How a Political Science Class Sparked My Journey
10 years ago, I sat in a political science class, unaware that it would change my life.
This week, I had the incredible opportunity to speak in front of my good friend Nick Rowell’s political science classes at Cabrillo College to share my political journey and answer thoughtful questions from the students.
I had the time of my life reflecting on my unique path and engaging in deep, insightful conversations.
I spoke about many things, but especially this: politics isn’t just about policies—it’s about people. It’s about culture, trust, and persistence. By being present, building relationships, and staying authentic, I found myself in rooms I never expected—working alongside mayors, policymakers, and community leaders.
Politics is a human invention, run by humans with real emotions and lived experiences. Separating personal development from politics doesn’t make sense. I’ve witnessed politicians act out of personal conflict and ego rather than in service to the people. And I’ve seen others show remarkable courage, standing up for what’s right—even when it was unpopular.
Reflecting on my path through this sociopolitical landscape, I’m left with a few takeaways:
Show up and engage. Even when it’s uncomfortable, participation is key.
Build trust and relationships. Community matters more than credentials.
Be strategic, not just passionate. Knowing how the system works is just as important as challenging it.
Authenticity is powerful. Real presence can shift policy and culture.
Politics is about power. Learn the game to make real change.
Being back in that classroom was deeply meaningful to me—and I was honored that some students even drew portraits of me. What a beautiful, full-circle moment.
Social Media is Junk Food
Sick and alone in my house, I feel a tide of change coming. As I have moved through the world publicly, I’ve had to make hard decisions that have put me at odds with different people in my community.
It’s an interesting sensation when you see close friends being friendly with people who you know despise you. It’s not a common occurrence, but when it happens, it hits hard.
That’s just one reason why social media is not healthy for me. As Theodore Roosevelt put it,
“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
On a deeper level, I’ve been reflecting on my social media use—both because of the political climate and its impact on my ability to reach my goals. Social media is a cheap substitute for human interaction, yet it is slowly trying to become the status quo for communication and connection. And they wonder why there’s a loneliness epidemic.
I’ve found myself acting like an addict when it comes to social media—even needing to lock my phone away for hours at a time to prevent distraction.
All this to say:
I need space to focus on my dreams, strengthen my skills, and move forward in the direction I need to go.
I probably won’t fully delete my social media, but I may only post once every couple of months.
That being said,
I have to replace this artificial connection with real connection. So today, I’m making a commitment: to be more present in real-life social spaces that inspire me.
To be brave and meet new people, even if it’s awkward.
I’m just tired of giving my energy to these platforms. I’m tired of being addicted to them. I want to be strong—for myself, my family, and my community.
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The Art of Boxing & Music
After being hit three or more times in the face, I could feel my stamina dropping, so I motioned to my boxing partner to take a break.
I have been boxing pretty religiously now for three to four months. It’s not my first time boxing—about nine years ago, I started primarily out of curiosity. Since I did martial arts as a child, I figured boxing could be an interesting way to get into shape. And I fell deeply in love with it.
At that time, I was falling in love with everything logical and strategic. A few years prior, I had studied piano and composition and taken every music theory and jazz course available at my local community college. I studied everything from Bach to Stravinsky, then later Schoenberg, Webern, Messiaen, Ives, and other 20th-century composers. Simultaneously, I was studying and playing jazz.
I noticed a commonality among all of these artists—the ability to creatively fluctuate between strategy and unique personal expression.
A year or so later, I accidentally took a class I wasn’t supposed to (but thought I was): Symbolic Logic. I assumed from the description that we would be debating and using logical strategies to win arguments, mainly because it was listed as a philosophy class.
I was wrong.
It quickly turned into a mathematics class where arguments were simplified into letters and symbols, representing different argument styles. It was another bridge from philosophy to mathematics, eventually leading to what we now know as computer programming. Remarkably, this was invented in the 1800s.
I decided to stick with the class, and I’m glad I did. Learning symbolic logic gave me a greater appreciation for the creative genius of the composers I had studied. It also helped me write better essays in my other classes by allowing me to experiment with different logical styles and explore all angles of a thesis.
Then boxing came in.
I immediately recognized the strategic elements of boxing: how certain punches are thrown just to set up a completely different series of punches; how footwork and head movement keep you from being an easy target and catch your opponent off guard. Even the type of defensive guard you use dictates a different strategy.
I experienced a paradigm shift when I realized the strategy behind boxing.
So let’s get back to my friend throwing punches at my face...
That specific night of training felt special. Maybe it was because we had more autonomy in our training due to one of our coaches being ill, or perhaps it was the light-hearted and fun vibe among my boxing colleagues. Whatever it was, we all felt a bit loose due to the novelty of the situation.
The change of pace made me think differently about my own sparring style. I started to get more comfortable with being hit and seeing the punches instead of closing my eyes every time a punch came at me. For a few brief moments, I felt a familiar sensation.
I began to feel the combination of self-expression and strategy that I associated with playing and studying music. I started to feel the creative side of boxing—the part where your uniqueness guides your strategy.
I understood this feeling primarily because of my experience with music. I had observed that every musical artist has a “sound” they eventually lean into, just like every boxer has a fighting style they lean into. When I say “sound,” I mean something more subtle than just the genre. It could be a rhythmic cadence, a unique timbre, or a combination of musical elements in a specific relationship that creates the uniqueness of the artist's sound.
I know from experience how hard it is to develop your unique style when you start something new as an adult. As I used to tell my students at Everyone's Music School:
“All the scales, chords, repertoire, and everything I’m teaching you are just tools to strengthen your relationship with your instrument. Just like in a romantic relationship, over time, you need to do activities together to grow closer and strengthen that bond.”
To develop your style, you need to feel comfortable with your craft, regardless of the discipline. It also requires thinking for yourself and sometimes making decisions that go against what you were taught, hence the phrase:
“Learn the rules to break the rules.”
Most importantly, it requires time. Time and exposure build comfort.
For example, when I write, I feel confident in my stylistic choices (most of the time), but when I compose music, it took years to develop my sound. I learned piano and composition in my late teens and early twenties, so it took more than a decade of on-and-off playing to understand my unique voice in music. Even now, it feels more like embracing truths about myself than innovating.
When I started feeling this same sensation in boxing, I got excited. I realized I need to put in a lot more work into the craft while also leaning into my own unique expression. I need to fight more and build comfort in that space to express myself strategically.
I need to build my endurance and stamina to be the most authentic version of myself in the ring. And most importantly, I need to have gratitude for being able to do what I love.
Come Out With Your Hands Up!
“Come Out With Your Hands Up!”
A projected, muffled voice came from outside with authority.
Confused, I walked from my kitchen to the living room, my cat trailing next to me, equally curious.
The voice sounded again:
“Come out with your hands up!”
By the time I reached the living room, red and blue lights were flashing through my window. My mind started racing:
“Did someone call the cops on me?”
“Does someone think I don’t belong in this house? Do they think I’m robbing it?”
“Was there some kind of misunderstanding?”
The firmness of the muffled voice continued:
“We know you are in there. Come out with your hands up!”
Filled with fear, I stood silent in front of my door. My cat sensed the fear and ran under the bed to his safe, dark place. I timidly opened the door and walked onto my long stoop, seeing police cars blocking the street.
“Do they think I am dangerous? Is that why they are farther away?”
At this point, I didn’t know what was going on. The scene felt like a modern rendition of The Trial by Kafka. Was I the one they were yelling at? As I started to calm down, I looked around the neighborhood and saw people exiting their houses, looking at the scene with curiosity or seeming apathy. But I was the only one who was afraid. Everyone else intuitively knew it couldn’t be for them.
But for me, I knew how easily something seemingly small could be misunderstood and change my whole life. I could easily imagine one of my predominantly white neighbors, who don’t know me, calling the police because I don’t “look” like I belong, or because they thought I had a weapon or was breaking into the house.
There have been impactful moments throughout my life where I encountered law enforcement, and they clearly made up their minds about who I was before I even opened my mouth. I’ve feared for my life because of misunderstandings, being deemed “suspicious,” or committing minor offenses that my white colleagues would have gotten a slap on the wrist for.
Let’s be real—much of this has to do with me being Black in predominantly white spaces. Even though I am mixed race and was raised by white people, most people project onto me what they think Blackness is.
So when I saw the police outside my house, I fully expected it to be about me, even though I wasn’t doing or planning to do anything illegal. On the contrary, I was having a very mundane night—sitting at a booth (likely taken from a 50’s-themed diner) left by my friends and landlords, eating some chicken while my cat sat next to me. I was somewhere between thoughtfulness and loneliness.
It’s crazy how in one moment, this mundane feeling turned into fear. My mind spun fictional scenarios of living in a militarized society where people were taken from their homes.
When I realized the police weren’t there for me, I began to feel empathy for the house down the street. How undignified for the police to make such a big scene for something that clearly didn’t warrant this level of action—especially since it wasn’t listed in the public arrest logs the next day.
I believe that dignity is the least we can offer in situations like this. Yet, each situation is different, and we are all human.
As I sit here to write this, I reflect on how different our lived experiences can be. I’ve met people who have never brushed up against the law and others who are constantly in and out of the system. I’m glad I’m okay and am reminded to keep strengthening my compassion for my colleagues and friends.
Power of Vulnerability
Happy Valentine’s Day!
I woke up feeling sad and a bit lonely this morning. Funny how that feeling shifted so quickly when I decided to reach out to family and friends. It was a powerful reminder of the impact of sharing a vulnerable part of yourself with the people you love.
Even writing that last sentence makes me feel uncomfortable—vulnerable. My immediate thought:
"Was I a burden on them?"
But that’s precisely why vulnerability is powerful. It exposes us to potential criticism, mockery, and rejection. Yet, at the same time, it opens the door to care, love, and connection. You cannot have one without the other.
When I reflect on my own experiences, I realize how rare it is for me to perceive others as burdens when they open up to me. On the contrary, I feel honored that they trust me enough to share such an authentic part of themselves. So let’s change this narrative.
By choosing to be vulnerable and showing up as our most authentic selves, we create space for others to do the same. It’s a risk—but a risk worth taking for a better future.
Culture is shaped by individuals who collectively agree on behaviors that align with their identities. If that identity embraces vulnerability, trust, and authenticity, then society will eventually reflect those values.
This transformation isn’t immediate. It takes time, and it requires like-minded people to come together in community over generations. But eventually, it can become the norm.
I may not live to see the full emergence of such a culture, but I live in hope for that future. As Cornel West so beautifully said:
"Justice is what love looks like in public, just like tenderness is what love feels like in private."
On this Valentine’s Day, I choose to imagine a world where love is expressed openly—a world where that is the norm.