“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.
Kurt Schwarz graduated in June with a bachelor's degree in psychology.
