An engraved jewelry box, Stevie Wonder’s “Songs in the Key of Life” on vinyl, a worn Quran whose margins are filled with poems written by my late grandfather, a monogrammed red leather wallet, a rare edition of James Baldwin’s “Price of the Ticket.”

I remember the first time I encountered God.

It was 2002 and my mother, with three small children in tow, had just arrived at the doors of the Cathedral of the Holy Spirit in Atlanta, Ga. She was not seeking salvation from sin, but homelessness. For months we had been living in a domestic violence shelter in North Carolina, and when my mother got word of a church support group called Overcomers that helped women in similar circumstances, she drove deeper into the Bible Belt to enlist their help.

I remember the first time I fell in love with poetry.

I was in 10th grade, and my world literature teacher, Ms. Joe, had assigned us the poem “Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden. I read the poem and at once found myself engrossed in my own memory. I, too, recalled the coldness of my childhood home and the “austere and lonely offices” of my father’s love.

12/05/2016

When I was 3 my mother taught me to read. She insisted that I know how before I began elementary school.

“I knew if you could read, there was no place you could not go, and nothing you could not do,” she told me years later. “I wanted that freedom for you.”

On the first day of my freshman course — Masterpieces of Western Literature and Philosophy — my professor addressed the class: Homer. Montaigne. Shakespeare. These are the minds that have shaped Western civilization. These are the voices that have taught us how to examine the human condition. As a long time bibliophile and prospective literature major, I was excited to hear these voices. That was until I realized they had come at the expense of my own.

03/22/2016

When I began to discuss politics with other students at college, I quickly felt ostracized. I was told I was not “down enough for the cause” to belong to the Columbia Socialists and not nearly right enough to join the Libertarian Club.

2015

Choice is the essence of personal freedom. Growing up poor, I found this to be true all too often. I recall an 8-year-old me putting Lay's chips back on the store shelf to pick up the off-brand bag. Even then I knew that personal freedom came with a price.