I have two questions for you. One: whose shoulders do you stand on? And two: what do  you stand for? These are two questions that I always  begin my poetry workshops with students because at times, poetry can seem  like this dead art form for old white men who just  seem like they were born to be old, like, you know, Benjamin  Button or something. And I ask my students these two questions, and then I share how I answer them, which is in these three  sentences that go: I am the daughter of  Black writers, who are descended  from Freedom Fighters who broke their chains  and changed the world. They call me. And these are words I repeat in a mantra  before every single poetry performance. In fact, I was doing it in the corner  over there. I was making faces. And so I repeat them to myself, as a way to gather myself, because I'm not sure if you know, but public speaking is pretty terrifying. I know I'm on stage, and I have  my heels, and I look all glam, but I'm horrified. And the way in which I kind  of strengthen myself, is by having this mantra. Most of my life I was particularly terrified of speaking up, because I had a speech  impediment, which made it difficult to pronounce  certain letters, sounds, and I felt like I was fine writing on  the page, but once I got on stage, I was worried my words  might jumble and stumble. What was the point in trying not to  mumble these thoughts in my head, if everything's already  been said before? But finally I had a moment of  realization, where I thought, if I choose not to  speak out of fear, then there's no one that my  silence is standing for. And so I came to realize that I  cannot stand standing to the side, standing silent. I must find the strength  to speak up, and one of the ways I do that is  through this mantra where I call back to what I call  honorary ancestors. These are people who might  not be related to you by blood, or by birth, but who are more than worth  saying their names, because you stand on their  shoulders all the same. And it's only from the height  of these shoulders that we might have the sight to see the mighty power of poetry, the power of language made  accessible, expressible. Poetry is interesting because not  everyone is going to become a great poet, but anyone can be, and  anyone can enjoy poetry, and it's this openness, this accessibility of poetry that  makes it the language of people. Poetry has never been  the language of barriers, it's always been  the language of bridges. And it's this connection- making that makes poetry, yes, powerful, but  also makes it political. One of the things that  irritates me to no end, is when I get that phone call,  and it's usually from a white man, and he's like, "Man, Amanda, we love your poetry, we'd love to get you to write  a poem about this subject, but don't make it political." Which to me sounds like, I have to draw a square, but not make it a rectangle, or build a car and  not make it a vehicle, it doesn't make  much sense, because all art  is political. The decision to create, the  artistic choice to have a voice, the choice to be heard is  the most political act of all. And by "political" I mean poetry  is political in at least three ways: One: what stories we tell, when we're telling them, how we're telling them, if we're telling them, why we're telling them, says so much about the political  beliefs we have,  about what types  of stories matter. Secondly, who gets to  have their stories told, I'm talking, who is legally  allowed to read, who has the resources  to be able to write, who are we reading  in our classrooms, says a lot about the political  and educational systems, that all these stories and  storytellers exist in. Lastly, poetry is political  because it's preoccupied with people. If you look at history,  notice that tyrants often go after the poets and  the creatives first. They burn books, they try to get rid  of poetry and the language arts, because they're  terrified of them. Poets have this phenomenal  potential to connect the beliefs of the private individual with the cause  of change of the public, the population, the polity, the political movement. And when you leave here,   I really want you to try to hear the ways in which poetry is actually at the center of our most political questions  about what it means to be a democracy. Maybe later you're going  to be at a protest, and someone's going to  have a poster that says, "They buried us, but they  didn't know we were seeds." That's poetry. You might be in your U.S. History class,  and your teacher may play a video of Martin Luther King Jr. saying:  "We will be able to hew out of this  mountain of despair a stone of hope." That's poetry. Or maybe even here,  in New York City, you're going to go visit  the Statue of Liberty where there's a sonnet  that declares, as Americans, "Give us your tired, your poor, your  huddled masses yearning to be free." So you see, when someone asks me to  write a poem that's not political, what they're really asking me is to not  ask charged and challenging questions in my poetic work, and that does not work, because poetry is always at the pulse of the most dangerous and most daring  questions that a nation or a world might face. What path do we  stand on as a people, and what future as a  people do we stand for? And the thing about poetry is that it's  not really about having the right answers, it's about asking these right questions,  about what it means to be a writer doing  right by your words and your actions, and my reaction is to pay honor  to those shoulders of people who used their pens to  roll over boulders so I might have a mountain  of hope on which to stand, so that I might understand  the power of telling stories that matter no matter what. So that I might realize that  if I choose, not out of fear, but out of courage,  to speak, then there's something unique  that my words can become. And all of a sudden that fear that  my words might jumble and stumble go away as I'm humbled  by the thoughts of thousands of stories  a long time coming that I know are strumming  inside me as I celebrate those people in their time who stood up  so this little Black girl could rhyme as I celebrate and call their names all the same, these people who seem like they  were just born to be bold: Maya Angelou,  Ntozake Shange, Phillis Wheatley, Lucille Clifton, Gwendolyn Brooks, Joan Wicks, Audre Lorde, and so many more. It might feel like every story has been told before, but the truth is, no one's ever told my  story in the way I would tell it, as the daughter of black writers,  who are descended from freedom fighters who broke their chains  and changed the world. They call me. I call them. And one day I'll  write a story right, by writing it into a tomorrow on this  Earth more than worth standing for. Thank you.