Diary of Latoya Hunter
Page 1
Latoya Hunter
The Diary of Latoya Hunter
Latoya Hunter was born in 1978 in St. Ann, Jamaica. She moved to the Bronx, New York, in 1986 and attended Public School 94 and Junior High School 80, where she wrote this book. Latoya Hunter now lives with her family in Mt. Vernon, New York.
FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, SEPTEMBER 1993
Copyright © 1992 by Latoya Hunter
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover by Crown Publishers, Inc., New York, in 1992.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hunter, Latoya.
The diary of Latoya Hunter: my first year in junior high / by Latoya Hunter. — 1st Vintage Books ed.
p. cm.
Originally published: New York: Crown, c1992.
eISBN: 978-0-307-80519-5
1. Hunter, Latoya—Diaries—Juvenile literature. 2. Children of immigrants—New York (NY.)—Diaries—Juvenile literature. 3. West Indian Americans—New York (NY.)—Diaries—Juvenile literature. 4. Children’s writings, American—New York (NY.) 5. Education, Elementary—New York (N.Y.)—Juvenile literature. 6. Bronx (New York, NY.)—Biography—Juvenile literature. 7. New York (NY.)—Biography—Juvenile literature. I. Title.
[F128.9.W54H863 1993]
974.7′ 1043′ 092—dc20
[B] 93-13106
v3.1
I dedicate this book to my family: Linneth, Linton, Rondah, Clifton, Anthony, and to the new additions: Devoy, Kevaughn, and Michelle. I would also like to dedicate this book to all my relatives in Canada and Jamaica, especially my grandparents. Thank you all for your support. And to Mr. Robert Pelka, thank you for believing in me.
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Editor’s Note
September 10, 1990
September 11, 1990
September 12, 1990
September 13, 1990
September 14, 1990
September 16, 1990
September 17, 1990
September 18, 1990
September 19, 1990
September 20, 1990
September 21, 1990
September 23, 1990
September 25, 1990
September 30, 1990
October 1, 1990
October 2, 1990
October 3, 1990
October 5, 1990
October 6, 1990
October 7, 1990
October 8, 1990
October 9, 1990,
October 10, 1990
October 11, 1990
October 12, 1990
October 15, 1990
October 16, 1990
October 17, 1990
October 18, 1990
October 19, 1990
October 22, 1990
October 24, 1990
October 26, 1990
October 29, 1990
October 30, 1990
November 2, 1990
November 5, 1990
November 7, 1990
November 9, 1990
November 10, 1990
November 12, 1990
November 15, 1990
November 18, 1990
November 20, 1990
November 24, 1990
November 26, 1990
November 29
Sunday, November 31, 1990
December 3, 1990
December 5, 1990
December 6, 1990
December 8, 1990
December 9, 1990
December 13, 1990
Friday, December 14, 1990
Sunday, December 16, 1990
December 17, 1990
Tuesday, December 19, 1990
December 20, 1990
December 21, 1990: Update on Devoy
Saturday, December 22, 1990
Monday, December 24, 1990
Tuesday, December 25, 1990
Wednesday, December 26
December 28, 1990
Sunday, December 30, 1990
Monday, December 31, 1990
New Years Eve 1990
January 2, 1991
January 4, 1991
January 7, 1991
January 9, 1991
January 11, 1991
January 12, 1991
January 14, 1991
January 15, 1991
January 16, 1991
January 17, 1991
January 21, 1991
January 23, 1991
February 1, 1991
February 2, 1991
February 3, 1991
February 5, 1991
February 7, 1991
February 9, 1991
February 11, 1991
February 13, 1991
February 16, 1991
February 18, 1991
February 20, 1991
February 22, 1991
February 25, 1991
February 28, 1991
March 2, 1991
March 4, 1991
March 6, 1991
March 9, 1991
March 11, 1991
March 13, 1991
March 15, 1991
March 18, 1991
March 20, 1991
March 22, 1991
March 23, 1991
March 25, 1991
March 27, 1991
March 29, 1991
March 31, 1991
April 1, 1991
April 3, 1991
April 5, 1991
April 6, 1991: (early morning)
April 6, 1991: (Saturday night)
April 7, 1991
April 8, 1991
April 10, 1991
April 13, 1991
April 15, 1991
April 17, 1991
April 19, 1991
April 20, 1991
April 21, 1991
April 22, 1991
April 23, 1991
April 24, 1991
April 25, 1991
April 26, 1991
April 27, 1991
April 28, 1991
April 30, 1991
May 2, 1991
May 3, 1991
May 7, 1991
May 8, 1991
May 9, 1991
May 11, 1991
May 13, 1991
May 15, 1991
May 18, 1991
May 21, 1991
May 22, 1991
May 24, 1991
May 26, 1991
May 29, 1991
June 2, 1991
June 4, 1991
June 7, 1991
June 9, 1991
June 13, 1991
June 15, 1991
June 17, 1991
June 18, 1991
June 19, 1991
June 20, 1991
June 21, 1991
June 22, 1991
June 23, 1991
June 24, 1991
June 25, 1991
June 26, 1991
Editor’s Note
The origin of this book stems from a New York Times article describing the graduation of the sixth-grade class from P.S. 94 in the Bronx. The class had several exceptional students, but its teacher, Robert Pelka, singled out Latoya Hunter for her “incredible writing talent.” On her final report card, he wrote simply, “The world is waiting for Latoya!”
I contacted Mr. Pelka and asked if he thought Latoya would like to keep a diary of her first year in junior high. He talked to his pupil and wrote back that she
and her parents would be interested in meeting with me. An appointment was made; I arrived, accompanied by my twenty-three-year-old assistant, Laura Hildebrand, who would, I thought, have a much closer rapport with Latoya than I. (This turned out to be true, as you’ll see when you read the diary.)
Latoya was shy but self-possessed, obviously smart and equally obviously excited by the prospect of the diary. We commissioned two-weeks’ worth of work. She sent them, and we loved them; we signed a contract for the whole book. The diary was born.
Every word in this diary is Latoya’s. We have, occasionally, corrected syntax and spelling when they seemed mistakes of speed. The mistakes of vernacular, we’ve left alone. Keeping a diary over a ten-month span is arduous work even for a grown-up, and there were days when Latoya’s entries were obviously written more out of duty than passion. In some cases, I’ve left them as is, in others I’ve asked Latoya to expand and amplify. In that sense, and because, of course, Latoya knew she was writing for publication, this is not a “pure” work. Yet it seems to me remarkably honest nevertheless, and unquestionably it reveals the soul of an extraordinary young girl whom all of us who have worked with her have come to love.
RICHARD MAREK
September 10, 1990
Dear Diary,
It is hard to believe that this is the day I have anticipated and looked forward to for such a long time. The sun still rose in the East and set again in the West, the crisis in Iraq is still going strong and Oprah Winfrey still preached at 4:00 about other people’s business. This may sound funny but somewhere in the back of my mind I thought the world would stop for my first day of JH. The day proved me wrong and I’ve grown to realize that nothing will be quite as I dreamed them up.
My teachers are one of my biggest disappointments. In this crazy dream world of mine my teachers were cool and calm and bright and welcoming. They were really just normal people making their livings. Ms. Johnson is the science teacher. She is Australian-Chinese. I have never met a teacher who gave so many rules. Her rules for the year took up at least 3 pages of my notebook. All my other teachers are just average. They aren’t, or don’t seem to be nothing above or under that. Maybe during the year they’ll prove to be above, or hopefully not under. My other courses are math, English, French, social studies, and Home and Careers. There are none I’m really excited about.
Diary, there isn’t much of a welcoming committee at this school. However, there’s a day 8th & 9th graders set out to show freshmen how they feel about us. They call it Freshman Day. It may sound sweet but it’s not at all. What they set out to do is terrorize us. They really seem to want to hurt us. It’s a tradition I guess. I hope with God’s help that I’ll be able to make it through without any broken bones.
Well, today I think I could say J.H.S. is almost like an earthly version of hell.
September 11, 1990
Dear Diary,
I never thought I’d get desperate enough to say this but I envy you. You don’t have to live in this troubled world; all you do is hear about it. You don’t have to go to J.H. and watch the clock, praying for dismissal time to come. You also don’t have to go through a situation like sitting in a cafeteria watching others laughing and talking and you don’t know anyone. To sit there and eat the food that is just terrible because there’s nothing else to do.
You don’t do any of those things. All you do is listen to pathetic twelve-year-olds like me tell you about it.
I guess you can tell how my day went. Diary, what am I going to do? My best friend left to go to another school. I wish she could be with me. We had so much fun together. She moved right before summer started. She doesn’t live anywhere close so it would be much easier if she stayed at the school closest to her. That’s the only part of it that’s easy. The hardest part is not being together.
September 12, 1990
Dear Diary,
The dreaded Freshman Day is drawing near. I can see into the deranged minds of the 8th & 9th graders. They can’t wait. I’ve heard rumors that they attack kids in the hall. I wonder if that could be true. Are they that cruel? I feel there will be a lot of fights between freshmen and seniors, I hope I won’t be in any of them. The thing is, I know the kind of people they’ll be aiming for. They are the quiet ones, the ones who aren’t into the crowd, the kids who don’t act like animals on the street. That’s the kind of person I am. That’s just how I am and how I’ll leave J.H.S. 80. I’m not about to change to fit in their dead-in-an-alley-headed crowd. I intend to make something of myself. Life is too precious to waste.
September 13, 1990
Dear Diary,
Is it strange for someone to want to get sick so they can’t leave their house for a day? Well, I do and you know why—it’s Freshman’s Day eve and tis not the season to be jolly. The older kids are really trying to make us believe like we’re trespassing on their property. Well, it isn’t theirs alone.
If there is a special diary way of praying, pray I’ll come home in one piece. I’ll write to you tomorrow. If I survive.
September 14, 1990
Dear Diary,
I can’t believe I’m here writing to you with no scratches or bruises. I actually made it! Something must have snapped in the minds of the older kids. Maybe they remembered when they were freshmen themselves because there were only a few fights today. I witnessed one of them with a geeky looking boy who really fought back, badly as he did. They didn’t really bother girls. I think that was decent of them. I’m really relieved as you may guess.
In the morning, Mr. Gluck, the principal announced that if anyone even thought of touching us it would mean suspension. Maybe that was why this Freshman Day was so much calmer. Whatever reason why, I appreciate it.
Well Diary, what I assume was the worst week of J.H. is over. I hope things will get better next week. It has to. It can’t get any worse … or can it?
September 16, 1990
Dear Diary,
This weekend was the best I’ve had for a long time. On Saturday I went to a party all the way in Brooklyn. My parents wouldn’t normally let me go so far just for a party, especially since they wouldn’t be there but it was a cousin’s party, so they made an exception. I don’t think they wanted to go because it was only younger people like 25 & under.
It was a wonderful feeling not having them anywhere close. I felt independent. They always want to keep me in the house. I don’t know all their motives, but I know protection is a big part. They don’t realize that keeping me locked up just means that when I do go out there I’ll be unprepared. I believe I need experience more than anything to get along in N.Y.C. I live in the Bronx. I’d much rather live in Manhattan because it’s what I pictured New York to be in Jamaica with its big buildings and city-like sights. I live on a street where everything seems so ugly to me. The sidewalks, the houses, even my own house. From the outside it looks really broken down. It needs everything done to it to improve it. The inside is really small. It has three bedrooms, the smallest one, mine. I can hardly move around in it. I would say it’s the best the family could do right now, but I don’t believe it. I’m sure there’s a better place out there for us it’s just no one seems to be looking for it right now.
Most people don’t understand how I think. I have so many ideas that don’t check in other people’s minds. My parents are the main people who can’t see into them. I would like to please my parents and let go of my ideas but I can’t. They’re stuck in my mind. Like at this party, there were a lot of guys. I like guys. There, I said it. It’s easy to say it to you, but my mother would give me a real hard time if she heard me say that. She believes a normal twelve-year-old should only obey her parents, go to school, learn her lessons, and come home everyday and listen to her parents some more. There is no such thing as a person like that! If I like a boy, she could talk and talk but it can’t stop me from liking him.
At the party, a guy tried to talk to me and I gave him a wrong number to call. He was ugly, his breath stank, it wa
s horrible. I may sound stuck up, but in this case I’ll risk it. He was a dog! I had a good time anyway. My cousin dropped me home at 5:00 in the morning! It lasted longer than I thought.
Anyhow, I stayed home from church. I was too tired! I chilled out inside all day. I watched a lot of t.v., which is one of the only things I’m good at. My parents are cool with me watching t.v., at least it keeps me off the streets.
September 17, 1990
Dear Diary,
I have good news. On Thursday and Friday there’ll be no school. It’s the Jewish New Year. It doesn’t count for me because I’m not Jewish. I really respect these people though. Last year in school I learned about Adolph Hitler and all the terrible things he did to them. He was a psycho if you ask me. I can’t understand why people discriminate against others for simple things like skin color and religion. I strongly believe this world should be non-racist. I’ve never come across discrimination against me for me being black. I know racism is going on in all parts of the world but the fight is still going on too. That is something to be thankful for. Things like Mandela recently being freed has kept my hope alive.
September 18, 1990
Dear Diary,
Today felt like a sneak preview of winter and a sad end to summer. It was fun while it lasted. I spent most of August in Toronto. It’s such a beautiful city. It’s clean and peaceful. In other words, not my style. I like action. It’s not so much the place that appeals to me, it’s my relatives living there. That includes my grandparents on my mom’s side, my aunt Chunnie, and four of my cousins. The oldest is 20 and the youngest is now 16. That’s the only girl, Ann. We grew up like sisters! Like me their mom lived apart from them (in Canada), then took them up. Then she took up my grandparents. My cousins are who I grew up with excluding my Aunt Chunnie and her youngest son, and they were the only people I knew how to love until I was eight. That’s when I left Jamaica, my homeland, the place where my life was crafted. Sadly, until that time, my life was crafted without my parents. They were here in N.Y., struggling to make enough money to get my sister, two brothers and me to share with them the American dream. I didn’t know my father until he met us at the airport. He left when I was a baby. I’ve really gotten to know him over the past four years though. When I first saw him at the airport, I thought “Well this is the famous Daddy!” Everyone, even my cousins call him Daddy. Our families were that close. I can’t forget he was in a hurry to get home to watch a big baseball game on t.v. After that was over, he pretty much put all his attention into us. I can remember once when I was sick, and I’ll never forget this, he made me soup and made me stay in bed. I was like, “Wow! This is like t.v.” I guess in Jamaica I never pictured a father making soup for his kid. I pictured the mother doing those things, never the man. He isn’t easily upset or worked up. He hardly yells at me. That works with me because if I do something wrong and someone yells at me, I don’t feel guilty about what I’ve done, just angry at the person yelling. He just goes with the flow. He was really easy to get used to.