The Soft Launch

November 15^th, 2021 started like any other Monday. I rolled out of bed, drank my daily cold brew, and read the news. What made this Monday different? Reading the news article about my region’s State Board of Education member deciding not to seek reelection.

Months had passed since the “Summer of Freedom” that aimed to liberate the country from the pandemic era, but I had never felt more anxious. I was exhausted from all the work I did, but I still felt like I could have done more to save lives, to connect people to resources, and to uplift my community at a time of crisis.

Sitting at the kitchen table, I grappled with existential questions: What now? How do I move forward? Why did all of this happen?

By the time I finished my cold brew, I decided to run for my region’s open seat on the State Board of Education.

No political group had recruited me, and no politician had urged me to run. My decision was based on will, grit, and determination to be in a position where I could do more for my community.

I was not naïve: I knew serving on the State Board of Education would not change the world. In fact, the SBOE’s main duties are to set the statewide curriculum standards, review and approve instructional materials, determine graduation requirements, and oversee the Permanent School Fund. Although crucial in their own right, these are not the life-saving tasks I was conducting daily during the pandemic.

But what I learned during the pandemic was the power of showing up, being present in one’s community, pulling all the levers & pushing all the buttons, and finding new solutions to new problems.

I knew if I could do all this as the barely-known executive director of a newly-formed college access nonprofit, I could do even more as an elected official of a statewide body of members representing Texas public schools.

After all, I was already doing this on a much smaller-scale: One hour I would be teaching a class via Zoom, and the next hour I would be calling funders to donate to my nonprofit’s community aid program. On any given day, one phone call would be about a student’s college application essay and another would be about a mental health crisis. Late at night, I would be designing lesson plans and curricula, and the next morning I would be visiting households afflicted with COVID to deliver resources.

“Give me a place to stand, and I will move the world,” said Archimedes, the ancient Greek Mathematician. In 1966, Robert F. Kennedy recited this Archimedes quote during his famous “Ripple of Hope” speech in South Africa, where he exclaimed, “Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.”

By running a longshot campaign for the State Board of Education at the age of 28, I believed I was standing up for my students, acting to improve the conditions of our public schools, and striking out against the forces that leave communities like mine to fend for themselves during crises.

It was with that spirit that I campaigned across 14 counties in 12 weeks, earning endorsements from notable statewide and national groups in the process.

But 12 weeks was not enough time: I missed the runoff election by about 2,500 votes. I did not know the 5 Ws of campaigning: Who the voters were, what the voters cared about, when to reach the voters, where the voters were, and why the voters should vote for me. I also did not know the technical details of building a get-out-the-vote operation, nor did I understand how to spend my limited time and money.

My election loss taught me many lessons about community, trust, and impact. Emerging from the isolation of the pandemic, I had unlocked my community and connected with likeminded change agents. At the time, I considered my election loss “The Hard Pivot.”

In other words, no more electoral politics for me: It was time to find alternative ways of uplifting and impacting our community.

Since 2022, I have achieved my dream of becoming a published author, and my short stories have won awards. Along the way, I established my own publishing company to make other authors’ dreams come true.

I have also undergone major professional transformations. After celebrating my college access program’s 10-year anniversary in 2023, I stepped down as executive director. I had a short stint working on anti-poverty initiatives in county government before transitioning to the English faculty at South Texas College.

It wasn't until spring 2025 that a former teacher at PSJA North High School, my alma mater, reminded me, "You did what you said you were going to do in your graduation speech."

I nodded, but I didn't quite understand what she meant until I revisited the speech later: “My mother and my friends have constantly supported me in my future endeavors. I believe by becoming an English professor and a published author, I will be able to live my dream of spreading positive messages to the children of tomorrow. I am choosing this path because I have a passion for making a difference in the world. I’ve asked myself: Why would I become an educator if I wasn’t going to try to make a difference in a student’s life?”

It hit me that I am that English professor. I am that published author. I am that man I envisioned I would become.

And yet, I do not believe I am doing enough to be “in the nation’s service and the service of humanity.”

I do not consider myself an ambitious person. The son of a single mother, I applied to Princeton University out of sheer practicality: I qualified for the University's generous need-based financial aid program, which would cover 100% of all of my expenses. I went to Princeton because I was poor.

I found my purpose in the University's informal motto, "In the nation's service." Months after I graduated, it was updated to, "In the nation's service and the service of humanity." These words mean something special to me. They are the words that help me make sense of the tremendous opportunity I was given at Princeton University, and they remind me of why I do the work I do.

I knew I was not meant to go into consulting or finance, like many of my peers. I was not meant to be a philanthropist sending his money to worthy causes. I was meant to return home and help as many people as I could. I was meant to be in the arena, side-by-side with my community members, fighting the good fight.

That is why I founded the College Scholarship Leadership Access Program when I was 19. That is why I teach adult learners and dual enrollment high school students today. And that is why I decided to run for public office in 2022.

So, why do I feel I am not doing enough?

It is now 2025. President Donald Trump has been reelected. The Department of Education is being gutted. Federal funding for crucial public school programs is being threatened. The federal government is targeting colleges & universities and tamping down on the freedom of speech.

“Give me a place to stand…”

The Governor has finally signed into law his school voucher program. Our Texas Legislature is captured by special interests determined to privatize public education. Our State Board of Education has become an ideological battleground influenced by extreme right-wing forces.

“Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope…”

My students are writing college admissions essays on family members caught up in ICE raids. My students are writing narrative essays about mental health crises brought on by funding cuts to social services. My students are writing me emails apologizing for dropping my class because they are afraid to leave their neighborhoods.

“Why would I become an educator if I wasn’t going to try to make a difference in a student’s life?”

There are moments that vault us forward in directions we could never have imagined. A college acceptance, an unprecedented pandemic, a new President. I cannot pinpoint a specific moment that led to what I call "The Soft Launch." It was a series of moments from April to July 2025. A phone call here, a meeting there, an event over here, an informal announcement over there. Every word, every action, every day made it all more real, more urgent, and more necessary for me.

I needed The Soft Launch. I needed to be 100% certain this was how I could be “in the nation’s service and the service of humanity.”

August 4^th, 2025 will not be like other Mondays. I will roll out of bed, drink my daily cold brew, and announce my next steps.