When I was 25 years old, I went mute. Not for a few seconds, not for a few days, or weeks, but months. Talking, for me, evoked acute panic attacks. When I found my way to Figueroa Street in Eagle Rock, Los Angeles, I panicked over how I was to teach a group of juvenile delinquents without any training let alone without a voice. I was to work with one student. He was 17 years old. He was over six feet tall and his name was Anthony. I learned that this 17-year-old Anthony was awaiting trial. He was allegedly involved in a gang shooting where one individual died. I feel like I owe much of my life to Anthony.