I thought the book was a masterpiece … I stayed up all night last night reading it and fist-pumped the air when I hit p. 177. I was too excited to sleep, and then I spent the morning alerting colleagues across the country, literally from southern CA to upstate NY. We are all of us engaged on the frontlines of youth violence. Collectively, we represent three generations of community organizers with deep roots in African-American history, everything from NAACP to Nation of Islam, and for me (and I have no doubt my colleagues will largely agree when they catch up with the reading) this book was the incredibly rare moment when someone actually captured the maddening complexities of the world we know. But I personally think the triumph of the book is that it also, at the same time, taps something universal about human experience. I saw my own self reflected in those poignant images of a young student who didn’t hear the hidden music and danced off-beat, to the beat of some other drum. Through my tears last night, I understood maybe for the first time how much that part of my own history contributed to the drastic decision I made to throw in my lot with these young men who are still our untouchables. I read, and the only regret I can possibly feel is that I have but one life to give to their cause. What more could one ask of a book? I haven’t found such hope, affirmation and, yes, truth between two covers in a long, long time; but I am also keenly aware that a great part of my excitement has to do with the fact that this is the first book I have held in my hands that describes a generational difference evident in my own circle. I suspect the “meh” in some quarters will in fact be a function of age, despite what was said in the comments at P6.