Teach with Your Heart: Lessons I Learned from the Freedom Writers

The extraordinary memoir of the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Freedom Writers Diary, who's beenhailed as "a true inspiration" (Hilary Swank) and "simply magical when it comes to inspiring people to action" (Los Angeles Times).

Don't miss the public television documentary Freedom Writers: Stories from the Heart

In this passionate, poignant, and deeply personal memoir and call to arms, Erin Gruwell, the dynamic teacher who nurtured an extraordinary group of high school students from Long Beach, California, who called themselves the Freedom Writers, picks up where The Freedom Writers Diary--and the hit movie Freedom Writers--left off and brings the reader up to date on where the Freedom Writers are today.

Including their unforgettable trip to Auschwitz, where they met with Holocaust survivors; their tour of the attic of their beloved Anne Frank; and their visit to Bosnia with their friend Zlata Filipovic, Teach With Your Heart chronicles what happened with the Freedom Writers as they made their way through college and beyond. Along the way, Gruwell includes lessons for parents and teachers about what she learned from her remarkable band of students as she traveled through the emotional peaks and valleys on the front lines of our nation's educational system.

A mesmerizing story of one young woman's personal odyssey and of her unique ability to encourage others to follow in her footsteps, Teach With Your Heart is marked by the enviable radiance and irrepressible force of nature that are Erin Gruwell and her unbelievable determination to ensure that education in the United States truly meets the needs of every student.

Erin Gruwell and the Freedom Writers continue to share their stories with students and teachers from around the globe through their nonprofit, the Freedom Writers Foundation. They are the subject of the 2019 public television documentary Freedom Writers: Stories from the Heart, and the 2007 feature lm Freedom Writers, starring Hilary Swank. Gruwell lives in Long Beach with her dog, Beau.

Chapter I

“Why do we have to read books by dead white guys in tights?” asked Sharaud, a foulmouthed sixteen–year–old, after he took one look at my syllabus.

Sharaud had entered my class at Woodrow Wilson High School in Long Beach, California, wearing a football jersey from Polytechnic High School. He must have known that donning the rival jersey was bound to get a rise out of the other students. He arrogantly strutted around my class, taunting the other players that he was going to take their places on the field, then leisurely strolled to the back of the classroom and took a seat.

As I started to discuss the curriculum, my students rocked in their seats and played percussion with their pencils. Some checked their pagers, while others reapplied their eyeliner. Some slouched, some laid their heads on the desks, and some actually took a nap. This was not the reception I was hoping for on my first day as a student teacher.

I dodged a paper airplane—made out of my syllabus, I quickly realized—and tried to make myself heard over a string of “yo mama” jokes.

I fidgeted with my pearls. I glanced at the polka-dot dress I was wearing—it was similar to the one that Julia Roberts wore in Pretty Woman—and wondered if I had chosen the wrong profession.

Why hadn’t I gone to law school like I’d originally planned? In a courtroom, unlike this chaotic classroom, a judge would bang his gavel with gusto after the first projectile had flown across the room, and any innuendo about his mother’s integrity would bring instant charges of contempt of court. I needed a daunting authority figure in a black robe to tell these kids that they were “out of order.” I looked around the room, but an authority figure was nowhere to be found. Then came a panicked realization—I was the authority figure, armed only with a broken piece of chalk.

As a student teacher, I should have been able to rely on my supervising teacher, but he had stepped out of the classroom. When I met with him over the summer, he suggested that it would be a good idea for me to begin teaching on the first day of school, rather than easing my way into it. “If you dive right in,” he said, “you’ll establish your authority from the get–go.” From the comfort of his living room, this suggestion sounded great. I had visions of passing out my syllabus and having students stick out their hands like Oliver Twist and ask for “more.” In reality, the only person requesting “more” was my supervising teacher, who conveniently snuck out to get “more” coffee and never returned.

After nearly forty years of teaching, my supervising teacher planned to retire at the end of the school year. He had emotionally checked out and was now simply coasting on autopilot. I’d assumed student teachers were to be handled like timid student drivers, with someone ready to grab the wheel when changing lanes or parallel parking went awry. Since my so–called mentor wasn’t there to put on the brakes or take control, I didn’t know which direction to go except forward.

To gain my composure, I tried to sound authoritative while reading my supervising teacher’s “Guidelines for Student Behavior.” I heard some students snickering. I stopped reading to see what they were laughing about.

“You got chalk on your ass,” yelled a student from the back.

“Daaamn, girl! Can I have some fries with that shake?” said another.

Somehow the “Guidelines” weren’t sticking, because the class was completely out of control. Even though I had studied classroom management, it was obvious that my students were the ones managing me. I just wanted to make it to the end of the hour.

Right before the bell rang, one of my students, Melvin, leaned back in his seat and announced, “I give her five days!”

“You’re on,” said Manny.

“I’m gonna make this lady cry in front of the whole class,” Sharaud bragged as he walked out the door.

At that moment, I could hear my father’s smug “I told you so” echo in my mind. A little less foreboding than “Beware the Ides of March,” but accurate nevertheless.

I felt like a failure. It was obvious that I didn’t know what I was doing. I had no idea how to engage these apathetic teenagers who hated reading, hated writing, and apparently hated me. And to make matters worse, student teachers did not receive salaries—we actually paid for the privilege! I was holding down two part–time jobs after school and on weekends to help pay for my semester’s tuition at the university. I worked at Nordstrom department store as a salesclerk in the lingerie department and at a Marriott Hotel as a concierge. Paying to teach in the trenches was like putting my face through a cutout hole at a carnival while a quarterback threw pies at me. At least with a carnival, I’d see it coming.

Once the students left, I picked up the paper airplane off the floor. I circled the room, collecting handouts that had been left behind, and saw ESL scribbled in black marker on several desks on the left side of the room. In educational jargon, ESL stands for English as a Second Language. Earlier, when I’d seen ESL etched on my door, I’d foolishly thought some Spanish-speaker was paying homage to my classroom. I soon realized this ESL had nothing to do with education—it was the acronym for East Side Longos—the largest Latino gang in Long Beach.