Think of it as common sense. Think of it as courtesy. Think of it as how you’d like to be treated yourself.
I was born a writer. Just like I was born with brown eyes.
In 5th grade when we were assigned to write a poem with an illustration, everyone wrote about the spring, flowers, stars, the city, the country.
I wrote about racism. My illustration was a black silhouette pasted against white paper.
My teacher promptly sent me home with a note for my parents, accusing me of plagiarism.
For me, quite simply, it was my grandfather.
After all, I was a pariah. A leper. (No one would say the “E” word.)
I’d never achieve anything. My life was over.
Even though it had just begun.
“If there’s one thing that I’ve learned, it’s that people are willing to embrace you if you share your story.”