It was 1964, and I was a tall, skinny kid in my first year of high school—awkward, shy, and trying to figure out stuff.
That summer, I had decided to stop cutting my hair. It grew shaggy, a bit unruly. I started wearing sandals, though I wasn’t bold enough to go without socks. My corduroys were my attempt at being different. Beatniks had already come and gone, so I wasn’t following any specific trend. I was just trying to be “nonconformist.”
There was a tall girl in my grade who fascinated me. She moved through the halls with so much confidence, it was impossible not to notice. She wore knee-high boots, walking with a stride that almost felt military—sharp, purposeful. The sound of her heels clicking against the floor echoed in my mind long after she had passed. There was something about her, something magnetic.
One day, she noticed me. She stopped, looked directly at me, and asked, “Do you write poetry?”
I had barely read poetry, much less written any, but in that instant, I felt something. “Yes,” I said, as if it had always been true. In that moment, I felt like a poet. I hadn’t written anything down yet, but suddenly, the words were there, waiting to be expressed.
She smiled. “I’d like to read it sometime. Do you draw?”
“Yes!” I answered, this time more truthfully. I had always sketched and doodled, though I wouldn’t have called myself an artist just yet. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. I could feel something shift in me. I thought of all the drawings I had done, imagining that she could see them, too.
She nodded, satisfied with my answer, and then walked away, her boots echoing down the hallway. That short exchange lingered in my mind for days. It was as though she had unlocked something inside me—something I had to develop.
That brief encounter changed the course of my life. Just a few years later, an instructor at Contra Costa College named Patrick Brunelle asked me if I took photographs, and if I could illustrate. I could barely manage either at the time, but for him, I would learn. I would get better. He saw potential in me, much like the girl had in that hallway. And because of that, I grew.
Thank you, Patrick Brunelle, a master of biology, for helping me start a journey I am still on today.
A Work Progressing 
The Starters
It was 1964, and I was a tall, skinny kid in my first year of high school—awkward, shy, and trying to figure out stuff.
That summer, I had decided to stop cutting my hair. It grew shaggy, a bit unruly. I started wearing sandals, though I wasn’t bold enough to go without socks. My corduroys were my attempt at being different. Beatniks had already come and gone, so I wasn’t following any specific trend. I was just trying to be “nonconformist.”
There was a tall girl in my grade who fascinated me. She moved through the halls with so much confidence, it was impossible not to notice. She wore knee-high boots, walking with a stride that almost felt military—sharp, purposeful. The sound of her heels clicking against the floor echoed in my mind long after she had passed. There was something about her, something magnetic.
One day, she noticed me. She stopped, looked directly at me, and asked, “Do you write poetry?”
I had barely read poetry, much less written any, but in that instant, I felt something. “Yes,” I said, as if it had always been true. In that moment, I felt like a poet. I hadn’t written anything down yet, but suddenly, the words were there, waiting to be expressed.
She smiled. “I’d like to read it sometime. Do you draw?”
“Yes!” I answered, this time more truthfully. I had always sketched and doodled, though I wouldn’t have called myself an artist just yet. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. I could feel something shift in me. I thought of all the drawings I had done, imagining that she could see them, too.
She nodded, satisfied with my answer, and then walked away, her boots echoing down the hallway. That short exchange lingered in my mind for days. It was as though she had unlocked something inside me—something I had to develop.
That brief encounter changed the course of my life. Just a few years later, an instructor at Contra Costa College named Patrick Brunelle asked me if I took photographs, and if I could illustrate. I could barely manage either at the time, but for him, I would learn. I would get better. He saw potential in me, much like the girl had in that hallway. And because of that, I grew.
Thank you, Patrick Brunelle, a master of biology, for helping me start a journey I am still on today.
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