Landlocked Pirate

  I was 23 the summer I fell in love. We had summer jobs at a resort in one of the most spectacular places I’ve ever seen. Towering mountains, shimmering lakes, wildflower meadows that stretched forever. We lived right there, surrounded by all of it, and soaked in the kind of freedom and possibility that only exist when you're young and your whole life is in front of you. He was kind. Smart. Funny. And he made me believe in myself again. That summer, he made me feel like I mattered. Like I was worthy. I didn’t even realize how much I needed that until it happened. And I fell in love. But I never told him. I was terrified of rejection and I believed it was inevitable. I thought saying the words would ruin the connection we had. So I stayed silent. And when the season ended, I let him drive away—without me, without asking him to stay, without asking him to take me with him. I thought I was protecting my heart. But by letting fear decide, I guaranteed that it would be broken...

I was at Route 91. I lived through a mass shooting. I saw what happens when firearms end up in the hands of someone who should never have had them. But it wasn’t just that he had firearms—it was the amount and the type. Modified, high-powered, and designed for maximum harm. There should have been red flags. There were warning signs. And yet, nothing stopped it. Still, I understand and respect the Second Amendment. I’m not arguing to change it. I believe in responsible gun ownership, and I know that the right to bear arms is part of our nation’s foundation. What I don’t understand is how so many people who scream about defending the Second Amendment are so quick to ignore or trample the First. The First Amendment was first for a reason. It protects our freedom to speak, to write, to gather, to report, to question power, to worship—or not—to dissent without fear. It is the bedrock of every free society. Without it, there is no democracy—only obedience. So why are the loudest ...

Eagle Mountain, California — Our Home in the Desert.  I grew up in Eagle Mountain, California, a town carved into the desert by Kaiser Steel. It wasn’t just a place on a map — it was a purpose-built world. Kaiser owned the mine, Kaiser owned the houses and the market and the parks. When you lived in Eagle Mountain, your life was tied to the mine, just like everyone else's. Our high school opened its doors in 1962, and the first class graduated in 1963. My mom was just a year behind them, graduating in 1964. I graduated in 1982, walking across the quad under the open desert sky, surrounded by the familiar faces that had been part of my world since childhood. EMHS Band We were isolated out there, tucked against the barren hills of Southern California. There were no nearby cities to escape to, no outside world to drift into after school. We had each other — and only each other. Our dads all worked for the same company. Our moms ran the same errands and attended the same community eve...