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Sunday mornings in my childhood home had a sound. My mother would blast the radio. Vintage calypso. Sparrow. Kitchener. Stalin. I did not know then that I was being educated. I know it now. This is what that education built, and what its absence costs in the creative writing classroom.

Every year I ask a class of students if they know Cinderella. Blank stares. Harry Potter. Nothing. Papa Bois. A goat man, one child says. These children do not know stories. Not ours. Not anyone else's. And that absence is not just a cultural gap. It affects how they read, how they write, and how they perform when it matters.