I stood in front of the class. A familiar classroom, but fresh young faces. Faces that reminded me of me when I went to Welton. One student in particular caught my eye. He was shy and inhibited, like I was. As I started the class that day, my mind raced back to ten years earlier, when I was that shy student and, like the young man in the desk that was mine, didn't do the assignment because it scared me.

I decided to relay my story on to the class of the day, and the person that changed my life, hoping that it would help Mr. Hansen deal with his shyness. I went to the blackboard and wrote the same thing that Mr. Keating had put up there years earlier.

"I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world." He had written on the blackboard and then he asked me to sound my 'barbaric yawp', which of course, you can't do sitting down. He kept pushing me to 'yawp' and I couldn't. Until the final push, which I 'yawped' as loud as I could. "There it is!" He smiled. He pointed out a picture of Walt Whitman and asked me to describe him. I at first describe him only as a madman, but he pushed me to expand and the only thing that popped into my head was "A sweaty toothed madman." I watched him step back and go "Good God, boy! There is a poet in you after all!"

He told me to close my eyes, and when I didn't immediately, he put his hands over my eyes and told me to describe what I saw. "A sweaty tooth madman, with a stare that pounds my brain." He starting spinning and pushed me to continue to describe what I saw. "His hands reach out and choke me."

I hear him respond. "That's it! Wonderful, wonderful!"

And I'm pushed to continue by something deep inside that I didn't understand. "And all the time he's mumbling."

"What's he mumbling?"

I said the first thing that popped in my head. "Mumbling truth... Truth's like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold."

Some of the class started to laugh, but he focused his attention on me. "Forget them, forget them! Stay with the blanket. Tell me about that blanket!"

Because it was him, I continued. "Y-You push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough. You kick at it, beat it, it will never cover any of us. From the moment we enter crying to the moment we leave dying, it will cover just your head as you wail and cry and scream!"

I stood there, silent, looking around as the class applauded. I saw Neil, who was looking proud and Mr. Keating put his forehead against mine and said "Don't you forget this."

And I haven't. It's been nearly a decade since that day and I've never forgotten what I was taught that day. Living in the shadow of a near perfect older brother made me shy because I was viewed as rather insignificant. And for 17 years, I believed I was.

Even as I watched the Dead Poets Society fall apart; even as I grieved the death of Neil and the firing of Mr. Keating, I began to feel the voice within waken.

Knox and I talked a few years ago about that moment. The moment I yelled out in class as Mr. Keating walked away, telling him we were forced to sign the papers. Knox said that he never felt prouder of me than at that moment. With the crooked grin only Knox could get away with he smirked. "Well, that was until Mr. Keating reached the door."

I smiled. I was watching the only person alive that I felt believed in me walk away. I didn't know if I'd ever have the chance to tell him what he did, so I did the only thing that I could think of. I stood on my desk. "Oh, Captain, my Captain." I could tell Mr. Keating what I didn't have the chance to tell Neil: thanks for everything.

Mr. Keating turned around. As Mr. Nolan was trying to get me to stand down, I refused. Trouble? Yeah, I knew I was in deep shit. But, I didn't care. I remember Knox standing on his desk and saying "Oh, Captain, my Captain." One by one we stood on our desks, only about five refusing to. Mr. Keating smiled. "Thank you, boys. Thank you."

And he was gone.

I'll never be able to really tell Mr. Keating what he did for me. I heard rumors he moved to London and other rumors he was killed in a car crash. I only know this. We all have that person that touches our lives so profoundly that we'll never be able to forget what they did for us. I was lucky. I had six. But now, only four of them know the true impact of what they've done for me in helping me find my voice within. Neil Perry, my best friend and roommate at Welton, and Mr. Keating are the only two who never knew the full and complete impact on my life.

I stood before the English class, a teacher, with a voice that hoped to inspire others. All because of a certain dedicated few: Knox Overstreet. Charlie "Call me Nuwanda" Dalton. Steven Meeks. Gerard Pitts. Neil Perry, and most importantly, Mr. John Keating, the man who helped me to find my voice within.

And, like Nuwanda once said, I haven't shut up since.

And I notice Mr. Hansen is writing and smiling.