I don’t know why I love German so much — I just do. I lived in Germany during a really formative time in my life: I was nineteen, and I probably would have loved wherever I was during that time. It just happened to be Germany. But I also love German because of the structure embedded in German culture, like timeliness, structure, and predictability. I went to Germany in May of last year. It was early in the morning, but my host mom came to the airport to pick me up. She was so excited: screaming my name, shaking with excitement, and it was a feeling of coming home to someone who values me and cherishes me. And that’s the feeling I hope I can share with others — that sense of excitement for people, to have a contagious joy that makes someone feel so good about themselves.
When I was a freshman in high school, I competed in the state swim meet. It was the type of meet where you had trials in the morning and, if you made it, finals that night. I was fortunate enough to make finals. My swim team went to an early dinner; the coach told us to order steak, which he thought was the meal that would help us win. But I didn’t. I ordered lasagna. The coach was so mad about it! As a freshman, I wasn’t expected to place at all, but I went on to swim my personal best times, placing third in the state in one event and setting a team record. The coach quickly changed his tune about Italian food — it was lasagna for all after that! My daughter loves this story. She told me, “It’s so illustrative: first, because you love Italian food, and second, because you’ve never been afraid to pursue a new path.” And I do love Italian food.
Music might be the purest form of collaboration. It’s always been one of the most powerful forces in my life, in terms of inspiration and motivation. I love how it brings people together. For example, it’s how I met one of my best friends. I’d just arrived at a music event in Telluride — I didn’t know anyone other than my girlfriend and we’d just set up our camp, when this group of rather rambunctious guys started setting up their camp in the spot right next to us. So, in true camping neighbor fashion, I thought I’d make myself friendly and introduce us. And that was the start of that. Over the course of the weekend, John and I became really good buddies and we found out we were both moving to Denver at around the same time. Since then we’ve made some pretty incredible memories, with music always acting as the catalyst. No other force has connected me to people as much as music.
I used to live and work in Guatemala, doing human rights work on a genocide case. It was really sensitive work, so we couldn’t tell most people what we were doing and where we were going. My partner and I needed to go to a rural community to meet with some witnesses. We’d been stalled, were behind schedule, and, of course, didn’t catch the last bus to the community. So we decided to walk. Our best guess was that it would take around six to seven hours, and we hoped we could hitchhike. But, it was late in the day–no one went by. We were getting worried since being foreigners in the area raised questions we couldn’t answer. Then, this guy on a motorcycle pulled up. He told us we weren’t going to make it before dark, and offers us a ride on his bike–one at a time. We had no other choice, so my partner jumped on. I so clearly remember them taking off, going up and over a hill, out of sight, and, pretty soon, out of hearing range too. In that moment, complete helplessness overcame me. I couldn’t shout for help loud enough; it didn’t matter how fast or how far I ran; I couldn’t catch them. The world we worked in included really serious issues and violence, and I was incredibly worried for my partner. Without any other option, I just walked. From out of nowhere came a truck full of farmers. I hopped on without a plan. So, I was racing down this country road–in the back of a truck, anxious for my partner, unable to discuss the work I’m doing or where I’m going–when, out of nowhere, comes the guy on the motorcycle! I didn’t have a plan for this situation–the one where he came back for me–because I never dreamt it would happen. He had safely dropped off my partner and had returned to pick me. I hadn’t trusted this guy; in fact, I’d actively thought the worst about him. But this guy went way out of his way to help strangers on the side of the road. Given the social context, and issues with foreigners, he should have been the distrustful one. Yet, he helped us. I think about that guy a lot. He not only helped two strangers that day: he’s continued to challenge me to be better to others.
My dad’s advice to me has always been, “Do the thing that creates more options for yourself. When you’re choosing between two things, take a hard look: does it create options, or does it lead to a narrower path?” Going to law school wasn’t necessarily my path. I was working in agriculture and land use conservation. Even once I decided to apply to law schools, I wasn’t both-feet-in. But law school provided me more options and skillsets that I wouldn’t find elsewhere — it broadened my scope and perspective, it connected me to a different way of thinking, a different network of people, a different conversation. And a law degree is something that no one can take away from you: there are few things as permanent as knowledge.
I’m not mathematically minded. When I enrolled in a second-year physics course on astronomy, I figured that—since I could see the sun, moon, and stars—it couldn’t possibly be that difficult to pass a course on them. I was wrong. But I learned how a patient instructor makes all the difference. My professor worked so hard to adapt the course materials into things I’d understand. And he started each class with Gustav Holst’s “The Planets”, because he wanted to highlight the relationship between science and the arts. I try to remember that when I’m working on projects that have complex water or transportation concepts. I want these issues to be accessible to normal people, just like he made astronomy accessible to someone who thought that seeing the moon was all it took to understand the universe.
My father was a ceramist. We always had clay and a wheel and a fire growing up. As a kid, I didn’t want to have the same hobby. I’ve been making a lot of ceramics now, during Corona. It’s a balance to my work with policy and long-term planning; ceramics is so real and practical. It’s tangible. The clay is the center. And there are a lot of parallels professionally: it’s impossible to get a great final product without working the clay out prior to getting it on the wheel. You can’t make something happen if it’s not ready.
