On my own, I was free to do what I wanted and make decisions for a future I would construct. When I was admitted to law school, I’d received a new-admit packet highlighting the career opportunities I’d have. There were a number of joint programs on campus, including a master’s in business through UCLA’s Anderson School of Management. Most of the politically progressive people I knew were anticorporate, but my research revealed many examples of for-profit business models I liked, companies that not only offered good wages but also did good in the world. These companies had started out as thoughts and grown into major businesses serving employees, communities, and the bottom line.
The more I learned about social entrepreneurship, the more I saw that everything kept circling back to money—knowing where it came from, how to make it, how to use it to make an impact. It wasn’t just shipping kids out to work on farms, like we saw in our social welfare videos, but building them up, revealing their energy, excitement, and insight to solve problems in their own communities.
I needed to learn more about money—where it came from and how it existed—and an MBA could provide that and more. It was problem solving to the nth power. Getting my business and law degrees together would give me tools to build a bridge between the kids who needed help and those able to provide it. I applied to add the MBA and was accepted into UCLA’s Anderson School of Management with scholarships.
About a month after being accepted, I went to a recruiting event for community advocacy jobs. “You’ve joined the dark side,” said one interviewer when I told her about my business-school plans. I contemplated telling her in detail what darkness really was and then thought better of it.
“I can’t change the world without knowing how it works,” I said. “Just think of it as letting light into dark places.” But for me business had the potential to represent the light.
Letting light into dark places turned out to be my new full-time job. During the sadness of the breakup with Jake—and the loss of our well-constructed little world—I grew more determined to stay focused on my studies. The determination paid off, as I did the best I would ever do on my law school finals. It gave me a boost of confidence. I was once again full of potential and ready to take on the world.
MBA classes officially began in the fall. That’s when I met David Sauvage, a fellow business student in my small study group of five and an aspiring filmmaker. It was a fortuitous connection, and well timed. The idea of making a documentary film about revisiting the streets where I’d met Natara and Icey had been playing out in my mind for a long time. Scene by scene, I could see how the movie would unfold.
“You should make a documentary about my life,” I said to David after we’d gotten to know each other a little better.
“What about your life?” he asked.
“About my life, my past, on the streets.” I said it with confidence.
“Well, unless you were a child prostitute, it’s all been told before,” he said. David’s tossed-off use of that word—“prostitute”—hit me like lightning. My story, the short version of my time with Icey, had always been: “When I was twelve, I was kidnapped by a pimp.” I never thought of myself as the prostitute in that version of the story.
There were a number of possible responses to David’s remark, but I wasn’t ready to make any of them. I was unsure if I could tell David the whole story, but knew that if I could get enough of it across, we’d have a deal.
Later that same night, David and I met classmates for drinks at a local spot on Wilshire Boulevard. I had taken off my professional armor, swapping my suit for snug jeans and a thin top. I didn’t bring up the idea of making the film until he and I were alone, outside the restaurant, away from anyone who might overhear what I was about to say. “There was a pimp. His name was Icey.” I felt a pound of pressure jump from my chest. I had said it; it was out there.
“It’s a start,” he said, and I could see him thinking. “But do you know if it happens to other runaways? How many? Where? Are there still girls there? Twelve–year-olds on Motel Drive?” I didn’t know the answers to any of David’s questions. For years I’d thought it had been my issue alone, even as I watched similar stories play out in the videos in my social welfare classes. But now I had to face it: If it had happened to me, it happened to others. It was probably happening right at that very moment.
I was one of only seven students in the combined JD/MBA program at UCLA. This instantly enhanced my credibility and virtue in the eyes of my classmates and professors. I was wearing a tag of promise, and I was predestined for success. What no one told me, and what few of us realized, was that JD/MBA was not a ticket to a happy and fulfilled life. We were seven different people with seven different paths and seven entirely different ways we would use or not use our degrees.
I knew I was different, not just because of the trauma of my past but because of what I wanted out of my degree. I was not interested in money for the sake of money; I wanted it for one reason: to provide opportunity and decrease suffering. Not just my own, but others’ as well. Each time I took on a new challenge or climbed another rung on the ladder, however graceful it may have looked to anyone watching, it was always a fight for me to remain steady. So just as law school and my search for a mentor had led me to Sky Moore, I knew that business school required another mentor, someone who could understand what I wanted to do. Someone who himself had been able to provide access to capital.
Marx Cazenave, a member of the school’s entrepreneurial board, had an extraordinary reputation and was reported to be a riveting speaker. His eclectic background—a former Black Panther, a presidential appointee to the Small Business Administration under President Jimmy Carter, and the chairman of his own investment firm, which he had developed in part to open up the world of finance to minorities—seemed to be a perfect fit for me. Marx was disciplined and actively engaged with students. The genuineness of his connections in the finance and business world was beyond question, and he was one of the key reasons people took out big tuition loans and came to Anderson School of Management.
I learned about Marx the day before he was going to be on campus for an entrepreneurial event. He was there to meet students, and I was told there was one spot left in a group course he was leading; if I wanted it, I could find him at the reception and introduce myself. After that it would be up to him.
Entering the banquet room late, I slipped into the empty seat next to Marx as though I belonged there. He was already in conversation with the other students, all of them propped like seals around the table waiting to hear what he had to say. What we heard was not what we expected.
“I made my life hard with drugs and alcohol,” he began, as casually as if he were ordering from a menu. “I started drinking when I was fifteen.” Suddenly, our full wineglasses at the table became eight feet tall. “I’ve been through three marriages and two bankruptcies, and at forty-seven I was pumping gas for five dollars an hour. I almost died drinking myself to death, but I’ve been sober since September 4, 1987.”
There was more, and even though his story wasn’t the worst I’d ever heard, the pronounced difference between the depths of his past and his present success astounded me. How did he manage his authenticity in a world of business and finance? Did facing his past have something to do with how much he had been able to achieve? I started to wonder if telling my story the way he had told his could help me be better at what I wanted to do.
Marx asked each of us to introduce ourselves to the group, and I could feel my pulse racing. The guy to his left began the personal-bio parade: He’d worked at a failed Internet start-up. The one who followed was an overworked banker interested in venture capital; after that came someone who hoped to land a job at a hedge fund. Slowly it came around to me.
I knew I could spout my résumé like everyone else had—worked as a high school teacher for a year after college and halfway through law school decided to get an MBA. Or I could follow Marx’s example and tell everyone how I had really come to be at this table, in this room, at this time and place in my life. But that meant opening up face-to-face with people I didn’t know. In a documentary I could be on the screen but not in the room, but here in the flesh I faced confrontation and possible rejection.
I looked at Marx—he had extraordinary posture. I sat up a little straighter in my chair. I was about to tell a table of men a story I had told only to my closest female friends.
“My name is Carissa Phelps.” I focused on a half-full glass of water across the table, and then I let it go. “I grew up in a small town in Central California with eleven brothers and sisters. When I was twelve, my mom told me to pack a suitcase. Then she drove me to juvenile hall and left me in the lobby.” Keep talking. “I was sent to group homes, but I ran away. I spent the next two years as a junior-high dropout living on and off the streets.” More. You’re almost done. “I was raped more times than I can count. I was arrested and spent six months locked up in juvenile hall, all before I was fourteen.”
I paused for a breath, waiting for the ceiling to fall in. It didn’t. No one spoke; no one moved.
“I taught myself math,” I continued. “I stayed in school and went on to college and graduated summa cum laude with a degree in mathematics. I was a high school teacher for a year before starting law school. I decided to get my MBA too, because without a real understanding of business, I don’t think I can make much of a difference in the world.” That’s all for now, I thought. My shoulders relaxed a little. I think I smiled.
All the details I left out didn’t matter, sitting at that table next to Marx. The beach ball was up and bobbing away on an open sea.
Someone announced over a microphone that it was time for students to rotate tables and meet other members of the Price Center’s entrepreneurial association’s advisory board. Before I stood all the way up, Marx leaned over and quietly said, “Your story is amazing. Find me later.”
Flooded with something halfway between joy and relief, I went to the next table, surprised to discover what business school could be—full of human beings with flaws and stories. Could it really be this easy? The faculty member at the next table was Dean Al Osborne, a professor renowned in entrepreneurship—warm, approachable, and kind. He noticed a student next to him was shaking his leg nervously, making the whole table jiggle a little, rattling a glass or two. “You gotta stop doing that,” Al said in his deep voice. “It’s going to hold you back in life.” Slightly embarrassed for my classmate, I thought, Man, we are just going to come clean in biz school.
As the evening drew to a close, students flocked around Marx as he handed out and collected business cards. I waited on the sidelines like a benchwarmer, hoping he hadn’t forgotten that he’d asked me to stay. Finally he untangled himself from the crowd and walked over to me.
“I get you,” he said very matter-of-factly. “And I know you because I know myself. You’ll need help understanding how things work outside business school, and I’ll help with that.” He didn’t stop there, and his brown eyes looked directly into mine. “I’ve been coming to UCLA for over a decade, and now I believe the reason was to meet you. I am here now to be here for you, and I have no doubt that you were meant to be here for me. To remind me why I survived.”
When Marx first invited me for coffee, I knew I would go, but I wasn’t sure what to do when I got there. Do I valet park? What are we going to talk about? Isn’t he so much more important than me? I felt unsure of myself, but I masked my lack of confidence with a sharp outfit. Before getting out of my car, I rechecked my hair and makeup. At least I could look the part.
I called Marx on his cell phone. “I’m here,” I said.
“I’ll be right down.”
We were to meet in a hotel lobby. I knew that he didn’t drink alcohol, so I figured we’d have sparkling water, maybe cranberry juice. I sat down on a couch near the bar; Marx showed up a couple of minutes later, and when I stood and put out my hand, he reached out his arms and gave me a great big hug. We were strangers but somehow so familiar to each other. By the time we sat down, I knew he was my friend.
Marx told me more about his story. It turned out that what I’d heard at the networking event was only the first layer. In the seventies, he’d had a wealthy friend who became his business partner. His friend’s family disapproved of Marx because he was African American. Under the mounting stress, his business partner committed suicide. It broke Marx’s heart, and he always wondered if there had been something he might have said or done to have prevented the tragedy.
Marx was later appointed by President Carter to be the regional head of the Small Business Administration and White House adviser on small business and minorities. As his dependency on drugs and alcohol increased, his personal life fell into shambles and he lost sight of what mattered most. He ultimately lost his position, and the only job he could get was pumping gas. Then, one day at a time, he started to rebuild.
I was so into his testimony that I forgot we were in a public place until a gentleman approached us. “Excuse me,” he said.
The man was in his early forties, he was Korean, and he looked like he was at the upscale Santa Monica hotel on business. I thought for a moment he was going to ask us to move; maybe we were taking up too much space in the room. This guy probably needed to accommodate an important business meeting. I was ready to stand up and move to a small table nearby. “I don’t want to interrupt,” he said, “but I have to ask—are you Marx Cazenave?”
“Yes, I am.” Marx was on his feet now.
“Well, I had to thank you for everything you’ve done for minorities managing capital.” He looked to me. “This man changed things.”
By now I was standing behind Marx, who had taken two short steps toward the man. Marx reached out for a handshake and patted the guy on the back. He was comfortable with strangers, open and welcoming. “Let me introduce you to the next generation,” he said, gesturing to me, “a joint law and MBA student at UCLA.”
The man reached out to acknowledge me. Firm shake, I thought. In that moment, it was clear why Marx was a leader. When we returned to our seats, our conversation continued. I wanted to know more—Is there any room at all in your group?
He assured me that if I was serious I was in, and for the rest of my time at business school, one Friday morning every month, Marx was my mentor and guide not just in the world of entrepreneurship but in Life in General. He never sugarcoated an opinion or shaded his advice and counsel to shield me. I knew that no matter what he said, no matter whether I liked or didn’t like what I heard, it would be his truth. Authenticity was how Marx thrived, and I longed for an opportunity to do the same.
In 2005, three years after a Fresno newspaper dubbed juvenile hall’s “overcrowded maze of crumbling cells and dingy dorms” a hall of shame, the county decided to shut it down. The news came just as David and I were planning our first trip to Fresno to film there. I’d always imagined that the first time I would tell my story publicly would be at Wakefield, where I’d met Ron. I could picture him there by my side, a group of young girls sitting with us, gaining hope as they realized that I had once been in their place. The brand-new, sprawling, $144 million, state-of-the-art Juvenile Justice Campus would be opening in just a few months, which gave David and me a short window to set everything up.
To speed things along, Ron suggested we call an old friend of his, Elaine Robles, an administrative assistant who knew the system well. Elaine walked us through everything we’d need to do to film in the facility, and just beforehand she surprised me with some news.
“There will be a special opening reception for the new juvenile hall. It will be a fund-raiser to bring programs into the facility,” she told me. “The planning committee has asked that you speak at the dinner.”
I almost didn’t believe her. “They want me to share my story?”
“Yes!” Elaine was excited to be the one to ask me.
“Of course.” I hesitated for a moment. “But before I do that, can I speak with the girls? I’ve never told my story publicly, and it’s always been my dream that the first time would be with them, and Ron would be there too.”
Elaine said she had to clear it higher up, but if that was my request, she thought she could make it work. And she did.
Before the grand-opening reception, a hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner, I gave my first public speech to a group of girls at the soon-to-be-closed old juvy. Ron sat behind me with a group of staff and administrators, some of whom had been there when I was locked up.
The girls, about fifty of them, in oversized orange sweatshirts and yellow plastic wristband IDs, filed quietly into the gym in a straight line, their hair neatly combed, their hands clasped at waist level. There, in the same space where Mom and I had once spent our visiting hours desperately trying to connect, I stood at a lectern, while David and his crew rolled the cameras.
As the girls settled into their chairs, slumping a little, looking at their feet, I thought, I know these girls. I had a truth to share with them. I had been working on my presentation for months with a speaking coach. I’d prepared for every possible response—booing, cussing, even blank stares. I was ready for anything but still started off a little shaky, nervous about how they’d react.
“I was first locked up when I was twelve years old,” I said. “I was you.” Their faces lifted. As I told my story, one by one they leaned forward, and the air in the room seemed to lighten. School, I emphasized. Potential and possibility.
After I spoke, I walked over to each girl and hugged her, hoping that in me she might somehow see her own future. “Half the people like it in here because they don’t have a home to go to,” said one of the regulars. “It’s kind of like a relief when they come in here—they have a bed to sleep in every night, food to eat.”
At the back of the gym, there were cookies for the girls to eat before they filed back to their unit—they stood in line for their share of treats. I knew they’d remember the day, just as I had remembered my family’s visits. When it came time for me to leave, I said good-bye to the girls with tears in my eyes and said good-bye forever to the cement halls that held so many memories and ghosts.
That night, in the crowded gymnasium of the new juvenile center, the scent of fresh paint hovered over the tables at the black-tie dinner. So many people I loved had come to celebrate and support me that we needed two tables for everyone. Ron came, as did my sister Sky, along with other friends and family and the documentary crew. I had asked someone who worked at juvenile hall to help locate Mrs. W, but no one could find any trace of her.
When I was introduced, the clanking of knives and forks subsided. People clapped as I removed my napkin from my lap, stood up, and walked to the stage in my new dress. Standing at the podium, with an arc of white and sky blue balloons behind me, I looked at the people in front of me, so many of them with the power to change the fates of children on the streets or behind bars. I leaned in to the microphone and, for the second time that day, told my story. As I finished my remarks, I lifted my chest and stood tall. I did not want or expect anyone to feel sorry for me; I wanted them to hear me. “Stay committed,” I pleaded. “Reach out. Make sure that each one of these girls, each one of these boys, reaches their potential and becomes a doctor, a lawyer, businessmen, businesswomen, executives. So that someday, when I’m walking at UCLA, one of my homegirls will be there with me.”
Back at my table, I was dizzy with the rush of my first standing ovation. As I caught my breath, an older man came up to me, pointed to his name tag—“Henry Wegerman”—and asked, “Do you recognize the name?” I searched his face, trying to match it with the name. Was he a probation officer? A teacher? There was something, but I just couldn’t place it. “Well, then, do you recognize this?” he asked, pulling a small envelope out of his pocket. It was addressed in pencil to “Mrs. W.” Wegerman, I thought. Mrs. Wegerman!
“Where is she?” I exclaimed, clasping my hands together in something halfway between a clap and a prayer. Mrs. W had found me. She’d noticed in the newspaper that I’d be among the speakers. “This is my girl!” she’d hollered at Henry, who immediately went out and bought the tickets—a pricey dinner for them, a priceless gift to me. As he led me to Mrs. W, I could feel the tears coming. When Mrs. W and I hugged each other, it was for the very first time; there had been no hugging at Wakefield.
During the sixteen years since we’d parted ways, Mrs. W had kept my letter in her Bible, she told me. She took it out when she felt frustrated or burned out by teaching. When students overwhelmed her, when the bureaucracy set her off, when she doubted she was making a difference in the school or in the world, she reread my handwritten words—“Above learning math in your class…I learned that I could do things,” and she believed again that, yes, she mattered. In spite of the obstacles and challenges, in spite of discouragement and setbacks, she didn’t quit. She continued opening that door for others just as she’d done for me. “I was very lonely as a kid,” she explained. “And because I understood that kind of loneliness, I think it made me reach out to kids like you who did not feel connected. A math teacher may be a poor substitute for a best friend, but for some kids, that’s all they get.”