Kindergarten Cop

 

Picture Day 1990. This was my "going out" vest purchased from JC Penney at The Citadel shopping mall. 

Kindergarten Cop

Most psychology research suggests that children form key aspects of their personality around the age of five. One of my fondest memories at such a young and impressionable age is a trip where my grandfather took me to watch the movie “Kindergarten Cop” starring Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Growing-up, my mom worked very hard. She still does. My mom is a proud hair-dresser. She still does hair. Fabulously single and self-employed, my mom always did what she needed to do taking care of her two boys: myself and my older brother who is eight years older than me.

My brother and I were fortunate enough to be raised with our grandparents in the same household. As we do in real life, we’ll refer to them as Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma was an Army wife and part-time housekeeper. She loved playing Bingo and drinking Crown Royal whiskey. Did I mention she was from Louisiana? Grandpa was retired from the Army and a professional chef by trade. Grandpa was Sous-chef at the Penrose Room, a swanky restaurant at Colorado’s swankiest hotel—The Broadmoor.

As my Mom did hair throughout the week, she would save her tips. Cash. Then, at the end of the week on Sunday (because my mom worked Saturdays) we would go on our weekly excursion for entertainment. Yes, my Mom worked on Saturdays. This, because she has to work when other people are not working since that is when they have time to get their hair did. As a child, I was always surprised, and somewhat annoyed, at how many people did not understand why my mom worked on Saturdays. “Gasp! Your mom works on weekends? Yes, stoopid.” Anyway. On Sundays, we would go to the Citadel Mall in colorful Colorado Springs.

I would ride in the backseat as my mom drove through the busy traffic on Academy Blvd. The radio was always tuned to 98.9 Magic FM. Probably the first time I heard Paula Abdul’s “Straight Up” was likely during one of these car rides to the mall.

Once we arrived, we first stopped by the pet store and admired the animals. Then, we walked around to different stores and through the food court. Back in the day, The Citadel had these decorative fountains in the middle of the food court. Every few minutes the fountains would slowly grow taller and taller and then quickly shrink back down. The thrill of the fountains growing was very delightful for me as a child. I was always amazed at how the tiniest sprouts would shoot-up to these tall looming pillars of aqua delight and wonder. Think: Bellagio but a lot smaller and in a 1980’s food court with lots of turquoise accents and fake plants. I’m sure it was even more impressive for my tiny five-year-old stature.

Then, we would get back in the car and drive across the street to Citadel Crossing shopping center. Yes. Quite the original title. Here, we would indulge in the one dollar priced movies. Dollar movies. Yes, we would see the last matinee because that’s what we could afford. My mom would stuff her purse with lots of snacks and strut us into the movie theater. She was not paying for movie theater snacks. Full-price movie tickets were not in the budget and neither were overpriced treats from the theater snack bar. 

After the movies, we would go back in the car and head to Peter Piper Pizza. Think: Chuck E. Cheese, but without the giant mouse and a lot more Black and brown people. Don’t be scared. It was fun! There, we would take Mom’s tip money to get game tokens to play arcade games and pinball. The pizza was tasty too!

Those were the days. Those were Sundays.

The lead-up to Sunday was, naturally, Saturday. On Saturday nights, we would watch the tv shows “Cops”, “America’s Most Wanted” and then “American Gladiators.” All in that order before going to bed. Thank you, KXRM-TV FOX 21. However, on one particular Saturday, my five-year-old equilibrium was disrupted; thrown way, way off. You see, the universe converged in such a way that:

•       Grandma: Went to play Bingo
•       Mom: Went out with friends (how dare she!)
•       Brother: Went to a sleepover (as many 13-year-olds do)
•       Grandpa: Came back from work and had to go to bed early
•       Orlando: Had to stay home

I could not understand why I was not allowed to go with my older brother. Yet, I was simply too young. My mom told me I needed to stay at home with Grandpa and go to bed. In fact, she dressed me in these ratty light blue-colored pajamas that I used to wear all the time, and put me to bed. I remember her shutting off the light and closing the bedroom door as she went out on the town. (Maybe a wedding or a night club? That's none of my business.)

Before I could fall asleep, Grandpa opened the door and turned the light on. I was dazed and confused. You know, but for a five-year-old. Grandpa told me to get my coat. I asked: “Where are we going?” “Just go get your coat and put your shoes on” he replied. I put my coat on over those ratty blue pajamas. At some point, before getting into to the car I learned where we were going. It was to the movies. At night! I was SO excited. I had only been to the movies during the day. I asked Grandpa if Pops could come. Pops was my teddy bear. Grandma bought him for me during a trip I took with her to Louisiana; Pops came from a Walgreens. They had a giant bin of black teddy bears, brown teddy bears, and white teddy bears. I picked a white bear. Foreshadowing. Anyway. Me and Pops were headed-out for our OWN night on the town—with Grandpa! Citadel Crossing, Sat-ur-day NIGHT—here we come!

We rolled-up to the Citadel Crossing. It was all lit up in purple and turquoise neon in all its glittering 1980’s glory! The movie theater was crowded. Young people were there with lots of energy. The vibe was very different than what I was accustomed to during the sleepy Sunday matinees. Grandpa, Pops, and I stood in line to buy fresh, buttery popcorn. This was full-price popcorn to accompany full-price tickets. Swanky, right? Then we went into the actual theater. Pops got his own seat (because I treat my people right). The movie was “Kindergarten Cop.” “Boys have a penis and girls have a vagina.” That was my favorite line in the movie—said by a character my age—and about all I could remember of the film. 

Grandpa took me home and tucked me into bed. I slept soundly into the next day, Sunday.

Several years after starring in movies like "Kindergarten Cop" and, my personal favorite, "Terminator 2" Arnold Schwarzenegger would later serve as governor of California. Many years after that, I would move to California to continue my career in higher education. On a trip back home to Colorado, I visited Mom. She still lives in the house I grew up in. She and I were driving somewhere, I cannot recall where. I do remember telling her: “Yeah, I was watching “Entertainment Tonight” recently. They did a story on the 30^th anniversary of the movie “Kindergarten Cop.” The kids in that film are about my age now. I remember when Grandpa snuck me out of bed so we could go see that movie in the theater.” “What?” Mom replied. “I never knew that.” My mom never would have let me out of the house in those ratty blue pajamas. Apparently, both Grandpa and I were good at keeping secrets.

Grandpa 🖤

Me wearing the ratty blue pajamas. The stuffed sheep pictured was a gift from Grandpa; he would call me "Bobeep" because I always carried around that sheep. Not pictured: Pops the teddy bear. 

One Step at a Time

 

Stair climb training. I really should be using my arms and pushing off the guard rails. 

One Step At a Time

As a young child, I had many interests: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, bike riding, Bazooka Joe bubble gum that only costs 5-cents with the comics inside the wrapper. I had some eccentric interests too including architecture and skyscrapers. I was fascinated with the idea of urban living—being peppered with media images of places like New York City (where the Ninja Turtles lived in the sewer system) and Los Angeles—all heavily influenced by TV and movies largely produced on both coasts of the United States.  

Fast-forward to 2012. I had just moved to Las Vegas to begin working at a major university. There are plenty of tall buildings in Las Vegas. However, the tallest was—and still is—The Stratosphere. The Stratosphere is a hotel, casino, and tower in the middle of Las Vegas; right in between Downtown and the famous Las Vegas Strip.

Built by maverick businessman Bob Stupak in 1996, The Stratosphere or “The Strat” complex of buildings includes the tallest free-standing observation deck—which is also one of the tallest buildings in the United States. To literally stand-out in a place that is all about being flashy and different is a major statement. I’m all about making statements.

Yes, the original (and later phased-out) World’s Fair theme of The Strat was quite cheesy. Still, there is an elegance and allure of the tower that always inspired me to reach higher.

As I was getting acclimated to my new home in Las Vegas, I saw a clip on the local news of the “Scale the Strat” event. It was a bunch of people running up the stairs (in intervals) inside of the emergency exit up the 108 floors to the top of the tower. It’s roughly 1,400 steps up to the top. The event is a fundraiser for the American Lung Association non-profit. People doing something out-of-the-ordinary (and perhaps a bit strange) brings awareness to respiratory health and clean air quality. I thought: “I could do that! How hard could it be?”

Running up 108 floors is a lot of physical activity. Let’s explore that aspect. Growing up, I was never an athlete. Although I took P.E. as an elective my senior year of high school, I was always drawn to choir, drama, and TV production. Never sports or even weight lifting. In my 20’s I was “gymtimitated.” I was intimidated by the gym environment. I did not have the confidence to go to the gym nor did I feel I had the competency to workout properly with all the equipment. Also, people. People at the gym. Managing people and their energy, mostly at work, is exhausting for us introverts. As I got older, I wanted to prioritize my health and wellness in more productive ways. In addition to exploring personal trainer options in the area and researching proper nutrition, I thought—I could “Scale the Strat.” That’s a goal I’d like to reach.

One year later in 2013, I registered for “Scale the Strat”. While raising the minimum fundraising amount, I trained for three months leading-up to the event by running-up the seven floors of the building where I lived. I could reach the roof in 28 seconds. That’s fast! Unfortunately, that’s not sustainable for 108 floors. Womp. Womp. The day of the actual event, I sprinted as hard as I could. I needed to stop at every oxygen station on the way up. The paramedics asked me if they needed to take me down; they thought maybe I was too exhausted to finish the race safely. It took me almost one hour to get up all the 1,400 steps to the top of the tower. However, I pushed through and I made it to the top.

In 2013, I very much thought of this run like a “bucket list” item. I would do it once and that was that. Never again.

2020. I’m at home in lock-down during Pandemic 1.0. I’m learning all about the impacts of COVID-19 on lung health and respiratory nurses. Then my brain remembered my past connection to lung health. I recalled the American Lung Association AND the stair climb in Las Vegas. By 2020, I was in a lot better shape both physically and mentally after starting a new job at Stanford. The 2020 "Scale the Strat" took place just a few weeks before COVID-19 shut down the world. The 2021 event took place outside at a local stadium (not the Stratosphere). At that point, I set a goal of completing the 2022 “Scale the Strat.” Yes. Again. All 1,400+ steps up to floor 108. 

I fundraised again and had the support of wonderful new colleagues at my new-ish job. In January of 2022, I began training. This training consisted of running-up the stairs of one of the tallest buildings at Stanford—where my office is conveniently located. I worked with my personal trainer to experiment with different paces. I properly prepared for this climb as someone older and wiser. In February 2022 I went back to Las Vegas and I completed the “Scale the Strat” building climb again. This time, I finished in under 15 minutes. No stopping and I did not need to visit at any oxygen stations. It was exhilarating! I remember thinking: “This is as close as I will ever get to the Olympics. (Shout-out to two-time Olympian, Figure Skater Maria Butyrskaya).  I came in number 62 out of 367 climbers and finished just outside of the top 10 in my age group. Side note: As I am closer to 40 years in age, I'm still unsure if it is fair to compete against 30 year-olds 😉.

What I appreciate most about this experience was having a goal outside of work. Professional goals are important. However, we do not always have control over the stressors of work and capitalism. My spirit benefitted from having something to focus on outside of my professional identity. I also recognized my growth allowing myself to be more vulnerable and asking for help. Many cisgender men are socialized not to ask for help in favor of assumed competence. That’s nonsense. This time, I asked for help and I did much better.

In fact, I was so inspired I decided to complete my new hometown stair climb in the Bay area. I completed the San Francisco stair climb in April 2022. The race was held at 555 California St. in downtown SF. I finished 1,300 steps in just over 13 minutes. Elite runners can complete these races in under 10 minutes. For the SF climb, I finished in the top 25% of runners. Now, I have new goals. By the way, why do we even have stairs if everyone can use a ramp? That's an important conversation for later. For me, I like reaching higher. One step at a time. 

How it started vs. how it is going

2022 Scale the Strat Time

Victorious

2022 San Francisco Stair Climb at 555 California St.

Much Better Technique

#WhyIWearDenim

“Oh baby, baby”

Why I Wear Denim

The last Wednesday in April is observed world-wide as “Denim Day.” Developed by the Peace Over Violence non-profit, Denim Day brings a nuanced understanding to sexual violence and educates us on how we can challenge old and harmful archetypes related to survivors of sexual assault and interpersonal violence.

It was the first quarter of the year 1999. For me growing up in Colorado, this was the year the Denver Broncos repeated as back-to-back NFL Super Bowl champions. As a figure skating fan, 1999 was the year Maria Butyrskaya of Russia won the World Championships over favorite Michelle Kwan of the United States. (I love me some Maria—and Michelle is an absolute LEGEND.) On the radio in 1999, 16-year-old Britney Spears sang (and later lip-synched) the Max Martin-penned “…Baby One More Time” to the number one slot on Billboard’s music charts. There was much ado about the first third of the music video for “…Baby One More Time” since Britney wore her midriff bare in a rebellious Catholic school uniform. Why do we obsess over women, their bodies, and what they choose to wear? With barely a second thought, why do we sexualize young women? Meanwhile, that same year, in 1999, a supreme court judge in Italy overturned the conviction of a rapist because that judge believed the accuser could not have been assaulted since her jeans were too tight and she must have had help getting out of her jeans—thus implying some level of consent during the assault. This is an extreme case of victim blaming as well as abuse of power. This rationale is absurd and problematic in SO many ways. The day after the exoneration, women members of Italian Parliament wore jeans to work the next day in solidarity with the survivor.

The policing of bodies of marginalized identities—and especially women—is often used as a means to abuse power over the most vulnerable. What someone wears does not give anyone consent to treat them a certain way or take advantage of them. We all need to respect personal boundaries.

Denim Day encourages those in the work force to wear denim to the office to bring awareness to sexual assault prevention. I remember when professionals could only wear denim/jeans to work on “Casual Fridays.” Yes, only once a week and even then only dark colored denim. Today, the two-plus years of the COVID-19 pandemic with people not getting “dressed-up” to go into the office coupled with evolving views of who or what defines professional dress, have made the office dress code much more relaxed and fluid in some settings. Regardless, I am happy to wear a pair of jeans on Denim Day to bring awareness to all the levels of victim blaming and survivor advocacy for a safer and more just society.

I am a Survivor of Sexual Assault

 

"Love is a combination of care, commitment, knowledge, responsibility, respect, and trust."  -bell hooks

I am a Survivor of Sexual Assault

Sexual violence and sexual assault have impacted my life in many ways. Often, there is an assumption that because of my gender expression that I could not be impacted or otherwise be a survivor of sexual assault. Yet, I am. Years later, I [still] struggle with affection and intimacy because of instances in my past.

When colleagues criticize me for not being approachable enough or for not giving enough positive praise to staff, I wonder how much of that is connected to my own trauma around intimacy and how my race and gender are perceived. Often, I am the only Black man in spaces where decisions are being made in my work. 

Sexual assault and sexual violence negatively influences interpersonal relationships and extends to entire communities. In particular, automatically connecting and associating Black men to sexual violence is a very old anti-Black trope that dates back even further than “Birth of a Nation.” In the Fall of 2021, I was anonymously—yet publicly—accused of making problematic statements towards sexual assault survivors. I did not make any such statements. Additionally, only Black+Queer administrators were targeted in these demonstrations; despite a long history of student advocacy for this cause—white appearing staff were not named nor targeted in these advocacy efforts. 

I have reason[s] to believe that two students violated state and federal law by secretly recording a private meeting with me about their experiences with sexual assault. Me repeating what someone else purportedly said in reaction to their experience is likely what was taken out of context. These same students later worked in concert with a student publication in a deliberate attempt to malign my professional reputation and ruin my credibility. I was disappointed that these students would stoop to tabloid journalism tactics in a feeble and mid attempt at student advocacy. Would these students have done this to a white woman?

Feeling “othered” in my work is counterintuitive to the types of inclusive spaces we are trying to normalize in higher education. Although university officials admitted to not thoroughly investigating my concern in a timely manner, they ultimately found this form of abusive advocacy was not a contributing factor to a hostile work environment. However, the harm of these false statements already impacted my work and my ability to be a credible resource for my constituents.

Here is what I know for sure: Over the years, I have partnered with several non-profit agencies and university departments to train, educate, and advocate for justice for all those affected by sexual violence. In my work with students, faculty, and staff I have learned that validation, agency, and both short-term and long-term support resources are crucial and necessary to allow folks to heal. Additionally, taking a trauma-informed approached acknowledges the history and emotional baggage people carry with them. Within communities of care, accountability and justice are top priorities and must be part of the equation. 

I have an enormous amount of respect and empathy for sexual assault survivors as they navigate and endure all of the strife associated with these heinous acts of violence and loss of power. In my current role, I was more than pleased to help push forth an amnesty-type clause for survivors of sexual assault when involved with instances of underage drinking or other violations. I will continue to use my voice and positionality to improve our systems and processes to better support survivors of sexual assault.

Just One More Year

 

Polaroid taken from 2008 RAppin' Conference at Colorado Mesa University

Just One More Year

When I was growing up, I thought colleges were like gas stations—they were all the same just in different locations. I could not tell you the difference between, public vs. private schools, land grant vs. ivy league schools, commuter vs. residential schools and so on. As a first-generation college student, I thought I could never afford college. As I was finishing high school, I was encouraged to apply for scholarship after scholarship. That was a good thing, but words and phrases such as “Pell Grant” and “Financial Aid” were never explained to me. I thought my mother would have to work a second job in order for me to afford college. I had no idea how attending college and paying for it worked. I ended-up getting scholarships and different types of financial aid. I finished my bachelor’s degree in the summer of 2007. Yes. In the time of cargo shorts and bootcut jeans.

One year later in the summer of 2008, I received a random phone call from an unknown number. Like a typical Millennial, I let the phone call go to voicemail. When, I listened to the message, it was an offer to help run some off campus residence halls at CSU-Pueblo where I attended undergrad (look at me using scholar lingo). At the time, an ambitious new university president brought the institution’s football team back after 22 years. This was a big deal in Pueblo, Colorado and enrollment increased at the small university for the first time in a long while. When the school’s one residence hall—where I had lived and worked as an RA—exceeded occupancy, the school had to house the additional students somewhere. Somewhere ended-up being two local motels a couple of miles away from the main campus. No one in their right mind with a master’s degree would take that gig. Enter: me. With only a bachelor’s degree in tow and a lot of naivety, I signed-on to be on off-site hall director to meet the school’s needs. The students partied a lot and the WiFi frequently crashed due to numerous people using the internet all at once. At the time, I told myself I would do this for just one more year. “This isn’t really what I want to do. I am just buying time until my real career comes along. Something in TV production or media relations. One more year.” That was 14 years ago. 14 years, 6 jobs and 5 states ago.

To go from the Howard Johnson Inn off of Highway 50 in Pueblo, Colorado to the pomp and circumstance of Stanford is not lost on me. I still have much to learn and I remain open to navigating new challenges.

As I reflect on my career today, I still center the needs of the most vulnerable. I try not to take anything for granted while being the mentor I never had. Along the way, I met some fascinating people. I also met people who refuse to allow me to grow up and mature in their eyes. I believe this is because people often choose to remember the version of you where they had the most power over you. That’s their problem, not mine. I know the best is yet to come.