Entry 4 – Ms. Gruwell

Dear Diary,

After our “toast for change,” my students experienced an epiphany. My

once apathetic students seemed to transform themselves into scholars with a

conscience. They were so motivated that it’s awe-inspiring. And when

Tommy told me he was done with all the books in our Read-a-thon for

Tolerance, I almost spit out my morning coffee.

“Tommy, you’re done already?” I asked.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been grounded for the last two weeks, so all I did was

read.”

Read? Wait a minute, is this the same Tommy who used to hate

reading? Tommy was a disciplinary transfer like Sharaud. He had been

transferred into my class mid-semester as a favor to our vice principal.

Apparently, his last English teacher was afraid of him. Actually, I was, to,

at first, but when he asked for more books, I couldn’t help but give him a

hug. Then I called his father.

It was the first time I called a parent to report good news. Obviously, it

was the first time Tommy’s father ever received such a call because he

began the conversation with, “OK, what did Tommy do this time?” He was

pretty surprised to hear that Tommy was my star pupil.

And Tommy’s not alone. Grounded or not, they’ve all become

voracious readers. They even carry around the plastic Barnes & Noble bags

to show off their new books. They call it “flossing.” I call it a miracle.

Their excitement has motivated me even more. I wanted to put a face

on the genocide in Bosnia. Without really thinking about the logistics, I

foolishly suggested that we write letters to Zlata and invite her to our class.

It was a ply to get them to write letters, but I didn’t think they’d take me so

seriously. I underestimated the power of suggestion. Some of them truly

believed that if they wrote to her, she would come, as if it were a self-

fulfilling prophecy.

Their letters were so compelling that I took them to the school’s

computer lab to type. Then I had them bound into a book at Kinko’s. I put

Tommy’s letter near the top because he drew parallels between the war in

Bosnia and senseless gang violence. His letter began: “They say America is

the ‘Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave,’ but what’s so free about

a land where people get killed?”

Despite being on the other side of the world, he pointed out the

similarities between their lives: in Sarajevo, innocent kids get shot by

snipers; in Long Beach they get shot in drive-bys. Zlata’s friend Nina was

killed by shrapnel; Tommy’s best friend was murdered. He ended his letter

by stating, “Now that I’ve read your book, I am educated on what is

happening in Bosnia. I would like the opportunity now to educate people on

what is happening in my ‘America’ because until this ‘undeclared war’ has

ended, I am not free!”

War? In America? I 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 new. I naively assumed that war occurred in far-off places with

hard to pronounce name, not in Long Beach.

Whether it’s declared or not, there is a war being fought on the street

corners and alleyways of Long Beach. And even though there aren’t tanks

rolling down the streets, there are uzis, semi-automatics, and other weapons

of war. One student even said, “Gangs don’t die, Ms. G, they multiply,” as

if there was no solution in sight.

A casualty of war—be it at the hands of a Nazi soldier, a sniper in

Sarajevo, or a gang-banger on the streets of America—is a universal

tragedy. After one student hopelessly said, “Zlata survived her war, but I’m

afraid I may not survive mine,” I was convinced that Zlata must read their

letters. Once that realization sunk in, I began to panic. I had no idea where

to send the letters. In fact, I had no idea where Zlata lived, if she spoke

English, or how much it would cost to bring her here. There was so much I

didn’t know. Would we have to bring her parents, a translator, or an

entourage?

In a feeble attempt to squelch the idea of inviting her, I put the onus

back on the. “If you want her to come, the you have to raise the money to

get her here.” Nice try, but that didn’t stop them.

The next day, a student brought in an empty Sparklet’s water jug and

set it in the middle of the classroom. He announced, “We need to start

collecting money for Zlata,” and then he dropped in a few coins. He was so

serious that I didn’t have the heart to tell him that we probably needed to fill

a couple of those jugs just to pay for one airline ticket.

A couple of days later when the bottom of the jug was filled with coins

and a few loose dollar bills, he asked, “Ms. Gruwell, what happens if we

raise all this money and Zlata doesn’t come?” I’m used to them putting me

on the spot, but I wasn’t prepared for this one. Trying to be fast on my feet,

I said, “If she doesn’t come, we can buy more books or go on another field

trip. But if she does come, your lives will never be the same!”

And then it hit me…I better find her and at least send her the letters. If

she doesn’t respond, at least we tried.

So I spent the entire Christmas vacation trying to track Zlata down. I

had no idea where to start. All I knew was that she was a refugee

somewhere in Europe.

I started at the Museum of Tolerance. They thought she might be living

in France. Then Renee Firestone told me she thought she had moved to

Ireland. To play it safe, I sent a package to both countries. Then I put my

concierge skills to the test. I got quotes on airline tickets, solicited local

restaurants to donate gift certificates, and my hotel even offered two rooms

if she accepted our invitation. With all the provisions in order, all we had to

do now was wait.

While anxiously awaiting a response from Zlata, a wonderful woman

named Gerda Seifer, a Holocaust survivor from Poland, called to tell me

that Miep Gies was actually coming to California to help commemorate the

fiftieth anniversary of Anne Frank’s diary. Miep was Otto Frank’s secretary

and the person responsible for finding Anne’s diary. She’s eighty-seven

years old and will be flying in from Amsterdam. The director of the event

happened to live near me. We met and hit it off. He offered to change

Miep’s itinerary so she could come meet my students. Wow! Meeting a

legend like Miep is more than we could have ever hoped for.

To help prepare the students for Miep’s visit, I asked Gerda to share her

experience during WWII with the students. Like Anne, who spent her

adolescence hiding in the secret annex, Gerda sat perched on a wooden box

in a windowless cellar. Not only will the students be able to empathize with

Gerda’s feelings of persecution and loss, but I hope they’ll be able to

understand how Anne Frank must have felt.

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