I remember being voiceless, even though I didn’t know it. I never spoke up for anything I believed in. This was a time cast in doubt and darkness. It seems like a thousand years ago, when really it’s only been a few. The last time I knew this self was in the tenth grade.
I was sitting in my school’s tiny auditorium. The sophomores were called into an assembly for some sort of poetry performance. The principal had been vague. For several minutes, the room hummed with the murmur of questions. Then suddenly, out came five people. They sat in chairs on the stage. Four were quiet as one emerged. Tall, brown, and, obviously in his thirties, unlike the other four, he introduced the Los Angeles Get Lit organization. The ones on the stage before us would be performing poetry, the man said.