Origin Story: The Road That Led Me Home

In early 2013, I found myself driving south on I-5, leaving Spokane, Washington, after three weeks of being cold, hungry, and vaguely insulted by a rabbit I’d had to kill for food. SERE--or Survive, Evade, Resist, Escape--training was the final boss of a grueling five-year journey that started at the Air Force Academy, and as I made my way toward San Francisco, I was running on sheer adrenaline, and memories from my mom's pep talks, and the kind of emotional highs and lows that only come from spending too much time in the wilderness without real food.

Golden Gate Bridge, circa March, 2013.

The sight of the Golden Gate Bridge broke me. I cried—like, ugly cried. Not because the bridge is an engineering marvel (though it is) but because I was finally here. San Francisco: the queer "Mecca." It was the promise of freedom after years of navigating life under "Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell." It was where I just knew I’d meet my future wife. Spoiler alert: I did. A few months later, at one of the few dedicated "girl" parties in the city, I met my girl, and we’ve been together ever since. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

This road trip was the victory lap of a journey that started in Stone Mountain, Georgia, where a whole team of people made sure I chased my dreams with the belief—instilled by my dad—that to whom much is given, much is expected. Coach Wallace was the first to see it. She wasn’t just my track coach; she was a lieutenant colonel in the Air Force Reserves and the one who told me, “You’re going to the Academy.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a decree. Despite my apprehension towards the military as a skeptical black teenager, she pushed me to apply and checked to make sure I finished my application, and when the Academy Prep School became my ticket in, she celebrated harder than I did.

Then there were Mr. Thomas and Mr. Render, my band directors, who had me playing the trumpet in every band Stephenson High School offered: jazz, symphonic, marching. The year after I graduated, our marching band even played at the Rose Bowl. My basketball coach, Coach Watkins, gave me my first taste of state championships, while my college volleyball coach, Penny White, took “tough love” to an entirely new level. She made sure I was always reaching higher—even if that meant yelling at me more than anyone else on the team.

And, of course, there’s my dad, my first coach. He never claimed to be the expert in anything, but he'd always do his best to find the right person that would get me to greatness. Meanwhile, my mom was running the long game on me. Every time I called her from the Academy wanting to quit—and trust me, it happened monthly for five years—she had the same strategy: “Just stay until Christmas.” Then, “Just stay until summer.” Before I knew it, I was walking across that stage, saluting some admiral before jumping into the arms of my best friend and roommate at the Academy.

But if there was one person who believed I could rise above my rough edges, it was Major Block, my Air Officer Commanding (AOC) at the Prep School. The university is situated in the beautiful Rocky Mountains and, much like the snow-capped tops of the Rockies, all my peers were white, too. Coming from an all-black high school, this was a huge culture shock for me. I found myself in trouble more often than I’d like to admit, and Major Block (now Colonel Block) went to bat for me during what the Academy calls a ‘Murder Board.’ It’s as ominous as it sounds—a Military Review Board where a bunch of old crusties debated whether cadet candidates deserved a shot at the Academy. Thanks to her, I got my shot. The Prep School Commander, however, wasn’t about to let me off easy. After my board, he pulled me into his office to paint a bleak metaphor of where I stood: on the edge of a cliff, one foot dangling off and the other firmly planted...on a banana peel. ‘Keep a low profile,’ he warned. I managed to keep from getting kicked out, but that's only because I was too busy struggling through Calculus II, Physics, and playing volleyball to get in trouble.

By the time I hit that road trip in 2013, I’d survived more than just the Academy. I’d spent a year as an Admissions Advisor convincing bright-eyed high school students to follow in my footsteps (not really knowing whether I'd made the right decision to stay myself), crushed 13 months of Undergraduate Pilot Training in Columbus, Mississippi, dominated six months of C-17 pilot training in Altus, Oklahoma, mastered water survival in Pensacola, Florida and finally tackled SERE in Spokane, Washington. I was tired but triumphant.

San Francisco was a new beginning. Sure, the rent was outrageous, and my commute to Travis Air Force Base in Fairfield was an hour each way, but it didn’t matter. I was finally in a place where I could be myself, live freely, and embrace every part of my identity. And I had a lifetime of people who believed in me to thank for getting me there.

Looking back, my journey feels inevitable—or maybe just in the persistent voices of everyone who saw my potential before I did. It wasn’t just me on that road trip to San Francisco; it was my coaches, my parents, my chosen aunties, my band directors, and every single person who told me to keep going.

And now? Now I get to tell the story. But first, let me just say, after that prep school commander incident, I now get PTSD every time a senior officer calls me in. Not the kind of adrenaline I’m looking for.