Every morning at 4 a.m., when the prison is still cloaked in darkness and silence, I wake up to work on my screenplay. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unforgiving, as I carefully remove my precious collection of screenwriting books from under my thin mattress, where I keep them safe from occasional shakedowns by guards. Though my circumstances might seem insurmountable to most aspiring screenwriters, I refuse to let walls and metal bars dictate the boundaries of my creativity. These elders passed down narratives the way most people of color have preserved their histories—through voice, rhythm, and the sacred act of remembering. I’m writing this article on it, as if I’m in the print era of Encyclopedia Britannica.