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Scott Bakal |
“Bobby!” My 3-year-old
daughter’s voice floats up the stairs of the Sigma
Nu house, followed by peals of laughter. Isabel loves
playing with Bobby, my Kenyan fraternity brother, and
the rest of the Sigma Nu crew. It tickles me to see
my half-Swedish daughter merrily playing with my friends
of many different races; Stanford fosters the rarity
of such harmonious diversity.
A preschooler in a fraternity house? Let me explain.
I entered Stanford in 1990 and left during my sophomore
year. Aborigines go on “walkabouts,” solitary
wilderness journeys to challenge and learn more about
themselves. I wanted the modern American version. A
naïve idealist bent on changing the world, I wanted
to see our societal problems up close.
So I moved to a roughneck Ohio town and worked at nearly
minimum wage before entering the police academy. According
to independent research firm Morgan Quitno Press, Dayton,
Ohio, is America’s seventh most dangerous city.
The third district, where I worked, is Dayton’s
most violent.
Working as—no, being—a ghetto
cop is a violent life many worlds removed from our paradise
on the Farm. I saw scores of young men slaughtered for
as much as a drug turf war or as little as disrespect.
I saw people cut, stabbed, shot and beaten. I had other
people’s blood on me, including the time a stabbed
man tackled me when I blocked his way out. I had to
clean blood out of my fingernails, handcuffs, pistol
magazines and the inside of my gun. Blood gets everywhere.
I can still feel and smell the ghetto: the oppressive,
sticky heat of August nights mixed with the stink of
B.O., fried meat and malt liquor. Heat makes living
in the projects unbearable, and massive fights would
break out as crowds milled aimlessly. I spent hundreds
of nights tracking down armed robbers, mediating domestic
fights and arresting drunks. In all-black neighborhoods,
a white face meant “drug buyer”; we may
have been racially profiling by targeting whites, but
we were always right. Their money flowed in to buy the
guns that killed black folks.
My police friends who served the community died, too.
Jason had been on the job three months when he was shot
in the head at the district’s front door. Kevin
had just dropped off his kids when he took a shotgun
blast to the back of the head in his driveway. JJ’s
wife, Mary—shot point-blank in the face—instantly
became a quadriplegic. She died two years later, the
month before I came back to school.
I worked the Third for seven years, and spent the last
three on SWAT. I also enlisted with a Special Forces
unit in the Army Guard, went to basic, infantry and
airborne school at Fort Benning, Ga., then completed
the Guard’s 18-month Officer Candidate School.
On my last jump at airborne school, I got slammed against
the door of the C-130 as I exited. As I tumbled through
the air, my chute opened and the lines tangled around
my right leg. With my canopy partially collapsed, I
was upside down, descending faster than the other jumpers.
All my life I had been yearning for more adventure,
but on that descent, I remember thinking, you know,
maybe I don’t need any more adventure. Maybe taking
care of my little girl is more important.
I returned to Stanford in the fall of 2002 mainly because
of my daughter. During my decade away, I married, had
Isabel and divorced. Isabel’s mom and I are on
good terms; we share parenting, and she made the incredibly
generous decision to move here from Ohio so that Isabel
would be close to me. I chose to give up a career in
the military or federal law enforcement, because those
jobs would keep me away from Isabel.
I will not forget my experience, though, and the friends
I’ve lost. Last summer, JJ and his three kids
visited us here for the first time. We all stood on
the Golden Gate Bridge on a gorgeous summer day, watching
the twinkling of hundreds of sails in the San Francisco
Bay.
Coming back to school, I knew from the start that I
wanted to join a fraternity. I already missed the camaraderie
from SWAT, the police and the Army. We relied on our
fellow officers to keep us alive, which inspires strong
bonds beyond those of just passing friends. My time
in the ’hood gave me an incredible appreciation
for life, and I realize how fortunate I am to enjoy
the advantages that come with Stanford. I can’t
articulate everything I experienced, but I learned that
life off the Farm can be incredibly complex, chaotic
and messy, filled with conflict and joy and sadness.
I take nothing for granted.
Now, I feel I can contribute by focusing on business.
In Dayton, it was painfully obvious that a weak economy
hampered social progress. Police apply Band-Aids to
social ills, but business is the engine that drives
society. By creating jobs and wealth, I hope to foster
an environment less conducive to societal malaise.
I’ve traded in my submachine gun and assault
rifle for a cell phone and laptop. Because of Stanford,
I landed my dream job with Bain & Company in Palo
Alto. My plan is to work hard at consulting, hone my
business skills and apply to the Graduate School of
Business in three years. I want to start and run companies,
building a base of knowledge and capital so I can successfully
run great organizations. In 20 years, I hope to combine
my decade of street knowledge and two decades of business
experience to affect public policy.
As for adventure? Having a child—being responsible
for another life—is the greatest adventure. So,
if you see me walking around campus with a beautiful
little Swedish girl, you’ll know that—for
us—it’s just another day in paradise.
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