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I love stories. Here are some untold ones of people that have changed me.

Juan:

I was a groomsman in Juan’s wedding. I remember the pallets of Corona, the quaint Madera winery venue, and the crisp mariachi music. I ended up leaving the wedding early. It was a hot July day, and if you’ve ever been in the Central Valley in the middle of July, you know how brutal it can be. I stayed for the ceremony and the dinner. I did not witness Juan’s mother dancing with him and crying for her son. Surely a combination of pride and mourning her baby leaving the nest. I did not witness Juan’s father throwing his cowboy hat in the air in celebration. I did witness a bridesmaid pass out from the heat.

I wish I had stayed. Juan is often on my mind in times like these.

Juan and his family entered the central valley from Oaxaca, Mexico some time before 2012. That was the year that Juan lived in a dorm room right next door to me. We shared a sink, a toilet, a shower, and many late-night conversations. You learn a lot about a person in such intimate quarters. 

Juan was the only college student I knew that went home to the upper central valley every weekend to work in the almond fields for pennies on the dollar. 

“Bro, why do you do that?”, I probably naively asked him at one time.

He could’ve responded with “its what I have to do” or “it helps me get by”.

But I will never forget him responding “I feel so lucky that I have the opportunity to better myself. And if this is the price, then I will pay it happily.”

Juan was my first experience with an immigrant family. He now serves on the board for the San Joaquin River Conservancy in Madera and Fresno Counties. His story is not unlike many that you may know. 

Marta:

I hired Marta off LinkedIn. This was her first job out of college, and I could tell from her three interviews that she would make a killer junior sales associate. I was excited to have her on my team. 

Traditionally, in the ‘power tool sales world’, you pick up your employee from their home, drive them to a designated Enterprise, and drop them off with their fleet vehicle. I picked up Marta from her home in Ivanhoe, California, a place I never knew existed until that morning. Her home was run down, her street littered with stray dogs, and the backyards filled with junk cars that were long forgotten projects. 

“So, what do you parents do for work?” I asked in an attempt to understand her living situation. 

“Field workers. Citrus. That’s all they’ve ever done. So, I really get a gas card that I don’t have to pay back? That’s not a scam, right?” Her attempt to change the subject did not go unnoticed from me but it revealed something she did not intend on sharing: opportunity and excitement.

Marta commuted every day with an hour drive both ways to Clovis, California. She endured climbing the orange ladders Home Depot is known for, catcalls from sleezy contractors, and having to sell the DIY brand Ryobi, every single day in the same location. Marta quickly became one of my better employees. She was promoted to Territory Manager in a relocation to Bakersfield, where we became colleagues and friends. She then quickly promoted to Regional Recruiting Coordinator with a relocation to Los Angeles, which was a dream location of hers to live in.

She has a bachelor’s degree in communication studies and is a first-generation college student. We have swapped strategies on leadership and have both benefited greatly in our careers from each other’s knowledge and experience. I would call her a friend. Her story is not unlike many that you may know.

​Joaquin:

Joaquin taught me (unsuccessfully) the art of the Pati Jinich’s Mexican Thanksgiving Turkey, where you traditionally bury a Turkey in an underground pit and roast it with various spices. Joaquin’s parents also reside in the central valley. I am unsure of their occupation, but I know that they are blue collar. 

Joaquin used to laugh at all my jokes. And I in turn would laugh at all of his. We were substitute teachers together at the same time and I always remember him saying “sub life, best life.” We met in college and for a solid 3-year period we were in an inseparable group of people that went to concerts, perused farmer’s markets, went to bar trivia, and even participated in open mic nights at the local Mia Kuppa. Those were some of the best nights of my life. Joaquin always encouraged us to consume less and get out and play with him and his passion: futbol. 

Joaquin and I fell out of touch over the following years. Now he resides in Southern California, pursuing a degree in law. He has been an admissions councilor, a government employee, a loving husband, and an adored friend to many. I cannot imagine the sacrifices his parents made and still have to make for the child they love. His story is not unlike many that you may know. 

Mariana:

Mariana transferred to my old location in Fresno California from a team in the Bay area. She was my first employee that I did not directly hire. She was my first inheritance.

She viewed her stop in Fresno as temporary and her dreams lied in returning to the central coast with her fiancé. At only 22 years old, Mariana quickly established herself as an outlier. She did not have the sales instinct (and she would admit it herself) but what she lacked there, she made up with in ingenuity and hard work.

At the time, Mariana’s parents were located in southern California. Without fail, she would hop in her car and drive the 5 hour drive every Friday after work. Mariana’s parents ended uprelocating to the lower central valley and eventually to the northern central valley. Mariana and her fiancé paid for materials, labor, permits, and every other conceivable cost of building a house. She did it for her parents, the people that worked to provide a better life for her than they had. She always expressed to me that she thought it was the least she could do after what they had been through for her. They are immigrants from Mexico.

Mariana moved on to work as a business associate development manager in Northern California. Her parent’sdream of owning their own home has been achieved thanks to her hard work and dedication. Mariana owns three houses and accomplished this before the age of 25. Her story is not unlike many that you may know.

.​.​.​.

I have seen the videos of American flags burning in the streets of Los Angeles. I have seen the videos of parents stripped from their children, screaming, begging, pleading to let them hold their children while they are shoved into a van unceremoniously. I have seen the videos of rocks thrown onto police cars from the overpass of Downtown Anaheim. I have seen the videos of people locked in arms, staring down the barrels of guns while they peacefully protest. I remain unconvinced that we have the full story. 

I was always eager, always waiting to be inspired. I used to write. And now I am dead. Dead from lack of inspiration. And now I yearn to lift you, my precious reader, into reassurance and peace and hope.

And I can’t give you that now. 

I want us to go on. Read that again. I want us to go on! I want Los Angeles to continue. I want California to continue. But we have been sleeping. We have been lied to. And we have been betrayed by a culture that seeks to destroy us in its quest for power. We have allowed ourselves to see what they want us to see. Hear what they want us to hear. And react the way they want us to react. Don’t. Fall. For. It. I beg you.

I don’t need to tell you what I think about what’s going on in Los Angeles. I am sure you can guess where my sympathies lie. 

But in case you would like me to speak plainly: My sympathies lie with Joaquin. With Marta. With Mariana. With Juan. The individuals that I have talked to. The stories I have heard. The PEOPLE that I have gotten to know. 

Assigning a group of people to a number, to a word, to a phrase, to an adjective is a symptom of authoritarianism. Instead of being quick to assign, be quicker to community. It is what has changed my life. Knowing the individual, rather than the group HAS CHANGED MY LIFE. Sit down with that prostitute. Get to know that tax collector. Talk to that Zealot. Maybe buy them a cup of coffee. 

For those of you that don’t know, I claim to be a follower of Jesus Christ. And my favorite aspect was his ability to break down the political climate and replace it with foreign policies. Policies of a political kingdom not of the known world, but of a kingdom designed for perfect harmony, for Christ and his beloved. I will leave you with a quote from scripture. Matthew 25:40: “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”

When you find the girl of your dreams, you don’t wait: you act. Acting and doing was always a staple to my relationship with her: my Cammie Girl

            Meeting on Bumble, a popular dating website, is never an orthodox way of meeting. But when lost in the pursuit of a soul mate, you do what needs to be done… Okay, okay, I’ll cut the crap. The intention was never to find something that would stick. It was always just to have fun. Date around. I had never really casually dated before. It was fun for a second. Until you realize that none of these girls are worth your time.

            That all changed when the most beautiful woman swiped right on me. I was convinced that it was a trick. Lionesses don’t mate with sheep. Stallions don’t breed with goats. And solid 6.5’s don’t attract 10’s. This might be a crude way of putting this, but it was honestly how I felt at the time. “God first.” That was in her bio, under her smiling mouth and aviator glasses on a foreign beach front. I immediately swiped right (the act of validating you want to meet this person) on the app. She didn’t respond. She didn’t respond for almost 24 hours. The hours of that day at work ticked by as I continually checked the progress of if she had messaged me. She didn’t.

In a final “Hail Mary”, I clicked the button to extend the time allotted for her to message me. In the fear of being desperate, I decided that you were worth acting. It was the first time I acted instead of waited for her.

She finally messaged me. We went out. The date was a dream, of course, (why else would I be writing this if it didn’t work out…? Duh…?). I even got a kiss on the first date. She wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic as me the first-time meeting (and kissing). But hey. I didn’t need her to be on the same page as me. From the moment I met her, to the very second my keyboard types these words, I knew that I had met the woman to end all women. This was the ultimate game changer. This bombshell of a woman. A woman who didn’t mind laughing at my jokes, even when they’re not funny. The woman who would jump in the middle of a bar and try to touch a wooden beam, just for the hell of it, just because it was fun. A woman who talked of love and God and dreams and goals and life and living and art and change and depth. Oh God, the depth this woman possessed. I was smitten immediately. Head over heels, more like it.

She allowed me to go out with her again. A second breakfast date turned into a third dinner and smoothie date. Which turned into staying up in her apartment kissing and talking and being completely irresponsible by staying up way too late on a work night. Which is what I wanted. Growing up is no fun. This girl gets that.

Our mutual love of the band “Queen”, our relentless laughter, our talks, our growth, our desire, our dreams, our plans for the future, our dancing, our focus, and our outrageous nights out. These were the founding points to something I never thought I would have. Something that I deemed a myth. Something that could cause such a fear and excitement and joy and pain and fear. Yes fear: this was a love so pure and unselfish and thoughtful that it would cause me to abandon everything that I held dear and cling to the possibility of just being in her presence. Just being in her midst was soothing. Holding her close was a comfort. Talking to her stroked my confidence. And dancing with her. The dancing was the swords killing blow to any fear that might be left over. The dancing was the most powerful weapon our love possessed. It still is to this day.

I’ve been speaking in the past tense. As if this is something that has ended. Well reader, spoiler alert: it hasn’t ended. In fact, this is only the beginning. I intend to write many more stories about this wonderful, wonderful woman. But don’t leave just yet: I’ll leave you with one final memory.

The day that you in turn decided to act. You had just found out that I wanted to leave my job and find a better opportunity, whether it was in a different city, or whether it was in the same. You were hurt, understandably so. We had only been dating for less than a month. This was all so new. I remember telling you and the pain cut deep. I could tell. I was so scared. Terrified that you wouldn’t see our potential. A potential forever. Instead, you subverted my expectations and you chose me. And I could tell that that choosing, was a forever choosing. It wasn’t just a “okay we’ll see where this goes” choosing. It wasn’t a “okay fine” choosing. It was the most conscious and brave choosing I have ever seen. You chose to endure pain, because I was worth it to you. Worth. I was worth something. A feeling that I cannot remember in recent memory.

The lioness chose the sheep. But I wasn’t just a sheep. To you, I was the lion. And that’s really what it means when they say, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Whenever a sheep comes along and finds a lioness, that sheep is immediately transformed into a lion, because the lioness has chosen to see the sheep as a lion. Or maybe the sheep was never actually a sheep? Maybe he was always a lion. And then when you really start to think about it, is it possible the lioness was never a lioness. And maybe she was just your lioness. But who gives a shit. What matters in the end is that the lion found his lioness. And this is just a ridiculous metaphor that goes to show that when somebody loves someone enough, the past doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if you used to be a sheep. I guess this is all just an even bigger metaphor for how God sees us. Lions and lambs. Sheep and lionesses. People. Creations. Relationships.

At the end of the day, I knew it was you. It will always be you.

My partner is an artist. Lately, she’s been into fluid art or rather, experimental art. The best way to describe her work is: imagine if a wave had emotions, or if color had sounds. Too arbitrary? Too abstract? Good. We’re getting somewhere. Watching and enjoying Cammie’s art has taught me many things, but one thing I think it has developed is my willingness to paint a picture for my audience. Not literally, of course. So here’s a piece of abstract art for you. Buckle up, and enjoy.

Close your eyes. Now open them. Wait a second, you cheated. How did you know to open them, if you had to open them to read the phrase, “Open Them.”? Nevermind. Now you’re out of the zone I wanted you in when your eyes were previously closed. My bad.

THIS IS YOUR CURRENT SITUATION: You’re sitting on the freeway, stuck in traffic. You just “got off of work”. Rather, you left an hour early because life has just been too difficult. You’re recently married, except you don’t feel like it. Oh, that happiness and joyfulness and silliness and giddiness and all the mushy gushy tooshy love stuff is still there. But you don’t live together. Instead, your wife lives in the town you both hope to end up in, and you live in the town that’s two hours north of her, commuting another two hours each day to your job’s actual location. You go home (home is where your spouse, is am I right?) on the weekends, which is always the most amazing “hello” of your life. But it is constantly followed by the “worst” goodbye every Sunday evening, or if you’re feeling crazy enough, 3am every Monday morning. You are sad. You are tired. You are done with it.

Oh, did I mention you are also a COVID-19 victim, actively recovering? Although you are constantly being told by everyone around you “you’ll survive, you’re young and healthy”, you have a sinking fear that there might be some long term repercussions to your three-year smoking habit, that you just recently kicked. But it’s okay. That hernia that’s developed on your chest from the violent coughing and the washy lungs is just a cold. Or “you’re always sick anyways, so you should be used to it by now.” The phrase “It’s not that bad, I had it back in December” comes up constantly while you watch your wife cry every evening because she is unsure of how things are gonna turn out. She is scared. And rightfully so. But you’re on the mend. Things are looking promising….other than that hernia.

So we’re back in the car and you’re just sick of it. It’s been a hard few months in what should have been the most thrilling, passionate, and exciting times of your life! Recently married! So your emotions go back and forth. You continually pump the brakes, so you don’t rear end that teal Tesla, and with each pump, your mood changes back and forth from confused to happy to sad to excited to angry to worried to confused: an endless, exhausting, cycle in the throngs of Bay Area traffic.

The song “Sea of Voices” by Porter Robinson comes onto your stereo. Well, that’s one of your favorite songs! It reminds you of simpler times. Your college bestie used it in a video project that one time and you loved the way it made you feel then, so you’re constantly living in the nostalgia of those past memories, even though your spouse teases you about how nostalgic you are. The gentle clinking of the wind chimes in the song relaxes you.

You get an urge to pull off on the next exit. The sign is titled: John Murr Adventure Trail. Better than sitting in Bay Area Traffic, you think to yourself. The trail is long. You tell yourself you won’t push yourself because you just got done with the exhaustion and coughing fits that accompany a COVID-19 victim and you don’t want to wear yourself out. But secretly you do want to push yourself because you want to see how far you can go and how long your breath will hold out until you succumb to the coughing fits. You make it about a half mile before you feel winded and decide that little adventure was good enough for the day. On your way back down, you notice people are giving you strange looks. Maybe its because you’re wearing khakis, dress shoes, and a branded polo on a hiking trail. Maybe they don’t like how they can see your nose peeking out from your company branded mask. you don’t really care, you just enjoy the attention that you’re receiving.

You get back in your car. Those wind chimes strike up again and you’re whisked back into the nostalgia that “Sea of Voices” brings you. You wish you would’ve looked out over the top of the half-mile you just trekked. Might’ve been a good view. But as you’re looking out at the rolling hills of the North East Bay, they don’t seem to be the same shade of brown that they usually are. They’re not a poop colored brown. No, instead those same poop colored brown hills have morphed into a nice warm, chocolaty brown, the same color as your wife’s favorite ice cream. “Well, that’s very nice,” you think to yourself as Porter Robinson plays in the background. The song completes itself, but you want to chase those feelings of optimacy that have been absent for so long. So you repeat the song.

Then you look at the trees. They’re no longer that common, grass, green color. Instead, they’re the green of your wife’s dress that she wanted to try on for you. That green dress looked so pretty on her. She looks pretty in everything to you, except that night, she felt pretty for herself. And that was something that not only made her happy, but it overpowered you with joy because it felt so refreshing to see your wife get a glimpse of how you see her: as the most beautiful creature in the world. You felt that night like she truly understood your views of her. Better yet. You felt like she understood how God sees her.

And then the song completes itself. So you repeat it again so that the current you’re caught in won’t end.

The trees are green. The hills are brown. The cars are shiny, and now you hear (?) a smile from God. He’s talking to you or smiling at you. And you don’t see it, because you can’t see God, but you know that you felt it. You felt that smile. It feels warm. It feels comforting. You start crying in the middle of Bay Area traffic as the crescendo hits on “Sea of Voices”. At first, you’re crying because you feel relieved that God has finally contacted you, even in the subtlest of forms. You thought he might be angry at you or punishing you these past few months. How else could you explain the terrible terrible luck you had dealt with? Canceled wedding plans, a four-hour commute to work that included not living with your wife, and a month-long battle against a disease that is taking the world by storm. You feared His wrath, so you avoided confrontation with Him.

And then you’re crying because you’re angry. God’s supposed to love me. Why would he allow you to go through all this stuff? This has been the hardest few months of your life. “Sea of Voices” ends for the third time. You just let the car sit in silence. But you want that optimism back. So you start the song over again.

Traffic clears up a little, so your brakes start to groan their gratitude. Groan? Oh great. Another thing I got to take care of. But then the Porter Robinson wind chimes remind you of that smile you just heard. And now you feel guilty. Maybe you’re not deserving of that smile. Maybe you misheard. Maybe…just maybe…that smile was meant for somebody else. And then you look at the trees. You’re reminded of your wife in her green dress. And how beautiful she felt. And you felt like she saw herself for an instant as you see her. And then you start to cry again. Because in the midst of your spiritual body taking beating after beating, you’re not thinking about everything that went wrong.

Instead, you’re thinking about last weekend, when you and your wife went to REI to blow that 400 dollar gift card that was generously gifted to you. And on your drive there, you were dancing ridiculously to “Blinding Lights” by The Weekend at the stoplight, just to make her laugh. She’s laughing hysterically, but not at you. She’s laughing at the two teenage girls making fun of you. But instead of shriveling up, you double down and roll down the window and crank the volume. And they, in turn, roll down their window. Ironically, you are both listening to the same radio station and you end up having a mini dance party. You laugh and head to REI.

Your thoughts drift to the same weekend when your wife asked to watch the Narnia sequel: Prince Caspian. But instead of watching the film, you spend your time rewriting the films to accommodate Nicholas Cage, his father who is a Cactus Cooler soda can, and his search for a Narnia’s national treasure. What a good time, you both had.

And now you’re back in your car, crying again, not entirely sure if its because you miss your wife, you love the memories you have with your wife, Porter Robinson is just so damn good, or a combination of all three. But you choose to look a little deeper.

You feel alive.

And you realize that this feeling you’ve been chasing…this feeling of life that you’ve been using poor Porter’s damn song to chase, has been there all along. You truly are alive. And God’s smile, within the midst of a canceled wedding, a long-distance married relationship, and a month-long crippling illness, has always been there. You have been more alive now, then you have ever been before. And God loves you, the way you love your wife. And He loves it when you see the way He sees you. And He loves Porter Robinson and the song “Sea of Voices”. Maybe He even used that song to speak to you, even though the song doesn’t have any words. What a life we live when a song that has no words speaks and a smile that makes no noise sounds clearer than the chimes of a Porter Robinson track.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

I don’t think it’s any secret that what you just read was not made up to paint a picture for you. Nor is it really any secret that this was an experience that I myself had and wanted to write about. For those of you that made it this far, I am going to assume that you felt some semblance of connection to the text above, or your my mom and have to read everything I write because I’ll get mad if you don’t. If you are either of these parties, I will reveal to you why God put this story on my heart to write about:

This has been a tough year and I know many of us have had these mountains to climb. Survival and getting through this year have been at the forefront of our minds. Life is stressful, but life will not become any less stressful once 2020 ends. There will be new challenges and new mountains to climb. I have felt a deep conviction these past few days to continue living, to continue enjoying, and to continue pursuing passions, even though the world we live in is constantly going through a system update. Find a song. Listen to it on repeat. Find a mountain. Climb ’til you can climb no more. Find a canvas. Paint until there’s nothing left to paint. Choose to live. Because there is always beauty, even when the mountains are poop colored.