At our first scholarship ceremony, Grandpa sat in the front row trying not to cry.
A nineteen-year-old apprentice named Keisha received the first tool kit. She held it to her chest like it was something alive.
Grandpa squeezed my hand.
“This,” he said, looking around the courtyard, “is the name.”
Later, I added Callaway to my name.
Jasmine Reed Callaway.
Not because Damon said I didn’t deserve it.
Because I finally understood that dignity does not need permission.
