Years ago, as a result of both interest and boredom, I ventured into my grandmother’s homemade library. It held two, dusty bookshelves that were stacked to the brim with such classics as Gone with the Wind, Oliver Twist, and Song of Solomon. My childlike curiosity led me to dive into the forbidden text of The Autobiography of Malcolm X as told to by Alex Haley. I didn’t know what to expect. Throughout my life up to that point, Malcolm X was painted as this villainous, gun-totting devil that spouted cacophonous babble, but accomplished nothing in his lifetime. I quickly absorbed Malcolm’s life, transition, and his insight about America’s social conditions, and I emerged from the pages a changed person.

Malcolm X’s bold assessment of the times darkened the 544 pages of text. It forced me to open my eyes to the aftermath of Jim Crow and the days of blatant racism. There was change. And there was some progression. But still, I saw vague etchings of oppression, slavery, and discrimination that I thought were erased half a century ago. I didn’t know what else to do but write. Afterall, it had become second nature since my grandmother would make me to write short stories during church service to prevent me from nodding off—and, consequently, embarrassing her. That has been her policy since I was seven years old.

Writing became my voice. The black words waltz on the white paper. With every click of my computer keys, I hope to inspire. My worst critic, the person I loved most in my youth, calls this form of activism passive and ineffective—berating it to the point where I write more, while letting my mission manifest itself, on its own.

Today, writing gives life to my opinions. I write exactly what I think about the neglected ghettos east of Troost Avenue in Kansas City. Those neighborhoods are home to me and hundreds of others who live under the same shameful conditions. There is little trust in those areas and even less hope. I jot down a story about the little, brown children who shuffle barefoot up and down those streets and the lives they are forced to live. I write about the public schools in Chicago that become a pipeline to the prisons, to borrow from the Children’s Defense Fund, an organization that I have long admired. My words reach inside the community and pull out everything that needs exposure and improvement.

On a much lighter note, my writing has the power to awaken the imaginative soul. Words, memories, and people that slumber in the recesses of my mind rise and reveal themselves. I write them down, giving them new life. I could easily articulate what I believe in an oration or through song, but I write (partially because I am tone-deaf). I write because there is something intriguing about the energy of the reader; their gaze shifting from left to right, consuming every word almost effortlessly—on the CTA, in their living room with a toddler zipping about in the background, in a restaurant, in the morning, with their coffee in hand.

It is one thing to write what I see, but that isn’t the struggle. I hope to impact the reader, much like Malcolm X did for me. I want my readers to want change. The best response I can get from a reader is, “I want to do something about that.” Writing is my weapon against the dangers of our society. It defends the vulnerable. It is a remedy for the spiritually ill. It embraces the shunned. It is me. Now, tell me, what is your weapon?

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Tyler Yarbrough

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