Last summer, protesters in my city of Minneapolis were begging a system to change.

When I brought up the idea of a protest, teachers and peers alike scoffed at first. I was living in Singapore, where protesting was illegal.

The bottom line is that as white Jews, we can (and do) perpetuate racism and benefit from white privilege.

How many other teenagers around the state of Florida, around the country, shared my bitterness and anger, but didn’t have the tools to be where I was then?

My friend wanted to get arrested, one morning in July, on the curb of the sidewalk along a street east of downtown Houston.

I couldn’t understand why it was this incident that spurred me to tears—why it was the struggle of a dog rather than the countless struggles of humans that had made me cry.

In my year and two months as a gun control activist, this type of conversation has been a common occurrence.

Rich once said, “In a time of frontal assaults both on language and on human solidarity, poetry can remind us of all we are in danger of losing–disturb us, embolden us out of resignation.” In other words, poetry has the power to express the things that unite us all as humans and can inspire us to work together toward a common goal.

I’ve spent my formative years in various liberal bubbles, shielded from the reality of a bigoted and unaccepting America. I’ve been fortunate enough to live in New York City, a progressive hub and notoriously accepting city, to spend five summers at Eisner Camp, a Reform Jewish camp where we often discuss gun violence prevention, and to attend the progressive Temple Shaaray Tefila my whole life.