Kaiyote Ugly.
“Well, Kaiyote, you have the floor. What’s it going to be? Where will you be playing football next season?”
The principal’s voice echoed gently across the gymnasium, softened by the buzz of cameras clicking, sportswriters scribbling, and students whispering excitedly in the bleachers.
Kaiyote Laveau stood tall at the podium, his eyes cast downward at the three hats laid out in front of him on the table—each one representing a different future. But for a moment, the noise around him fell away. The spotlight brightened, but Kai’s focus turned inward.
In the crowd, he found his mother, Gloria Laveau, seated in the front row, her eyes glossy with pride.
His father, Jean-Pierre, sat beside her, straight-backed in his Marine Corps dress blues, a silver eagle, globe, and anchor gleaming quietly on his chest. Though retired, he wore the uniform for one reason only: his father.
Jean-Pierre’s jaw was set, but his eyes betrayed the weight of the moment. His hand rested firmly over his wife's, as though anchoring them both.
Beside them sat his grandmother, Jean, her church hat black and elegant. But the seat to her right—the one that should have been filled—was empty. A folded white handkerchief rested on it. A nod to the man who was missing.
Kaiyote took a slow breath.
“Before I make this decision,” he began, his voice clear but weighted, “there’s someone I need to speak about.”
The gym quieted.
“My grandfather, Marcel Laveau, isn’t here today. He passed away last month. And, truthfully, I wasn’t sure I’d even be able to do this without him.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a pair of worn, silver dog tags. They dangled in his fingers like anchors.
“These belonged to him,” Kaiyote continued, holding the worn dog tags between his fingers. “He served in Vietnam. Proudly. Came home with scars none of us ever saw, because he never wanted anyone to feel sorry for him. That was Grandpa. Strong, quiet, and always… always there.”
He paused, glancing briefly toward the ceiling, as if hoping his grandfather, Marcel, could still hear him.
“His strength came from even further back. He was the son of a Senegalese Tirailleur—my great-grandfather—who fought in World War II for France, then came to America searching for a better life. So yeah… this family knows a thing or two about fighting for things we believe in. And Grandpa? He carried all that history with him.”
Kaiyote blinked and looked up at the crowd, emotion breaking through just slightly in his throat.
“He never missed a game. Rain, sleet, snow. If I threw five touchdowns or five picks, he’d be waiting by the fence, grinning like we just won a Super Bowl. He was my number one fan. And he used to tell me—‘Be proud of who you are, son. Be proud of where we come from.' ”
Kaiyote’s hand closed over the tags.
“The night before he passed, I sat with him in the hospital. He could barely talk, but he said something I won’t forget. He said, 'I see you, Kai. You carry us all. And I’m proud of you. No matter where you go—make them remember your name.'”
His eyes flicked to the empty chair again.
Kaiyote took a steadying breath as he looked back at the table in front of him, the three hats laid out neatly like future roads waiting to be chosen.
“So today, before I choose a school, I just want to say thank you. To the man who gave me my name, my backbone, and my reason.”
He gently set the dog tags down on the table next to the hats. The tags clinked softly against the wood, and in that moment, the gym felt like a sanctuary.
Then, after a beat, his voice lifted again—softer, but no less sure.
“And to my father, Jean-Pierre… retired Marine, and the quiet storm I got my discipline from—thank you. You showed me how to walk with pride. You wore the uniform with honor, just like Grandpa. And while I head into a different battle, I carry that same blood onto the field every Friday night. You both taught me how to fight. How to lift my team & be better together.”
A hush fell over the room. Cameras didn’t click. Reporters didn’t scribble.
Just stillness. Reverence.
Kaiyote’s hand hovered over the table now. Three hats. One future. And generations of legacy behind him.
“Well, Kaiyote, you have the floor. What’s it going to be? Where will you be playing football next season?”
The principal’s voice echoed gently across the gymnasium, softened by the buzz of cameras clicking, sportswriters scribbling, and students whispering excitedly in the bleachers.
Kaiyote Laveau stood tall at the podium, his eyes cast downward at the three hats laid out in front of him on the table—each one representing a different future. But for a moment, the noise around him fell away. The spotlight brightened, but Kai’s focus turned inward.
In the crowd, he found his mother, Gloria Laveau, seated in the front row, her eyes glossy with pride.
His father, Jean-Pierre, sat beside her, straight-backed in his Marine Corps dress blues, a silver eagle, globe, and anchor gleaming quietly on his chest. Though retired, he wore the uniform for one reason only: his father.
Jean-Pierre’s jaw was set, but his eyes betrayed the weight of the moment. His hand rested firmly over his wife's, as though anchoring them both.
Beside them sat his grandmother, Jean, her church hat black and elegant. But the seat to her right—the one that should have been filled—was empty. A folded white handkerchief rested on it. A nod to the man who was missing.
Kaiyote took a slow breath.
“Before I make this decision,” he began, his voice clear but weighted, “there’s someone I need to speak about.”
The gym quieted.
“My grandfather, Marcel Laveau, isn’t here today. He passed away last month. And, truthfully, I wasn’t sure I’d even be able to do this without him.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a pair of worn, silver dog tags. They dangled in his fingers like anchors.
“These belonged to him,” Kaiyote continued, holding the worn dog tags between his fingers. “He served in Vietnam. Proudly. Came home with scars none of us ever saw, because he never wanted anyone to feel sorry for him. That was Grandpa. Strong, quiet, and always… always there.”
He paused, glancing briefly toward the ceiling, as if hoping his grandfather, Marcel, could still hear him.
“His strength came from even further back. He was the son of a Senegalese Tirailleur—my great-grandfather—who fought in World War II for France, then came to America searching for a better life. So yeah… this family knows a thing or two about fighting for things we believe in. And Grandpa? He carried all that history with him.”
Kaiyote blinked and looked up at the crowd, emotion breaking through just slightly in his throat.
“He never missed a game. Rain, sleet, snow. If I threw five touchdowns or five picks, he’d be waiting by the fence, grinning like we just won a Super Bowl. He was my number one fan. And he used to tell me—‘Be proud of who you are, son. Be proud of where we come from.' ”
Kaiyote’s hand closed over the tags.
“The night before he passed, I sat with him in the hospital. He could barely talk, but he said something I won’t forget. He said, 'I see you, Kai. You carry us all. And I’m proud of you. No matter where you go—make them remember your name.'”
His eyes flicked to the empty chair again.
Kaiyote took a steadying breath as he looked back at the table in front of him, the three hats laid out neatly like future roads waiting to be chosen.
“So today, before I choose a school, I just want to say thank you. To the man who gave me my name, my backbone, and my reason.”
He gently set the dog tags down on the table next to the hats. The tags clinked softly against the wood, and in that moment, the gym felt like a sanctuary.
Then, after a beat, his voice lifted again—softer, but no less sure.
“And to my father, Jean-Pierre… retired Marine, and the quiet storm I got my discipline from—thank you. You showed me how to walk with pride. You wore the uniform with honor, just like Grandpa. And while I head into a different battle, I carry that same blood onto the field every Friday night. You both taught me how to fight. How to lift my team & be better together.”
A hush fell over the room. Cameras didn’t click. Reporters didn’t scribble.
Just stillness. Reverence.
Kaiyote’s hand hovered over the table now. Three hats. One future. And generations of legacy behind him.
I tried to make it as serious as possible & the first comment is about stripping. 
