My first language was Castilian Spanish. My father wasn't in the picture. My mother — a single mom who worked harder than anyone I've ever known — raised me with one non-negotiable: words. She'd leave vocabulary lists in the bathroom. The bigger the word, the happier she was. English was my second language, and she made sure I learned it like a weapon.

I dropped out of high school at sixteen because I got my girlfriend pregnant.

Most bios don't start there. Most bios start with credentials, accolades, a carefully curated trajectory that makes the author look inevitable. I'm not inevitable. I'm a high school dropout who had to grow up fast, figure things out in real time, and pay for every lesson the expensive way.

That girlfriend? I married her. Thirty-three years ago. We have six children. And the only reason that marriage survived — through job losses, business failures, financial free falls, health crises, and the kind of arguments that make the walls thin — is because we both had a stubborn, sometimes white-knuckled faith that the covenant meant something even when we didn't feel like it did.

I'm not writing that to impress you. I'm writing it because if you're going to read what I publish here, you should know who's behind it.... Read More