For years, I’ve had the privilege of telling other people’s stories. Today, I’d like to tell you one of my own. I can still feel it as if it were yesterday. The crisp spring air filled my lungs as I hopped down the last two steps of the stoop outside the red-brick six-family house where my family lived in East Flatbush, Brooklyn. The May sun had already warmed the block, and I hurried toward the corner bodega before making the four-block walk to P.S. 219.