotyping describe the dangers of

labeling groups of people. Holocaust survivor Renee Firestone reiterated

my point by telling my students, “Don’t let the actions of a few determine

the way you feel about an entire group. Remember, not all Germans were

Nazis.” Now I was stereotyping by saying “all” teachers, when in reality it

was only a handful who disliked me. There were actually several teachers

who were supportive.

If I let a few other teachers chase me away from Wilson, the kids would

be the ultimate losers. They would think that I, like so many others, had

bailed on them. I realized I needed to finish what I had started. Besides, I

didn’t become a teacher to win any congeniality contests. So I decided to

stay at Wilson and devote my energy to teaching literature, rather than

perpetuating petty rivalries.

By staying, I’ll have the majority of the students I had last year. In

addition to them, I’ll be getting a whole new crop—the kids nobody else

wants! My class has become a dumping ground for disciplinary transfers,

kids in rehab or those on probation. But if Sharaud, who graduated in June,

could turn his life around, there is hope for these new students yet.

Ironically, “hope” is one of the few four-letter words not in their

vocabulary.

When I asked one of my freshmen if he thought he’d graduate, he said.

“Graduate? Hell, I don’t even know if I’ll make it to my sixteenth

birthday!” To some of these kids, death seems more real than a diploma.

Their fatalistic attitude influenced my literature choices for this year.

Since the incident with the racist note segued into a unit on tolerance, I’m

going to revisit and expand on that theme. I’ve ordered four books about

teens in crisis: The Wave by Todd Strasser; Night by Elie Wiesel; Anne

Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, and Zlata’s Diary: A Child’s Life in

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