The Writer

At seventeen, I was repeating my junior year at Woodlawn High in Baltimore—not because I had failed, but because I was chasing something: a second shot at basketball. The year before, at Towson Catholic, I had sat out the season due to grades. That sidelined year haunted me, so I came back to re-run the clock. I needed one last highlight reel before college scouts stopped watching. Basketball was still everything.

Then one day that fall, life crossed me over with something unexpected.

My English teacher, Ms. Clarkson, had assigned a three-page paper. I don’t even remember the topic now—but I remember what happened next with absolute clarity. I turned mine in, proud. She read it, and with a strange look on her face said, “This is beautiful… but I don’t believe you wrote it.”

At first, I didn’t know how to feel. Should I be mad? Embarrassed? Flattered?

I had written that paper. Every idea in it was mine. My mom had helped me clean up the spelling and type it out, sure, but the thoughts, the structure, the heart—that was all me.

Still, Ms. Clarkson stared at me like I was a fraud.

I needed my mother to vouch for me.

Even then, I could tell—my teacher wasn’t sure if she believed me, or just didn’t want to. Maybe she saw my grades, saw my past, and figured someone like me couldn’t write something that well. Either way, the accusation hollowed me out. I had done something right. Something I was proud of. And I wasn’t even allowed to own it.

A few days later, we were at my Aunt Sara’s house. My mom brought the paper with her, still hot from that fire of frustration. She gave it to Aunt Sara to read and told her everything—about the class, the doubt, the way I’d been dismissed. Then she let the paper speak for itself.

I wandered into the living room with Uncle Ray, who was reading, as always. The man could read through an earthquake. I cracked a few jokes with him, trying to shake it off. But when I returned to the dining room, I walked into something quiet and heavy.

My mother and Aunt Sara looked at me.

“This is really good,” Aunt Sara said.

“Thanks,” I shrugged.

“You put all this together?”

“Yeah. Just wrote it one day. Mom typed it and fixed the spelling.”

She nodded slowly. “You should be proud of this. And... you know what? You should be a writer.”

I laughed in her face. Not out of disrespect, but disbelief. A writer? Me? “Nah,” I grinned. “You’re crazy—I’m gonna be a basketball player.”

She didn’t flinch. “No, I’m serious. Think about it. This is really—”

I cut her off. “Aunt Sara. I’m not doing that. Ball is life.”

She just sighed, smiled, and changed the subject.

She knew I wasn’t ready. But she had seen something. She had read between my lines.

Back then, writing was nothing but a side note. I didn’t see it as a future. I didn’t even see it as a talent. But Aunt Sara did. She didn’t argue. She didn’t insist. She just planted the seed and walked away.

It took years before I even remembered that moment.

But now, looking back, I see what she saw. I see how the accusation by my teacher—though painful—was proof that I had done something powerful. And I see how often that happens to kids like me. Kids with dyslexia. Kids who think differently. Who write differently. Who learn differently. We surprise people, and sometimes, the world doesn’t know how to handle it.

So instead of praise, we get suspicion.

Instead of encouragement, we get doubt.

And that’s why learning to speak up for yourself is everything.

I didn’t know it then, but I was already becoming a writer. I just needed to believe it. And maybe, that belief starts when someone sees you clearly—before you even know how to see yourself.

That’s what Aunt Sara gave me.

Not a compliment. A vision.

And I carry it now. Page by page.