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call. When I called my mom I lied to her. Of course, if I could lie to my mom, then I could lie to Ms. Gruwell.
So one day when Ms. Gruwell pointed out my 0.5 GPA, but said that I had potential, I felt guilty. Then before I left class, Ms. Gruwell told me something that would change my life forever. She told me she believed in me. I have never heard those words from anyone…especially a teacher.
Now you can understand why I am so excited to stay in Ms. Gruwell’s class for another year. Since Ms. Gruwell cares about me, I started caring about myself. I even stopped ditching. I hate to admit it, but I’m actually starting to like school. I can’t wait till next year to have Ms. Gruwell all over again. You never know what exciting things will happen.
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 of Tolerance. When 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
So one day when Ms. Gruwell pointed out my 0.5 GPA, but said that I had potential, I felt guilty. Then before I left class, Ms. Gruwell told me something that would change my life forever. She told me she believed in me. I have never heard those words from anyone…especially a teacher.
Now you can understand why I am so excited to stay in Ms. Gruwell’s class for another year. Since Ms. Gruwell cares about me, I started caring about myself. I even stopped ditching. I hate to admit it, but I’m actually starting to like school. I can’t wait till next year to have Ms. Gruwell all over again. You never know what exciting things will happen.
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 of Tolerance. When 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
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