I have been out of prison for just over two decades, and in that time I have gotten at least three honorary degrees. Not once have I had my sons or my mom or any of my closest friends come and listen to me address a class of graduates. Such a huge honor, one that I'm deeply grateful for, and one I realize now that I might not have believed I deserved. That's the strange thing about prison: it makes you question what you deserve. And yet there's also something profoundly beautiful about what men, women, and children create in prisons.
I say that freedom begins with a book, and I mean it. While I had no idea what National Poetry Month was while I was inside, I found poetry and it transformed my life. I met men in prison who used books to teach themselves how to repair any kind of electronics that would ever come into the Department of Corrections. I met men who taught themselves how to trade stocks and bonds, who taught themselves how to be better fathers, who taught themselves the history of this country all through books. I met people who became autodidacts because of what was available to them. I met others who suffered because of what was not available to them.
I've never asked my mom to come and watch me give a commencement speech. But a few days ago I had the opportunity to bring my mom to Vancouver, Canada, where she watched me give a TED Talk. I was afraid that I wouldn't be allowed into the country because of my felony convictions.
But more than my fear, I remember walking on that stage and telling a story about how it was the ingenuity of men inside who helped me become the man that I am today.
I often say that freedom begins with a book, but as I gave my talk on the red circle to a packed audience, I thought mostly about my mom. While freedom does begin with a book, the first step is love. My mom always loved me and always made me know that I was more than the worst thing that I had done in my life. I think love is the thing that allows us to have an uncluttering of our brains — whether that's the love of self or the love that someone else gives us.
When I finished speaking, loud applause broke the quiet. I looked up. People were standing. I’m told my mom was crying. Standing on the red circle, I wore this beautifully and wildly colored coat. I thought about Doggerel, my latest poetry collection and the most joyous book that I’ve ever written. The cover of Doggerel is so lovely that I turned it into a coat, so that it, too, might become a poem that I can wear into the world. On the TED Stage, it became its own ode to love.
If you appreciate the work that Freedom Reads does – I ask you to tell someone, as we must make good news spread as fast as our grievances. As we end this National Poetry Month, read a poem to a loved one or text a poem you care about to someone who loves you. And if you have the means to support the work with a donation, please do. Let's make freedom beginning with a book become an action as well as a statement.