A Leader Forged Through Resilience and Service

I am a leader shaped by humble beginnings in the southern region of the Bronx, New York City, where I was born just weeks before a tumultuous period in American history marked by the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy. Raised in a community grappling with economic hardship, I witnessed the devastating urban decay of the South Bronx during the 1970s. Fires consumed countless homes, and the scent of burning embers permeated the air as I walked through deteriorating neighborhoods. Between 1970 and 1980, certain areas of the Bronx suffered catastrophic losses, with some census tracts losing over 97 percent of their buildings to fire and abandonment. Arson was a pervasive issue; in 1976, New York City recorded 13,752 arson incidents, with the Bronx being particularly severely affected.  

Many attribute this decline to systemic disinvestment, tied to redlining policies that disproportionately affected Black and Hispanic communities, undermining their ability to thrive.  

During this era, New York City’s leadership sought to optimize fire response times through analytical efforts that aimed to streamline fire department resources by measuring alarm rates and adjusting station locations. In 1972, this led to the closure of six fire companies and the repositioning of seven, intended to save costs. However, the approach was flawed, favoring affluent areas and leaving economically strained neighborhoods like mine with slower responses. Critics argue that this strategy—rooted in data-driven intentions—worsened the fire crisis in the South Bronx, disproportionately impacting Black and Puerto Rican communities and contributing to broader urban challenges. Witnessing the impact of various social and economic challenges in my community, particularly how governance can exacerbate or alleviate such issues, I came to believe that equitable and efficient government is essential for a thriving democracy.  

Amid this turmoil, the South Bronx gave rise to cultural resilience, birthing Salsa and Hip-Hop—genres that echoed the struggles of poverty and daily life. Artists of the 1960s and 1970s, including Salsa artists, Hip-Hop artists, and Hip-Hop groups, left lasting legacies through compositions that spoke to these communities’ realities and hardships. My mother, a young single parent at 17 when I was born, embodied similar strength. Pregnant at 16, she faced daunting challenges but raised me with unwavering resolve in a public housing project, primarily on her own due to my father’s intermittent presence stemming from his complex personal obligations. Her steadfast dedication provided a nurturing foundation, prioritizing love over material wealth despite the uncertainties of our circumstances. We moved from our initial residence, overtaken by city housing due to deterioration, to Clason Point Gardens in 1969—the Bronx’s first public housing development. As a child, I was shielded from the stark realities of drugs, crime, and death that surrounded us, thanks to her protective determination.  

My education began in July 1973 at James Monroe Head Start, where, under the guidance of teachers Mrs. Ordan and Mrs. Bright, I honed social, emotional, and problem-solving skills in a small class of eight. At P.S. 107 in Soundview, my homeroom teacher, Bruce Ravage, employed a distinctive teaching style that transformed our learning into a vibrant, hands-on journey. His immersive field trips brought lessons to life, connecting textbook knowledge to the world beyond our classroom walls, while his parental approach to discipline fostered a well-structured environment of respect and accountability. His guidance instilled in me a passion for leadership and a humanitarian moral compass that would shape my path forward. During this time, I also worked as an office assistant in the principal’s office under Mr. Riegel, organizing files and gaining early data management experience, and once a week on Wednesdays, I was released early from Mr. Ravage’s class to attend religious instruction at Holy Cross Catholic School and Church under James Anthony Bello—who now serves as a deacon at Holy Cross Church. Upon graduation from P.S. 107, I received the Lamp of Learning award for creativity, a testament to the foundation built during those years. After graduating, I enrolled full-time at Holy Cross, where, in 7th and 8th grade, Mr. Bello continued as my religious instruction and academic teacher. His mentorship was a beacon of wisdom and compassion, blending rigorous academic challenges with profound spiritual guidance. His lessons extended beyond the classroom, deepening my moral foundation and creative spirit as I completed my First Communion and Confirmation at Holy Cross. Later, I faced a pivotal choice between public and Catholic high school. Opting to attend Adlai E. Stevenson High School to ease my mother’s financial burden as she supported my younger siblings, I entered a vibrant yet volatile environment. I graduated from Stevenson, a school that served as a hub for teens navigating friendship and conflict until its closure in 2009 due to poor performance.  

Childhood memories linger from those simpler days—running errands, packing groceries at Finast, or earning pocket money by cutting grass and shoveling snow. Subway fares and pizza slices cost just thirty-five cents, and I played tag or rode my bike until the streetlights signaled it was time to head home. My mother's presence always brightened these innocent moments as the steady anchor of our household. Yet, amidst this urban decline, I found joy in Soundview Park outings, ice cream truck excitement, and trading jokes with friends—echoes of the slapstick comedy I loved from Abbott & Costello and classics like Babes in Toyland. These experiences shaped me while many—family, friends, and neighbors alike—fell to exploitation, prison, or death in a community strained by poverty. Within my own family, several generations suffered losses to drugs and suicide, a haunting legacy that underscored the depth of our collective struggle.  

As a teenager, my passions turned to technology and strategy. In 1982, at 14, I received a Commodore 64 computer—a gift from my father that sparked my fascination with coding and data sequencing. Though rudimentary by today’s standards, it laid the groundwork for my intellectual growth. At my high school, I processed student records, schedules, and punched cards, tutored faculty on emerging systems, and mastered arcade game patterns—skills that foreshadowed my analytical mindset. After graduating in 1986 and passing the ASVAB military aptitude test, I chose to stay and support my family rather than enlist, honoring my role as the eldest sibling.  

My career in public service began in 1988 with the New York City Department of Correction, following a deferred appointment from passing the Correction Officers exam at 16. Over 26 years, I rose through the ranks, excelling in promotional exams and memorizing policies like lyrics. I pioneered data-driven solutions—initially with pencil and paper, later digitally—streamlining workflows and saving millions of dollars in taxpayer funds. My innovations included an Administrative Dashboard for staffing logistics, a qualitative tour squad system, and the department’s first administrative operations manual. Through these efforts, I established protocols to refine operational frameworks—methods that enhanced resilience and rigor—reflecting my commitment to efficiency and workforce orchestration, driven by experience, innovation, and technology.  

Today, I am a leader forged by these experiences—from a Bronx childhood marked by resilience to a career defined by service and innovation. My journey reflects a dedication to equitable governance, informed by the lessons of a community that endured disinvestment yet produced cultural giants. I advocate for systems that promote the general welfare. Leadership should sustain staff, families, and the vulnerable by building a legacy of progress and justice that is evidenced by facts that can stand the test of time.