Until one is committed, there is hesitancy . . . the moment one definitely commits oneself,
then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred . . .whatever you do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now. W.H. Murray
I felt a little embarrassed. Not sure of what to say. I could feel warmth climbing up my neck and knew my red face would betray my attempt at nonchalance at any moment.
“Why are you still renting?” my colleague Linda asked. “Here you are a top executive, and you don’t own a home. What are you waiting for?” Just a few years earlier, in 1995, I had been hired as CEO for the Girl Scout council serving the central coast of California.
Feeling flustered and unsure how to answer, I changed the subject. But I vowed to myself to at least explore the possibility.
Frankly, I had never even considered the possibility of buying a place in Santa Barbara. Everyone knew the real estate prices were out of sight.
It was 2004 and I had rented various apartments and condos in town for nine years. My good friend, Stanley Weinstein, a colleague at Santa Barbara Bank & Trust, told me he was sure I could find a place I could afford. I valued his opinion but couldn’t imagine such a thing.
Stanley, always determined to follow through, set up an appointment for me with one of his mortgage bankers. I went to the meeting feeling a little self-conscious because I thought the mortgage guy would laugh at me. To my astonishment, the numbers showed that I could indeed afford to purchase a home.
Now I needed a realtor to help me look for property. A friend recommended a local broker, Penny Collins. Penny asked about my preferences and parameters and she got busy researching potential sites. One day she picked me up after my Rotary meeting to look at property.
From 1:30 to 5:00 she showed me 17 homes between Goleta and Carpinteria. I could see why she came so highly recommended—she had printed out complete descriptions of every one.
As we looked at each house, I quickly declined. I just couldn’t picture myself living in any of these places. They were too dark or too busy or too small.
Finally, we were down to number 16. I was beginning to lose hope. As Penny pulled her Audi into the tree-lined driveway of the Carpinteria complex called The Villas, I felt a sense of possibility bubbling up inside. Each unit was peach stucco with a red-tiled roof. Tall, lush palm trees encircled a pristine swimming pool in the center of the complex. It was like something out of one of those vacation TV shows.
Penny fished the key out of the lockbox, opened the front door and we walked in. As soon as I saw this sweet condo, flooded with natural light and just the right size for me, I knew I would live there.
Penny said that in her many years in real estate she had never shown so many properties in such a short time. She also said she had never seen a buyer decide so quickly. After walking me through every step of the complicated purchasing process in November of 2004, I was the proud owner of my own condo.
The single-story end unit had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a connected two-car garage, a light-filled kitchen, a dining area, a good-sized living room and a cute patio off the breakfast nook area. It was one of 33 condos built in 1990 and part of this nicely landscaped complex, located less than a mile from the beach.
Penny arranged for a painter to repaint the walls with lush shades of rust, sage, peach and cream. By the time I moved in everything was all ready for me. My next project was the garage.
I’ve always been organized and never one to keep unpacked boxes laying around after a move. Penny arranged for a professional garage organizer to tackle the project with me. We built floor-to-ceiling shelving units and a unique rack for storing my water toys. On the garage’s back wall was a custom designed rack holding a tandem kayak, a single kayak, a prone board and a stand-up paddle board. There was a special area for my ski equipment, bicycles, scuba gear and backpacking paraphernalia.
I had always been a faithful member of a gym wherever I lived and I kept a pretty rigorous workout schedule. I wanted to make sure my body was always ready to perform my various outdoor activities. In fact, I quickly adopted the routine of riding my bike through the dark to the gym in Carpinteria every morning at 4:30 so I could exercise and have plenty of time to get ready for work.
After many months, the gym went out of business and closed. I decided to create my own gym in the garage. There was plenty of space left after I parked my Prius in there, so I created a small gym in the extra space. It worked out great although I did miss my early morning bike rides a bit.
One of my first challenges was how to transport my single kayak to the beach. It was such a hassle to put it on top of my car to drive the short distance to the ocean. So I bought a special trailer designed to pull a kayak behind one of my bicycles. It was so cool! I could easily strap the kayak to the trailer, hook the trailer to my bike and pedal to the beach. I was quite a sight, but it worked just fine.
When I was still living in Santa Barbara, I learned to surf my kayak in the ocean—out of necessity. Whenever I would finish a school project for my intensive online master’s degree, I would grab my kayak and go directly to the beach. But I wanted to ride the waves into shore to release some of my pent-up energy, not just paddle peacefully in the ocean. The problem was that I didn’t know how to surf a kayak. Sometimes I would catch the waves and easily ride them to shore, but other times I would about kill myself as I lost control of the kayak. So I decided to take a lesson. After that I was able to enjoy my water sport without so much danger.
Over the years I’ve had lots of fun and hair-raising adventures with kayaks. One time my friend, Linda Reed, and I decided to rent kayaks from Paddle Sports on the Santa Barbara Harbor. We planned to paddle from Stearn’s Wharf to Hendry’s Beach and back.
We launched our kayaks from the Harbor, loaded our water and lunch into the boats and began paddling the four miles to our destination. We were surprised by the size and force of the waves as we began to ride into shore at Hendry’s Beach. Evidently, we had not heard about the storm brewing off the coast. The waves were pretty big, but we made it onto the beach without much trouble.
We sat on the warm sand enjoying our sack lunch and began to notice the waves were getting bigger. Two surfers walked by with blood on their foreheads from injuries trying to get through the waves. Linda began to worry about whether we would be able to get through the big surf, but I assured her the waves would be smaller by the time we were ready to go.
I was wrong.
Since we had paddled there, we had only one way to get back to the harbor and that was to kayak back. So, I told her we were just going to have to go for it with gusto and blast through the waves. As I saw it, we had no choice. She was a bit unconvinced but agreed to try (I was 52 and Linda was at least 10 years younger and very fit so I was sure she could do it).
We each took our place by the shore, positioning our kayaks perpendicular to the waves. At just the right moment I jumped into my kayak and began paddling furiously out toward the monster waves. I was making good progress when all of a sudden a huge wave was about to crash onto my head. I had no choice but to put my head down and paddle with all my might through the wave. I was shocked and relieved when I came up on the other side of it into relatively calm water. I was pretty proud of myself.
I expected to see Linda come up beside me but she was nowhere to be found. The wave had washed out my contact lenses so I couldn’t see very well. I searched the distant shore trying to locate her but I didn’t see her. I couldn’t imagine she would still be on the beach.
But as it turned out, she was not able to get through the powerful waves. As I sat in my kayak bobbing along over the small swells, I reviewed my options. If I paddled back to the harbor by myself, Linda would worry and wonder what happened to me. I hated to ride the waves back to shore because it had taken so much effort to get beyond the giant swells.
I reluctantly decided I had no choice but to paddle back in. I had quite a wild ride to the shore but I made it successfully. Now we were stuck. How were we going to get our kayaks back to the boat rental place, four miles away?
I used the nearby pay phone (that tells you how long ago this was) and called Paddle Sports at the Harbor. I explained our predicament. They were not happy, but someone there agreed to come rescue us with a pickup. We sat on the warm cement in the sunshine waiting for our ride.
After what seemed like a really long time, we saw a rickety truck pull into the parking area. I jumped up, hoping to help him load the boats. I felt bad that he had to interrupt his business just to come retrieve us and our kayaks.
The first kayak went into the bed of the truck with ease, but I could tell there wasn’t much room left for the other one. So, I placed the bow on the truck gate and then came around to the stern and pushed with all my might to make sure it went in all the way.
I pushed too hard!
The bow went right through the back window smashing it into a million little pieces. I was horrified. Now I felt even worse. We fished some flat pieces of cardboard out of the dumpster and laid them on the front seat so we wouldn’t be sitting on the broken glass. Riding back to the shop, I worried that the proprietor would be angry. It turned out he had a good sense of humor about it but he never let me forget that crazy incident.
I also enjoyed hiking in the Santa Barbara front country. Every Friday evening my friend, Mary Jean, and I would gather around the fountain at the Old Mission to listen to the Sierra Club hiking guide tell us which trail we were going to climb that day. All participants were required to bring water and a flashlight. About 15 hikers would then pile in their cars, once the announcements were finished, and drive to the appointed site. The hikes usually lasted a little over two hours and we would return to the Mission dirty and tired.
Mary Jean and I had a little game we played with each other as we walked along the trails. One of us would relate a recent dream to the other one. “I’m a Martian and I don’t understand these words,” one of us would say. “Please explain.” The idea was that embedded in each dream were symbols of things going on in our life. Each word held special meaning for the dreamer and the only way to discover the significance was to carefully describe the main words.
It was a sweet, enjoyable addition to our hikes. When we got back to the Mission it was always time for dinner. So, we often went to Carlito’s to enjoy a delicious Mexican meal complete with strong Margaritas. We hoped no one would notice how grubby we were as we sat among the nicely dressed diners.
I have enjoyed skiing since high school and, thanks to my good friend Kate Silsbury, I had many opportunities for thrilling ski trips over the years. Kate was on the board of directors at Girl Scouts when I arrived and we quickly became good friends. She had a time-share condo in Whistler, British Columbia. Kate took me as her guest for many years to magnificent ski resorts like Whistler, Mount Tremblant and Panorama. I liked both Alpine and Nordic (cross country) skiing and Kate preferred Nordic, so I would trade off skiing downhill one day alone and cross-country with her the next day. We always had a glorious time and ended each day with a delicious dinner at one of the delightful local restaurants.
One evening we participated in a wine and fondue event at Whistler’s mid-mountain lodge. We climbed onto the chairlift together and since Kate didn’t ski, she planned to take the chairlift back down the mountain after dinner. I planned to ski down since the trail was well lit.
After dinner, Kate hopped on the waiting chairlift, and I strapped on my skis to start my ride down the hill. As I skied down the lighted run through the dark, I began to realize this was a bad idea. My tummy was full of rich fondue and my head was buzzing from too many glasses of the delicious wine. I focused on each turn, hoping I would stay upright and make it to the bottom intact. Thankfully, I did. But it seemed like one of the longest runs I had ever taken. Kate and I could always count on having a good time together.
Sometime in 2007 I began to receive letters from my youngest son, Matt. He was in the Fresno County jail. It wasn’t the first time he had been in jail, but it was the first time he sent me letters while incarcerated. His letters said he wanted to find a sobriety program so he could get clean and sober. At first I thought it was just a pipe dream. But I realized he might be serious about this goal when the letters continued with the same message. I talked to him a couple of times on the jail phone and each time he seemed sincere about his desire to get clean.
I began to research rehabilitation sites around the Fresno area and beyond. Every place was very expensive and completely out of my price range. One day a friend told me about the Rescue Mission in Santa Barbara. No fee was required and it sounded like an excellent program. I told Matt about it and he seemed to like the idea. I didn’t know if the program would have room for him. It sounded too good to be true.
Coincidently the Rescue Mission had just hired a new executive director, Rolf Geyling. I had a practice of always inviting new executive directors to have lunch with me at the University Club to help introduce them to the community.
I invited Rolf.
I wanted to make sure Rolf knew I genuinely wanted to welcome him to the community. I didn’t want him to think I had a hidden agenda so I didn’t plan to discuss the situation with Matt during lunch. But toward the end of lunch it seemed appropriate to mention Matt’s predicament. Rolf enthusiastically said he would have room for Matt and that he was welcome to join the program. This was an answered prayer—more than I had ever imagined possible.
There was one main rule: new participants had to test clean and sober when they checked in for the first time and they had to stay that way throughout the year-long residential program. I knew the only way I could make sure Matt met this requirement is if I picked him up from jail and took him directly to the Rescue Mission. He was sure to be sober since he had been incarcerated for five months.
About a month before his release date, I reluctantly agreed to pick him up from jail and take him to the program. I was terrified at the thought of being alone with him in the car for so long. I hadn’t seen Matt for a few years and I had read a lot about how methamphetamine can make users extremely violent. Matt is a big guy (6’4” and 200 pounds) and it was a four-hour ride from Fresno to Santa Barbara. I had never known him to be violent, but I didn’t know what he was capable of these days.
The more I thought about this during the 30 days prior to his release, the more agitated I became. On more than one occasion I broke into tears as I was using the elliptical machine at the gym or performing some mundane tasks. I worked hard to keep the overwhelming fear at bay. Several of my friends advised against the plan saying it was a risky idea to bring him to Santa Barbara, the place I now called home.
Finally the date arrived. I was in the habit of participating in four century bike rides (100 miles) each year. One of my favorite rides was the day before I was scheduled to pick him up. I was also in the middle of an online class I was taking for my doctorate degree. I was determined to complete the ride as well as complete my class requirement. So I loaded up my bike in the back of my SUV, tucked my laptop into the front seat and drove to Creston (near Paso Robles) to get ready for the ride. I was hot, sweaty and exhausted when I finished the ride, but I climbed into the car, started it up and headed to Fresno.
I checked into a hotel, brought my bike up the stairs into my room and unloaded my laptop. I logged into my school site and completed the required paper just under the deadline. Then I took a shower, set my alarm for 1:00 a.m. and climbed into bed, drifting into a fitful sleep.
The jail routinely released inmates at 2:30 in the morning in the most dangerous part of downtown Fresno. I knew I had to be there when he was released so he wouldn’t have a chance to take any drugs. I also knew he wanted to see Jamie, his partner, and their two children. I would have to carefully orchestrate this maneuver to ensure he couldn’t get any drugs.
If he showed up at the Rescue Mission high, they wouldn’t accept him, and I would be stuck with him in Santa Barbara.
I picked up Jamie and the two girls about 1:30 in the morning and drove to the jail explaining to Jamie that she and the girls could visit with Matt on the car ride to her house, but he would not be coming inside the house. I explained that I couldn’t take any chances that he could get his hands on some meth. But since she was a meth addict too, I figured it didn’t really sink in.
I pulled in front of the jail at a little after 2:00 a.m. It was dark. About a dozen menacing-looking guys were hanging out on the front steps leading to the jail. The realization that I would have to walk through the intimidating group to get to the front door scared me to death. I told Jamie I was locking all the car doors and that she should not open the door no matter what because her life and that of the girls may depend on it.
I mustered my courage, put on a mean-looking face, locked the car doors and marched through the group of thugs into the entrance. I kept my eyes fixed on the front door, not making eye contact with anyone. No one bothered me other than making a few unpleasant comments.
I was shocked and disappointed to see Sarah, Matt’s latest girlfriend, standing in the foyer. She was a serious meth addict and I knew she would try to talk him out of coming with me if she got to him first. But I also knew that Matt would likely go to her first as soon as he saw her.
“Sarah, I want you to know that Matt will be coming with me,” I said as sternly as I could. “You may have 30 seconds to greet him and say goodbye and then you will need to leave.”
It came time for Matt’s release. I could see his face behind the tall, wire-laced window. He went directly to Sarah the minute they let him out. He had his back to me, hugging Sarah, and she was facing my direction. I walked calmly over to them and stood behind Matt, in front of Sarah’s direct line of sight. I held up my left wrist and pointed to my watch while keeping my eyes focused on hers.
“Matt, it’s time to get in the car and see your family,” I said at the end of 30 seconds. “You can talk to Sarah another time. Your family is waiting for you.”
Thankfully Sarah walked out the door and Matt came with me to the car, climbing into the passenger seat. I explained to him that he had only a few minutes to visit with his family because I was dropping them off at their house and he would not be going inside. Jamie and the girls got out of the car, gave Matt hugs and went inside their house.
I started the car and began the long drive to Santa Barbara through the darkness, surprised and glad it all went so smoothly. Thankfully the ride was uneventful.
As we pulled off the freeway into Santa Barbara, Matt asked if we could stop at a drug store so he could pick up some basic supplies. I agreed but stayed with him the entire time, never leaving him alone. He was clearly uncomfortable being in such a large space. He acted like a caged animal, constantly looking over his shoulder as though expecting someone to come up behind him.
We made our purchase and drove the short distance to the Rescue Mission.
I had timed it perfectly so that we arrived at 6 a.m. just after they opened. When we walked into the Mission office, Matt acted the same way he did in the drug store. He was clearly afraid and desperate to escape. The clerk seemed to recognize Matt’s behavior as usual for new residents and told me I should leave.
He explained that Matt and I could have no contact for the first 30 days and that we could have short visits after that. I reluctantly turned and walked out the door. A flood of conflicting emotions consumed me as I climbed into my car.
Extreme relief that I had been able to execute this treacherous journey. Guilt for leaving Matt alone in a strange place when he was feeling so vulnerable. Pent-up adrenaline surged through me for the next few hours.
Matt stayed in the year-long program and made good progress. I visited him several times each week over that year. Sometimes we just relaxed in the Rescue Mission’s comfortable chairs as he told me about his activities and his plans for the future. Occasionally we drove to the beach to enjoy the sand and sunshine. I took him shopping a few times to pick up some basic clothing items. And we often enjoyed lunch at his favorite restaurant, Delgado’s, in Carpinteria.
In March of 2008, Matt had another month before he was scheduled to complete the program but the Rescue Mission decided to let him be part of the regularly scheduled graduation ceremony anyway because he was making such good progress. It looked like Matt would be staying in the sober living area of the Rescue Mission when he finished the program. They also had a job lined up for him upon completion.
I was beyond excited for him.
On March 8, 2008, ten family members and friends joined us at the Montecito Covenant Church to witness Matt’s graduation. What a moving ceremony it was! We were all so proud of him. After the event we all went to Moby Dick Restaurant on Stearn’s Wharf for a celebration dinner. I enjoyed watching the sweet interaction and conversation among my friends and family.
The next morning everyone gathered for breakfast at the Summerland Beach Café to celebrate my 62nd birthday. There was certainly a lot to celebrate with these dear people.
A month later, on April 6, Matt completed his year-long program at the Rescue Mission. We decided to celebrate his big accomplishment with lunch at Delgado’s. As we were driving to the restaurant, I received a phone call from my doctoral advisor, Dr. Hall. “Congratulations Dr. Sinclair!” he said. “The committee has officially approved your dissertation.”
I was bowled over!
I had submitted my final dissertation at the beginning of March but had no idea when, or if, it would be approved. I was trying to focus my attention on Matt’s accomplishments rather than my own. We both enjoyed celebrating our achievements over a delicious Mexican dinner. The future looked bright for both of us.
A couple of days later it all changed.
Matt told me he didn’t want to continue living in Santa Barbara; he wanted to return to Fresno. This news puzzled and devastated me. I tried to get him to change his mind by pointing out how far he had come in the last year and how positive his life had become. I also reminded him about what a good support team he had in Santa Barbara and how destructive his time in Fresno had been. I was pretty sure he would be throwing away all his progress if he returned to Fresno.
After he left Santa Barbara I learned that, sadly, he had started using meth again just days after completing the program. I was crushed but it all made sense now. He wanted to go back to Fresno because he was hooked again, and all his drug connections were there. I was heartbroken at the news, but I also felt betrayed and foolish. Betrayed because Matt told me he wanted to change and foolish because I had believed him even though I knew he was a drug addict.
For my own mental health, I just let it all go despite feeling an overwhelming sadness. I had learned long ago from a doctor when my son Michael was in drug rehab that, “You didn’t cause it and you can’t fix it.” Thankfully I took that to heart.
I decided to go to Fresno for a visit while Matt was still in rehab at the Rescue Mission. I wanted to see some of my other kids and my grandchildren. I also wanted to check in on Jamie and see how my granddaughters, Sarah and Ashley, were doing. I told Matt about my impending visit and he said he was worried about the girls because Jamie was probably cooking meth in her new apartment. I asked him to explain to me how I would recognize meth preparation. He carefully told me what to look for.
I had the address of Jamie’s new apartment but had never been there. I called to let her know I would be coming by for a visit and she agreed.
I arrived to see Sarah, age three, and Ashley, age two, walking around the apartment with nothing on but a diaper. Jamie was clearly high and there were three sinister-looking guys hanging around inside the apartment smoking.
I knew immediately that I was in a potentially dangerous situation.
I didn’t want Jamie or these guys to know I suspected anything out of the ordinary. So I acted very chipper, greeting everyone and appearing to ignore the obvious signs of danger. I casually walked into the kitchen and saw all the signs of cooking meth that Matt had described to me. I quickly told everyone goodbye saying how nice it was to see them. I tried to be nonchalant so no one would suspect I knew what was going on.
I walked out of the apartment, down the steps and climbed into my car which was parked across the street. I immediately called the Fresno Child Protective Services and the Fresno Police and reported what I had seen. I knew from my work at the Child Abuse Prevention Council that one of these entities would be required to remove the girls from this actively dangerous environment. I also gave them the name, phone number and address of Jamie’s parents, who were trustworthy and lived a couple of miles away.
Sure enough, the authorities came right over to Jamie’s apartment and removed the girls, taking them to their grandparent’s house.
Jamie’s parents always thought Matt was the one who got Jamie started on drugs, so they were never very friendly toward me. Still, I was glad I was able to arrange for the girls to be in a safe environment, even though no one knew that I was the one who called the authorities. The grandparents did an excellent job of raising the girls for the next ten years, for which I will always be grateful.
In 2006 I decided to journey back to my birthplace, Selma, Alabama. I thought that was an appropriate way to celebrate my 60th birthday. I had not been there since we moved to Florida when I was a year old.
My mother gave me the addresses of the two places we had lived when I was a baby. This was before the days of GPS, so I printed out maps from Mapquest for these houses as well as the location of Selma General Hospital, where I was born. I had no preconceived ideas of what I would accomplish, I just wanted to see this famous city with my grown-up eyes. I hoped to get a feeling of the place that had played such a pivotal role in my life and our country’s history by just observing its people and neighborhoods.
I rented a car when I arrived at the Selma airport and began just driving around a bit. After I checked into my hotel I drove to the famous Edmund Pettus Bridge and walked across, trying to imagine the tragic Bloody Sunday events in 1965. Lush vegetation lined the Alabama River, creating a sense of peace and tranquility on this warm and humid day. The bright sunshine and gently rolling river seemed to belie the tragic history of this place.
I had often read about this heartbreaking day.
Some 600 marchers lined up on the Edmund Pettus Bridge behind SNCC’s John Lewis and SCLC’s Hosea Williams on Sunday, March 7, 1965. No one expected much violence despite the city’s notoriety for hostility against the Civil Rights Movement. The group planned to march to the state capitol in Montgomery, 54 miles away, to protest the February 26 murder of the Black man, Jimmy Lee Jackson, by police in nearby Marion.
Earlier, SNCC had decided not to participate because they felt that such marches gained little and spilled too much blood. But they had also decided that those in SNCC who wished to participate could do so on a personal basis. Thus explains the presence of John Lewis, Bob Mants and others from SNCC (Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee).
State troopers in gas masks and Dallas County Sheriff Jim Clark’s mounted posse were also gathered on the bridge that day. Police officers confronted the marchers as they started across the bridge and ordered the marchers to halt. Instead they knelt. The troopers then fired tear gas as the posse charged into the ranks of the marchers swinging Billy Clubs and letting loose with rebel yells. Beaten marchers like Lewis crumpled while others fled as best they could. All of it was televised across the nation and became known as “Bloody Sunday.”
As I drove through the downtown area I noticed how old everything looked compared to California. The brick buildings and narrow sidewalks seemed to be from a different era—and I suppose they were. I watched as people were walking into their offices, eating at local lunch counters and seemingly going about their everyday lives. I don’t know what I expected, but it all seemed so normal.
The next day I drove to the house where my mother, my grandmother and I lived when I was a baby. I found the address quickly and parked my rental car on the street in front of the modest wooden house, located several yards from the sidewalk. It looked like no one was home, so I began to take some photos.
All at once, I noticed four large Black males out of the corner of my eye just as I took the first picture. They were on the front porch of the house next-door and were all looking my way. “This probably isn’t a real good idea,” I thought to myself. “You could really be in danger here.” I felt fear creeping up the back of my spine as they all started walking across the grass to where I was standing.
I mustered my courage and hollered to them. “Hey y’all! Will you please do me a big favor?” They looked surprised and curious but kept getting closer. “This is the house I was born in back in 1946 and I would love for one of you to take my picture standing in front of it.” I tried to sound friendly, hoping no one noticed that I was out of place in this obviously all-Black neighborhood.
Right away they seemed excited. They began to argue over who would be the one to take my picture. I sure didn’t want them breaking into a fight over my camera, so I suggested they take turns with the camera so I could have several shots. They eagerly complied. After each of them had taken a photo, they returned my camera. “Have a nice day, miss lady,” one of the young men said. “Thanks for letting us take your picture.” I thanked them profusely and headed quickly back to my car, glad it had all gone so smoothly.
I found the next house a few blocks away in a quiet neighborhood. It was a large two story white house with a veranda on the top floor and an expansive porch in front. Like the other houses, it was set back several yards from the sidewalk. I couldn’t tell if anyone was home, but I thought I saw someone standing in the upstairs window.
I stood on the sidewalk across the street from the house, not wanting to bother anyone by knocking on the door. A Black couple pushing a baby carriage walked by me right after I had taken a couple of photos. They quickly stopped right next to me. “I wouldn’t be taking pictures of that house if I were you,” the man said. “You could be in danger if you stay out here because some very mean people who use drugs live there.” I thanked them and quickly got back into my car, glad that I had a couple of pictures of the house.
Back at the hotel I logged onto my computer to check my email. I was surprised to see an interesting message from Tom Thomas who was President and CEO of Santa Barbara Bank & Trust. His email said that I should expect an email with a job offer from his HR director soon.
Just before I left for this trip I had been feeling like it was time for me to leave my 12-year position at Girl Scouts and find another job. The national Girl Scout organization was going through an extensive reorganization which would dramatically affect our tri-county council. It looked as if I would need to move to San Jose if I wanted to retain my position. I decided to find a job in Santa Barbara, the beautiful place I now called home.
I began to let various community members know that I might be looking for a job soon since I wasn’t wild about the idea of a move. I mentioned my potential job search to Tom. “Oh Cynder, we want you here,” Tom said. “We would love for you to join our team.” I was surprised because I had never worked at a for-profit and knew nothing about the banking industry. I didn’t know whether to take his comment seriously or not.
So I was surprised when I received an email with a job offer from the HR manager. I reminded myself that I could learn to do any job I wanted to and decided to at least consider the offer. I responded to the email asking for a meeting when I returned from my trip.
The next day I pulled out my map and drove to Selma General Hospital. I wanted to see this place for myself, and I also thought it would be cool to have an official birth certificate from the hospital. I walked through the empty halls wondering if anyone even worked there. It was so quiet. At the end of another long hallway, I found a woman sitting at a desk behind a half door. “Can I help you?” she said. “I was born in this hospital,” I explained. “And am hoping to have a copy of my birth certificate.” She was happy to oblige my request and went scurrying to look through her filing cabinet.
She had a strange look on her face when she returned about a half hour later. “You and I were born in this hospital on the same day!” she exclaimed. She handed me a manila envelope containing my birth certificate. We chatted a bit about the strange coincidence, I thanked her and drove back to my hotel. I packed up my suitcase and prepared to leave for the airport to come home the next day.
I met with the HR director from the bank a few days after returning home. I signed the paperwork and agreed to begin work after I had given notice at Girl Scouts. Tom greeted me warmly when I arrived at my new office and said enthusiastically, “Cynder you can just create your own job here!” I was astounded. I knew nothing about banking so how was I supposed to know what needed to be done?
My office was located in the exclusive area known as upper village Montecito. I was part of the wealth management team with the title of vice president. I began to listen and pay close attention to what my colleagues discussed so I could figure out what kind of job I should create for myself. I began to notice that whenever something was new and important they called it an initiative. I decided I would create the Nonprofit Initiative.
I had noticed that bank employees responsible for acquiring new customers did not realize the opportunity that nonprofits presented to them. These charities routinely held large fundraising dinners at the local high-end hotels. Banks would typically purchase tickets for a table of ten. However, just days before the event everyone would scramble to find bank employees to fill the seats.
Part of the Nonprofit Initiative was training for employees, known as relationship managers. I taught them how to develop a strategic plan based on which charity events typically attracted the greatest number of high-net-worth individuals. My long involvement with the nonprofit community helped inform the planning.
I showed the relationship managers how to “work a room,” how to fill their table with potential clients and how to follow up with them after the event.
I also helped them realize that many charity boards and finance committees were filled with the type of customers they wanted to attract. I began to lend myself out to the bank’s nonprofit clients in the name of the bank to perform board training, to offer coaching to organization executives and to arrange for banking presentations to their boards of directors.
In addition, I offered my services to wealthy, philanthropically-inclined bank customers who were new to the community and looking for nonprofits for their charitable donations. These people were quite grateful to the bank for my help in choosing just the right charities for them to invest in and for introducing them to nonprofit leaders and board members.
While at the bank I brought together a cross section of businesses and nonprofits to learn from each other about how their work could be mutually beneficial. Large and small businesses explored how their charitable financial contributions could benefit their business reputation as well as the community in general. Nonprofits learned how to more effectively relate to and partner with those in the business sector.
The Nonprofit Initiative became popular throughout the bank even as it attracted new nonprofit clients to the bank. But in early 2008 when the financial markets took a severe downturn, the bank let me know that they wanted me to start a training program to be a “real banker.”
I had already started taking my extensive doctoral classes in 2005 while I was still working at Girl Scouts. I had planned for my dissertation to address the process of merging nonprofits together since I had been working closely with the Girl Scout reorganization project. But I changed my topic when I left Girl Scouts and started working for the bank, because I would no longer have access to the necessary resources.
I decided that my doctoral dissertation would focus on the cross-industry relationship between banks and nonprofits. It was a perfect match for me because I had access to both the nonprofit and banking industries.
When the bank asked me to register for banking training, I told them that I appreciated the opportunity but that I wanted to get back into the nonprofit sector. “Okay we understand,” my supervisor said. “Just keep looking for the right job, continue working on your dissertation, come into the office when it is convenient and let us know when you find a new job.” I was astounded and grateful for this amazing gift!
In February of 2008 I accepted the job of CEO for Santa Barbara Neighborhood Clinics (SBNC), which provides healthcare for the low-income population. Their three medical clinics and one dental clinic provide much needed care for vulnerable patients who cannot afford to pay for services.
I did not have a background in the healthcare field, but I knew I could bring organizational leadership, efficient systems, staff development, fundraising expertise and community engagement to SBNC. They had a history of being led by medical doctors. Their healthcare services were excellent, but they wanted improvements in their organizational systems and their relationship with the community at large.
I got busy doing what I’m best at and what I enjoy most—bringing SBNC’s message to the community and to potential donors and board members. I established SBNC as a thought leader in healthcare throughout the community by writing articles for Noozhawk, the local online newspaper, and by actively engaging print journalists with our message. This was during the early stages of President Obama’s Affordable Care Act. I learned all I could about this new legislation. I quickly discovered that each of our major local healthcare providers understood only part of the plan.
I didn’t comprehend all of it, but I knew that we could learn from each other. So I began to convene representatives from the hospital, the major medical clinic, the county health department and other key providers. I even brought in our U.S. Representative, Lois Capps, to make a presentation to the group and answer questions. Everyone agreed this cross-section group brought value to all participants.
I expanded SBNC’s board of directors to include a wide variety of community leaders, brought in additional donors who were inspired by our mission and worked with the staff to increase their job performance and sense of camaraderie.
When it was time to hire a medical director, I invited a representative from each of the major healthcare providers to join the interview panel. I compiled an interview process, plus a list of questions and a scoring system to be utilized after the initial job announcement and preliminary screening of candidates.
It all worked like a charm, and we chose an excellent candidate while also deepening our relationship with the other healthcare institutions.
I learned a valuable lesson while at SBNC: don’t expect most medical doctors to have a high value for efficiency or financial stability. Their main focus is patient care and providing the best medical care possible—which, of course, is great for the patient. Most doctors are not trained to work together as a team or to pay attention to internal systems.
Eventually I learned I was wasting my breath to discuss financial or system improvements with the doctors. I discovered that if I wanted their attention, I had to start by saying I had a suggestion that would help them provide better patient care. That approach worked every time but it was too bad it took me so long to figure it out.
I enjoyed my work there, I learned a lot, and I felt good about my accomplishments. But after four years at SBNC I knew it was time to leave and make way for a different type of leader. They needed what is known in the healthcare industry as a “white coat connection.” The next leader would need to be a medical doctor. But they would have to find a rare candidate—a provider with an interest in administration. Thankfully, the doctor we hired as the medical director was eventually hired as the new CEO. I felt so good about that. I suppose sometimes a leader from the outside joins an organization, looks at systems and possibilities with new eyes, inaugurates fundamental changes that strengthen the sustainability and then moves on. I like to think that’s what I did.