How to pronounce "transcendentalism"

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,

in a 1968 speech where he reflects upon the Civil Rights Movement,

states, "In the end,

we will remember not the words of our enemies

but the silence of our friends."

As a teacher, I've internalized this message.

Every day, all around us,

we see the consequences of silence

manifest themselves in the form of discrimination,

violence, genocide and war.

In the classroom, I challenge my students

to explore the silences in their own lives

through poetry.

We work together to fill those spaces,

to recognize them, to name them,

to understand that they don't have to be sources of shame.

In an effort to create a culture within my classroom

where students feel safe sharing the intimacies

of their own silences,

I have four core principles posted on the board

that sits in the front of my class,

which every student signs at the beginning of the year:

read critically, write consciously,

speak clearly, tell your truth.

And I find myself thinking a lot about that last point,

tell your truth.

And I realized that

if I was going to ask my students to speak up,

I was going to have to tell my truth

and be honest with them about the times

where I failed to do so.

So I tell them that growing up,

as a kid in a Catholic family in New Orleans,

during Lent I was always taught

that the most meaningful thing one could do

was to give something up,

sacrifice something you typically indulge in

to prove to God you understand his sanctity.

I've given up soda, McDonald's, French fries,

French kisses, and everything in between.

But one year, I gave up speaking.

I figured the most valuable thing I could sacrifice

was my own voice, but it was like I hadn't realized

that I had given that up a long time ago.

I spent so much of my life

telling people the things they wanted to hear

instead of the things they needed to,

told myself I wasn't meant to be anyone's conscience

because I still had to figure out being my own,

so sometimes I just wouldn't say anything,

appeasing ignorance with my silence,

unaware that validation doesn't need words

to endorse its existence.

When Christian was beat up for being gay,

I put my hands in my pocket

and walked with my head down as if I didn't even notice.

I couldn't use my locker for weeks because the bolt on the lock

reminded me of the one I had put on my lips

when the homeless man on the corner

looked at me with eyes up merely searching

for an affirmation that he was worth seeing.

I was more concerned with touching the screen on my Apple

than actually feeding him one.

When the woman at the fundraising gala

said "I'm so proud of you.

It must be so hard teaching those poor, unintelligent kids,"

I bit my lip, because apparently we needed her money

more than my students needed their dignity.

We spend so much time

listening to the things people are saying

that we rarely pay attention to the things they don't.

Silence is the residue of fear.

It is feeling your flaws

gut-wrench guillotine your tongue.

It is the air retreating from your chest

because it doesn't feel safe in your lungs.

Silence is Rwandan genocide. Silence is Katrina.

It is what you hear when there aren't enough body bags left.

It is the sound after the noose is already tied.

It is charring. It is chains. It is privilege. It is pain.

There is no time to pick your battles

when your battles have already picked you.

I will not let silence wrap itself around my indecision.

I will tell Christian that he is a lion,

a sanctuary of bravery and brilliance.

I will ask that homeless man what his name is

and how his day was, because sometimes

all people want to be is human.

I will tell that woman that my students can talk about

transcendentalism like their last name was Thoreau,

and just because you watched one episode of "The Wire"

doesn't mean you know anything about my kids.

So this year,

instead of giving something up,

I will live every day as if there were a microphone

tucked under my tongue,

a stage on the underside of my inhibition.

Because who has to have a soapbox

when all you've ever needed is your voice?

Thank you.

(Applause)