The Bull Magazine Spring/Summer 2012

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

When one thinks of “Heroism” the brain automatically associates numerous values, features and even characters that tie into the broad term. But because each person has a different understanding of the word, this lends our society to have an endless amount of heroic characters in our lives.

If asked who our heroes are, many of the answers that would come to mind would be “my mom.” In my case, that would be my answer as well. All parents want the best for their children and will try to give it to them by any means possible. As I’ve gotten older, I can see those person she is.

But there are other forms of heroism that are near and dear to me. My favorite professor is also one of my heroes. He has so many jobs and is still able to provide me with genuine advice. He has cared about my progress and helped me see my potential.

Lastly, being able to see my friends accomplish their goals inspires me and being able to see people take a step in the right direction on any level is heroic.

country. But, in this issue of The Bull, we wanted to show the variety of heroes that walk among us on a day-to-day basis.

We decided to split our magazine to show the different types of heroes that are out there. They are all extraordinary people or organizations.

In one half of our magazine, we bring you the people and places that aren’t always in the limelight: Everyday Heroes.

In the Pierce College agriculture professor story, Lee Shapiro, takes us through his brain surgery and explains why he came back to teaching so quickly.

We also follow Gabby Paoletti’s story as she deals with the loss of her father. Nature’s Heroes is a photo essay that reminds us not to take things for granted. We also take a peek behind the scenes of a 9-1-1 operator and a cop trying to teach kids discipline through a cadet program.

Throughout both sides of the magazine we have what we like to call “The Hero Next Door,” and we pay homage to those we don’t always see as heroic.

On the opposite side of our Heroism issue, our “superheroes” use their weapons to overcome evil. We see how a pit bull, Tito, is trained, and how bassist Mike Inez from Alice in Chains tries to change the rock star image. And in ”Man of Many Trades” we see that stuntman Steven Ho is more than just a stuntman.

We then follow the foot patrols of the Xtreme Justice League in its quest to foil evildoers.

The students in Symbolic Logic use teamwork to defeat “Room 1300” as a hero is found in their midst. In the far away land of Studio City, John Tague uses his super powers to teach young kids discipline. To conclude our superheroes the dance group We Are Heroes use their heroes in this of The Bull. Thank you.

Lorrie Reyes

Photo Editor

Joe Kukuczka

Illustrator

Maria Salvador

Photographers

Joe Kukuczka

Lorrie Reyes

Jose Romero

Pooya Saleyhar

Erin M. Stone

Ava Weintraub

Writers

Calvin Alagot

Russell Gill

Michaia Hernandez

Maria T. Kahn

Kat Mabry

Lorrie Reyes

Monica Velasquez

Coburn Palmer

Ava Weintraub

Samantha Williams

Adviser

Jill Connelly

Special Thanks

Jeff Favre

Roger Vargo

Kevin Reynolds

Edgard Aguilar

- Lorrie Reyes

Online Editor Jose Romero

A Hero’s Journey

Story and photos by Ava Weintraub

Brain surgery couldn’t keep dedicated this teacher away.

The diagnosis was dire. The doctors said he had about a week to live and to get his affairs in order.

It was a type of brain tumor called a “schwannoma,” a benign tuJ mor that grows around the sheath of the cranial nerves. But this was a big one – the tumor had grown so large it displaced parts of his brain. After trips to several neurosurgeons he was told there was nothing they could do.

That was July 6, 2011.

Dr. Leland (Lee) Shapiro has been teaching agricultural science at Pierce College for more than 40 years.

Lee had his brain operation on July 19, 2011. The successful eightJhour operation involved removing tumors that encased several cranial nerves.

After two months, Lee returned to Pierce determined to teach his classes.

“I was afraid that my students would be impacted by my absence.” Lee says. “I am so very fortunate in that I have the hardest working, most compassionate students of any faculty member.”

One student he didn’t want to let down was 28JyearJold retired Marine Sergeant William Melendez.

William, a preJveterinary major, was deployed three times, the first two were to Iraq and the last to Afghanistan, during his studies at Pierce.

“I never had a close father figure and in many ways Dr. Shapiro is like a father to me,” William says.

Lee told William to be careful and to return to his studies. When he did, William gave Lee a flag that had flown over his base in Fallujah, Iraq. It is prominently displayed in his office over his desk.

“He is a remarkable young man. He put his studies on hold so he could fight for our country,” Lee says. “[My students] make my job easy. “

Lee was born in 1953 and is the grandson of four immigrants who came to America from Eastern Europe. Lee’s maternal grandfather settled in Los Angeles and was a farm laborer near 92nd Street in Watts in 1907.

It was all farmland then. “My mother grew up in Watts and my dad in East Los Angeles. My grandfather talked about working on the farms, milking the cows, etc,” Lee says.

The third generation Angeleno followed his father to West Africa in 1967 to teach Nigerians a way of living during the Nigerian Civil War when he was 14 years old. Lee was kicked out of the country when he hid three members of a family from the Republic of Biafra from the Nigerian army in his house. He returned to the United States in 1970.

The first cow he milked was at an Adhor Dairy, a small 30Jcow dairy, on La Cienega Boulevard and 3rd Street, what is now CedarsJ Sinai Medical Center, where Lee would eventually have his brain opJ eration in July 2011.

The doctors said he had about a week to live...

Dr. Leland Shapiro holds a baby goat on the Pierce College Farm in Woodland Hills, Calif.

Before becoming a teacher, Lee was a student at Pierce, after graduJ ating from Chatsworth High School. He worked in the dairy milking cows before his classes started in the morning in 1971.

He left Pierce in 1973 to attend California State Polytechnic UniverJ sity, San Luis Obispo and received a Bachelor of Science in dairy science with a minor in biology. He continued his studies and earned a doctorate in reproductive physiology of cattle from Oregon State University.

“My major emphasis of study has been cows. They are my favorite animal,” Lee says. “They call me Dr. Cows.”

His love for cows would eventually save his life. A colleague from the past would now figure into his future.

A neighbor suggested that he contact Dr. Keith Black, chairman of the neurosurgery department and director of the Maxine Dunitz NeuroJ surgical Institute at CedarsJSinai. The doctor is one of a few neurosurJ geons in the country that specializes in this delicate surgery.

He contacted the neurosurgeon’s office and was told there was a twoJmonth wait.

“I didn’t have two months,” Lee says.

Lee remembered he knew someone in the veterinary department at CedarsJSinai. He contacted his colleague and asked if he would contact Keith Black and explain his situation. The doctor agreed to see Lee immediately.

It wasn’t just his students he was thinking about when he decided to return to work early, he is also responsible for organizing an annual gift drive for impoverished children on Indian reservations.

Lee began working with the Walking Shield American Indian SociJ ety in 1987. He helped support their annual holiday backpack drive proJ viding clothes, school supplies and toys to underprivileged Indian chilJ dren. He brought the PreJVeterinary Club into the process to help with the collection as a way of teaching his students compassion for others.

“The children receiving the gifts are so grateful, it makes a big difference in their lives,” Dr. John Castillo, Walking Shield executive director says. “Dr. Shapiro has been and continues to be an incredible source of support for our charity.”

Each year a different Indian Reservation is chosen and Lee is able to provide Walking Shield with approximately 300 backpacks.

Assistant Professor of Child Development Traci Drelen works with Lee gathering backpacks for the preJschool children every year and is happy to help in the effort.

“Dr. Shapiro is amazing. Each year he is able to gather enough backJ packs through a combination of persistence and charm. This year was especially difficult because of the bad economy and Dr. Shapiro’s brain opJ eration,” Traci says. “Despite his operation and his short recovery period he made sure the backpack program didn’t falter.”

Although doing so many things for others, Lee doesn’t consider himJ self a hero. His heroes are his father, Murray, who served in the Battle of Normandy and taught high school in Los Angeles for 47 years, and William Melendez.

“They’re the real heroes. They put their lives on the line to defend our country,” says Lee.

Despite his feelings, Lee is a hero to many. He doesn’t do things to bring attention to himself; he does things because they are the right things to do, regardless of the outcome.

Lee still suffers from side effects, including fatigue, headaches and swalJ lowing problems but he improves daily. During a recent MRI he learned that the tumor had not returned.

He keeps a copy of his first brain MRI on his iPhone as a reminder of how far he’s come in such a short amount of time. His daily visits to the Farm and seeing his students make it all worthwhile.

Dr. Leland Shapiro views one of the donations for the Walking Shield backpack gift program at Walking Shield in Lake Forest, Calif.

they

Name: Bella Roos

Age: 92

HEROcation: Holocaust Survivor

years.

“I cannot look upon my experiences as heroic because my natural tendency was not to be killed. Whatever I had to go through: not having home, having money in my pocket but I couldn’t buy a roll at a bakery, I had nowhere to sleep and

nothing to eat. To remain alive in those circumstances, I don’t know if it is heroic, or I just used my sense by staying at railroad stations where there were toilets, by getting off the train in villages to steal food. It’s only heroic that if I had ever been discovered by SSmen or by people reporting me because I had no

had no place to sleep... that I was a Jew, I would have been shot. I don’t know if that can be considered being heroic. I was just trying to survive.”

Bella Roos survived World

raided her home. They took her mother and cousins, who eventually were killed in the concentration camp.

Photo By: Erin Stone

Keeping the Spark Alive

Supportcenterhelps littlegirlthriveafter fatherdies

Story by Maria T. Khan

Photos by Pooya Salehyar

Gabriella “Gabby” Paoletti loves playing with her Barbie dolls.

“You get to dress them up with different personalities and they’re not living,” says Gabby.

Barbie dolls don’t die. The same can’t be said for humans. Two weeks before Gabby started the third grade, her father died from pancreatic cancer.

“I didn’t actually see him,” says Gabby.

I was at camp, it was summer. My mom told me it was his last day to live.”

Within days of his death, Gabby and her mom, Lisa Paoletti, moved to a condoJ minium after Lisa’s brotherJinJlaw kicked them out of the house. In a short time frame, 8JyearJold Gabby was forced to say goodbye to her dad, house, fish, rabbit, chickens and duck.

“I was in deep, deep depression and kind of like shock,” says Gabby.

For Lisa, the hardest part about losinghJ er husband was watching her daughter break down. Gabby popped off heads of her BarJ bie dolls and broke pencils out of repressed anger. In school, Lisa volunteered every day to let Gabby know she was there. She saw Gabby spend her lunchtime or break away from friends because she thought she was the only one without a father.

“In her mind, everybody who had two parents had a better life,” says Lisa.

Gabby Paoletti practices karate at the weSPARK facilty April 16, 2012 in Sherman Oaks, Calif. WeSPARK host Master Vince DonVito, who volunteers his time to instruct the karate class once a month at weSPARK.

Gabby would not get to take her father to school events and never again would he buy her a scooter or a “stuffy.”

Gabby cried a lot and missed her daddy. With a good support system, Gabby braved the pain as she learned to face her new reality.

Lisa reached out to weSPARK (Support. Prevention. Acceptance. Recovery. KnowlJ edge.), a nonJprofit organization that offers free of charge treatment to adult cancer patients and their friends and families. Various sessions of yoga, relaxation therapy, cooking and karate are designed to heal a person’s body, mind and spirit.

Located on Ventura Boulevard and Sunnyslope Avenue, weSPARK looks like a furniture store at a glimpse. Walking in, one embraces the homeJlike feel not just from the peaceful setting of a mahogany dining table, the lightly colored calming walls, the friendly picture frames, or the soft green carpet, but from the kindJhearted people. At weSPARK the children find a place where they are not “the kid whose mom or dad has cancer”.

Nancy Allen, the executive director, says that one of the greatest assets of weSPARK is that the patients are grouped with those in similar circumstances.

“At weSPARK the great thing is when someone says ‘I know what you’re going through,’ they actually know what you’re going through,” explains Carlen Johnson, a teen who has been volunteering for four years.

Patients at weSPARK transition from a patient into a teacher, mentor or caregiver for the new patients. Nancy has seen Gabby transform. When a 6JyearJold boy, who lost his mom to cancer, came into weSPARK. Gabby was relieved that someone underJ stood her circumstances.

At a Valentine’s Day dinner, the boy was hesitant to explain his feelings, so he asked Gabby to help him.

“Gabby was like ‘oh yeah I can,’” recalls Nancy. “She looked right at him and told him how she gets through, and how she feels. You could just see him taking it in.”

For about two years Gabby has been attending weekly children sessions at weSPARK. Now 10 years old, she has become the group facilitator’s right hand.

“Gabby’s really become quite a leader,” says Nancy. “I think a lot of the kids look up to her because she has survived their worst fear and she’s okay.”

Carlen enjoys the extended family she has made as a volunteer at weSPARK, including Gabby. They love to dance together and gosJ sip about the latest episode of “Victorious,” a popular Nickelodeon show.

Gabby’s a brave little girl,” says Carlen. “For a little girl she’s been through a lot, but her poise and strength come through.”

Lisa finds that she and her daughter are

more at peace because of the people at weSPARK.

“We were always afraid of the unknown and now that it’s finally happened we’ve had the support of weSPARK all the way through,” Lisa says. “We were able to get through the acJ ceptance part with a strong support system.

At first Gabby wasn’t sure about attending weekly sessions. But WeSPARK and her mom are the support system that brought Gabby to

be who she is today.

“I accepted the fact that he died and you can’t take that back,” says Gabby.

Gabby hopes to be an artist or an architect when she grows up. She loves to draw people and comic strips even if they don’t come out how she imagines them in her head.

She still gets upset when her toys break, but she no longer pulls off the Barbie heads in anger.

“I love drawing! It’s what I do best,” says Gabby. “I’m fine with it not being perfect. Life’s not perfect.”

Thanks to the support, the spark has been put back into Gabby’s life.

Lisa Paoletti hugs her daughter Gabby Paoletti after arts and crafts March 26 at weSPARK in Sherman Oaks, Calif.

“I accepted the fact that he died and you can’t take that back.”

- Gabby

NATURE’S HEROES

“Like the Honey Bee the sage should gather wisdom from many scriptures.”

Bhagavad Gita

Photo essay by: Pooya Salehyar

Honey, called “the nectar of the Gods,” by ancient Greeks is known for its many health benefits. Honey is full of antioxidant and antiJbacterial properties that can help improve the digestive and immune system. It is also a natural source of carbohydrates, which can provide energy and strength.

Since 1990 in Europe and 2006 in the United States commercial bees have been disappearing. Complete hives have gone missing. This phenomena has been called Colony Collapse Disorder or CCD. Although Scientists have not find a specific reason for the disappearance, they believe it is a combination of problems including pesticides , modern agriculture and practices of commercial bee keeping.

A hive consists of 20,000 to 30,000 bees during the winter and over 60,000 bees in the summer, according to backyardJ beekeepers.com. Nearly all the bees in the hive are worker bees. Although worker bees are all female, they are not able to reproduce. Their job consists of gathering food, building and protecting the hive. There are two other types of bees; the lone queen bee whose only purpose is to reproduce and the male bee, also known as the drone, whose only purpose is to fertilize the queen.

Everything bees do is for the greater good of the hive. Bees are responsible for pollinating our fruits and vegetables, on which the entire ecosystem depends.

(Below) Beekeeper Susan Rudnicki removes one of the hives to show the honey.

Life on the Line

An inside look at 9-1-1 dispatchers

Story by: Monica Velasquez

Photos by: Jose Romero

There is a glow in the distance. Witnesses frantically watch, knowing that all they can do is call for help. The crowd is drawn to it like moths to light, only to realize that the glare is two cars being engulfed by flames.

Calls flood the Lost Hills/Malibu Sheriff’s Station. On the other end of the phone is Officer Oscar Morales, a law enforcement technician, or as he is more commonly known, a 9J1J1 dispatcher.

His calm voice answers, “9J1J1 what’s your emergency?”

Oscar graduated from Downtown Business Magnet High School in Los Angeles in 2002 and continued his education at Los Angeles Pierce College.

But his background doesn’t matter to the citizens that are watching the people burn alive.

He takes down the information, quickly and efficiently dispatching help to the devastating stretch of road. He assures the callers that help is on the way, but he knows that there is nothing the fire department can do. There were no survivors.

“Calls like those are the hardest,” Oscar says. “There was no way we were getting there fast enough.”

His 40Jhour work week consists of three eightJhour shifts and

one daunting 16Jhour shift answering calls for help.

Across town at the Los Angeles Police Department, 9J1J1 dispatcher 271 soft spoken voice soothes a distraught son.

“I need an ambulance for my mom. She is threatening to kill herself again,” the caller says. The dispatcher begins a conference call with the fire department as they trade necessary information to save the woman’s life.

Within two minutes the call is over and it is on to the next one.

Dispatcher 271 real name is Yolanda Aroyal. The son trying to save his mother will probably never know her name or that her husband is also a dispatcher or that her mother and father also work in law enforcement.

In the same manner 271 will never put a face to the voice that clamored for help.

More than 2 million calls will come into the Metropolitan Dispatch

“I need an ambulance for my mom. She is threatening to kill herself again,” - 9-1-1 caller

Center this year. There is an identical dispatch center located in West Hills where another 2 million calls will be handled.

At a distance, the Metropolitan Dispatch Center is illuminated with natural light and high ceilings looks peaceful. Dispatchers read magazines, laugh, and make plans for lunch, but at a moment’s notice they are drawn back into their job.

Out of the 2 million calls almost 45 percent are nonJ emergency calls. The LAPD classifies an emergency call into three different categories . They are crime in progress, prevention of a crime in progress or preservation of life. For all other calls, citizens are urged to call 877J ASKJLAPD or 3J1J1.

Cell phone calls make up 63 percent of all calls. The LAPD recommends using a land line when calling because of the accuracy of the location. When a call is made from a cell phone the location provided is that of the cell phone tower.

Police Service Representative Angela Rodriguez, who has been with the LAPD for 14 years, was seven months pregnant when she took a call that she will never forget.

“A Hispanic woman was waiting for her husband to go to sleep so that she could call the police,” Angela says. “The woman’s husband was molesting their daughter.”

Dispatchers are trained to remain monotone to keep the caller as emotionally stable as possible.

Angela was forced to put that training to work.

Angela was emotional for the entire duration of the call, but re mained professional.

“I was so mad. Why had she waited so long to call us,” Angela says. “We usually don’t get a lot of closure at the end of the call. We just take the

“If I were to stress over every call I got I wouldn t be here anymore,”

-Angela Rodriguez

information that is given to us. We follow policy and procedure and once the police get there they will follow up with the call.”

Dr. Ann Hennessey, an associate professor of psychology at Pierce College, says that since the dispatcher is not able to see the caller they take in the information, and there is no emotional transfer.

“The main thing is that you don’t think about what is really going on,” Yolanda said. “You almost forget how serious it is because it comes second hand.”

Ann adds that life experiences are also factor in how people handle stress.

Oscar attributes many life events that have prepared him for his job.

He went through the foster care system and says he can put things into perspective.

Angela has a different way of coping.

“My husband says I have a cold sense of humor, so I kind of make little jokes out of it,” she says. “If I were to stress over every call I got I wouldn’t be here anymore I would be either at the mental facility or on high blood pressure pills.”

Another key factor to relieving stress is simply being able to talk about it.

“Having the opportunity to express our feelings to someone who understands creates empathy and our emotions are validated. All these actions decrease stress,” Ann says.

Oscar finds that turning to his coworkers after difficult calls to share ideas or trade stories at the end of the day helps.

“We learn something from every call,” Oscar says.

The LAPD has a division called the Behavioral Social Sciences (BSS) where dispatchers can be debriefed after intense calls.

But, dispatchers are aware that not all calls have a happy ending.

Oscar recalls the hysterical voice of a father who had come home to find that his son had hanged himself.

“I don’t know why he did it,” the father yelled into the phone. “We gave him everything.”

Oscar calmed the father enough to get the address of the home but he had to enlist the help of a stranger passing by to get the rest of the information.

Yolanda, Angela, and Oscar and 500 other faceless heroes walk among us, and most of them will remain that way. But, they will always be the voice of hope at the other end of the line.

“9J1J1 what’s your emergency?”

John Ragsdale currently works as a lifeguard at Castaic Lake in Castaic, Calif. John has been saving lives for more than 30 years . He doesn’t consider himself a hero beJ cause he is just doing his job and just wants people to boat safely.

Name: John Ragsdale

Age: 61

HEROcation: Lifeguard

“I remember hearing a kid tell his friend, ‘you see that lifeJ guard right there?’ He savced my life last summer.’”

JJohn Ragsdale Lifeguard

JLorrie Reyes

programs

It is an unusual sight, even for a police station.

Around 30 children form five rows; their arms lay flat against their sides, their heads face forward, and their postures are rigid. Behind the group, two boys no older than 12 are doing pushJups.

“One, sir. Two, sir. Three, sir,” they chant in unison to nobody in particular.

At the front of the group, West Valley Officer Edison Vistar watches the group like a hawk, managing to ensure that the two boys are carrying out the consequences of their disobedience and that the rest of the kids aren’t disrupting the formation.

“I’m always consistent as far as discipline goes with the kids, and they respect that,” he says.

Edison helps oversee Junior Police, a new program sponsored by the West Valley branch of the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) that emulates cadet training for children ages 10 to 14. The program is in its early stages, having started earlier this year.

Edison, who has been in law enforcement for eight years, is also one of the pioneers of Junior Police.

Parents would inquire about something similar to the cadet program for their kids, one that teaches them discipline and respect, according to Edison.

“It was very different doing the program. When doing patrols, you handle your call and go to the next one. There’ s no time to talk and listen to the citizens’ problems, and you don’t see what happens after.”

- OFFICER EDISON VISTAR

“Because the cadet program has a minimum age limit, there really was no program for younger kids,” he says.”

He became active with the Community Relations office of the police station three years ago, when he started working for Police Activity League Supporters (P.A.L.S.). The organization’s goal is to promote positive and healthy relationships between police officers and youth of the community. They help by offering guidance and tutoring to atJrisk kids between the ages of 7 and 17.

“It was very different doing the program. When doing patrols, you handle your call and go to the next one. There’s no time to talk and listen to the citizens’ problems, and you don’t see what happens after,” he says. “With P.A.L.S., you get to know the kids and their parents. You also see results from the kids with their behavior. It’s very satisfying.”

It was P.A.L.S. that first inspired Edison to start Junior Police.

“We wanted to reach out to more kids, but the classroom that serves as the P.A.L.S. youth center is small,” he says.

Surrounding the children’s formation with Edison are five teenagers, all LAPD cadets. They help the program as part of their community service hours.

Meanwhile, another officer stands to the side to survey the activities.

“The cadets are a big help,” Officer Christy Fawcett says. “We wanted them involved with the program because they need to learn how to be leaders.”

Christy, who has been in law enforcement for nearly six years, has worked with Edison for two years.

“I thought I would come in for six months to try something new as a police officer, and see what else there is out there that LAPD is involved with. The longer we have been here, the more we’ve grown, and I just don’t want to walk away from it. It’s become our baby. We try to get [the kids] interested in things we do as police officers so they lose some of their negativity – and maybe their parents can see how we interact and lose some of their negativity toward police officers as well,” Christy says.

As a team, Edison and Christy apply the “good cop/bad cop” routine but only

LAPD officers focus on the youth of a community through

to a certain extent, according to the kids they work with.

“Officer Fawcett is really nice to us. Officer Vistar acts like he’s mean, but he’s actually really nice too,” says 10JyearJold Ruben Funez, who participates in both the P.A.L.S. and Junior Police programs. They ask us about school, and if we’re in trouble or anything. They also talk to the principal and our parents as well.”

After a short break to recuperate, the kids move on to learning how to march. They break up into a few groups, each to be taught by a cadet. The next minutes are a flurry of activity as the kids, sporting gray TJshirts—with the words “Junior Police” at the back—tucked into their darkJcolored mesh shorts, march to each group’s rhythm.

Chants of “Left… left… left, right left” are scattered throughout.

While Tuesdays are reserved for the Junior Police kids to participate in physical activities, on Thursdays they are taught the insJandJouts of law enforcement. They sit in the community center of the police station and hear lectures by officers about radio jargon and different types of guns.

Nearing the end of the session, the group gathers around Edison.

“Junior Police is all about listening. That’s all there is to it,” he tells the group.

Both Junior Police and P.A.L.S. are prime examples of the West Valley LAPD branch’s efforts to instill positive influences to the youth of the community.

“All the programs work together as a team,” says Edison.

The officers who choose to lead these programs, in turn, get their own kind of satisfaction from it.

“I see the effects P.A.L.S. has on the community much more now that I did when I was in patrol,” Christy says. “Officers don’t see the little changes that we see here by these kids doing well in school, when they’re not in trouble and on the street, breaking into your cars.”

Story by Michaia Hernandez

Photos by Joe Kukuczka

Police Station in Reseda,Calif., April 18, 2012. Elementary and middle school students attend the biweekly

(left) and Ali Regaldo (right) outside the West Valley Community Police Station in Reseda,Calif., April 18, 2012. Maldonado and Regaldo were the last two to properly preform marching cadence in their group.

one$dog$at$a$time

Pit bu training helps owners remain in control

Story by: Coburn Palmer

Photos by: Joe Kukuczka

Today, Annette and Troy are working hard to dispel what they say has become the unfair myth of the violent pit bull.

After moving from San Francisco a year ago, Annette and Troy started Los Angeles ResponN sible Pit Bull Owners (LARPBO). Their group has grown to 159 members.

The Smiths also lead socialization walks where they gather with other pit bull owners. Tito trots out from the pack and intercepts any stray dogs to protect the other pit bulls and keep them calm.

“After a rescue, nobody knows their dog,” says Annette. “They get home and realize they don’t know what the problems are.”

together, during a comedy routine at the Del Mar fairgrounds in San Diego.

“Stay,” says Troy as he walks backward away from Tito and drops his leash. The dog keeps his eyes locked on Troy as he lowers himself to the ground.

One important tip Troy and Annette teach is never to let two dogs meet for the first time by coming nose to nose but instead to greet each other from their owner’s side in the “heel” position.

“It’s like me coming at you with a knife,” says Troy. “It’s the most aggressive form of meeting.”

A fit of barks and growls erupts from Troy’s corner of the park and he spins around to eye the dogs and owners in question.

“Step back, step back, step back,” intones Troy as he instructs his students to control their misbehaving animals. “Now tell them to sit.”

Baking in the hot sun, the brown haired pit bull had been left to fend for himself. He had been driven to the deserted parking lot a few days ago by his owners and tossed out of the car. Left to wander the North Hollywood parking lot by himself, the dog retreats into an abandoned bus.

A solidly built, brown, pit bull terrier trots onto the bus and soon emerges with the stray dog in tow.

Tito, dubbed an “animal ambassador” by his owners, Annette and Troy Smith, spends his Saturdays helping train other pit bulls in a shady corner of the Van Nuys/Sherman Oaks War Memorial Park.

“Come,” says Troy, as he steps out of his pickup during a recent weekend carrying a bucketful of dog toys.

Pit Bull terriers, with their reputation for ferocity, were once known as nanny dogs; they guarded our nation’s children.

“Place,” says Troy, pointing to an overturned black plastic box, which Tito immediately ascends.

“Normally, when you walk down the road with a dog like this, people cross the street,” said Kari Shulman, owner of a white pit bull named Bela. Bela comes to LARPBO to work on her socialization and training problems.

The aggression issues normally associated with the breed usually show up around twoNtoN three years of age, after they reach maturity, which is why LARPBO focuses solely on the owner, not the animal.

“Everybody wants you to get a dog, but then there’s no support,” says Troy. “It’s hard to find a good trainer.”

Troy teaches the dogs to always look to their owner for direction when they are outside on a leash. This takes the decisionNmaking ability away from the dog and places it in the hands of the human.

“Sit,” says Troy as he walks backward holding Tito’s leash while maintaining eye contact with the dog who is eyeing the Frisbee under his arm.

This training allows Troy and Annette to encourage their dogs to take the Canine Good Citizen (CGC) test, which evaluates the animal’s behavior. Dogs must complete a test in which they greet humans and other dogs without lunging.

Troy’s teaching method has garnered a lot of attention. Caesar Milan, aka The Dog Whisperer, invited Tito to participate in this year’s Dog and Pony Show. Where dogs and ponies perform

Troy also owns and operates For Today’s Canine, a company that trains all breeds of dogs, but LARPBO concentrates on the misN understood pit bull.

Tanaya Burnham and Ryan Delorey attend LARPBO training because it’s free, with the Smith’s asking for a $10 donation.

“With LARPBO and all the other groups, pit bulls might wind up to be the most socialN ized breed,” says Stephanie Federoff, another pit bull owner. “It’s not just this breed, all dogs need this.”

As the afternoon wears on, Troy finishes his latest class and sends his students home; he’s already preparing for next week when he’ll concentrate on socialization methods.

“Truck,” Troy commands Tito, as he holds open his passenger side door.

Tito will be back next week to help other pit bulls learn the ways of humans.

Everybody wants you to get a dog, but then there’s no support.

- Troy Smith

Rockstar Mike Inez continues to give back to the community

Story by Samantha Williams

Photos by Joe Kukuczka

Rock stars are adored across the globe for their fame, riches and ability to entertain. Alice in Chains, however, isn’t afraid to present the world with both music and a helping hand.

The current bass player of the band, Mike Inez, wants to give back to improve the world in any way that he can.

“We’re normal guys from Seattle,” says Mike, 45. “I’m just a bass player in a rock band.”

Recently, Mike, along with Alice in Chains’ guitarist Jerry Cantrell, attended the Patrick Warburton Golf for Kids Celebrity Golf Tournament, an event that benefits St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital.

St. Jude is a facility that treats children with cancer and does ground breaking research on the disease. Patients at this hospital are cared for regardless of their financial resources.

“St. Jude is amazing,” Mike says. “The kids don’t know the difference between having a normal life and just going to chemo all the time. That really spoke to my heart the most.”

In 1987, Alice in Chains was formed in Seattle and originally consisted of guitarist Jerry Cantrell, vocalist Layne Staley, drummer Sean Kinney and bassist Mike Starr.

Mike Starr left the band in 1993 and was replaced with current bass player Mike Inez. Then, after Layne’s death in 2002, the band took a hiatus for three years. Eventually, William Duvall joined as lead vocalist in 2006.

The band, which has greatly influenced heavy metal, has sold almost 35 million albums worldwide, has received eight Grammy nominations and was awarded with Best Video in a Film at the MTV Video Music Awards.

In addition to the band’s prominence, Alice in Chains is also cherished for providing people with music, entertainment and a concept of stardom that we’ve all come to worship.

“There’s something magical about music. It touches a certain part of your brain,” Mike says.

Danielle Petrella, 18, a psychology major at Pierce College, also sees the beauty in music.

She understands completely why people look up to musicians, especially those from her favorite genre.

“They’re doing what they want to do, spreading messages and thoughts,” Danielle says. “but I don’t really think any of them are heroes.”

Most musicians are associated with “sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll” rather than charities and valiant behavior. However, the members of Alice in Chains aren’t content to sit back and be an antihero like other celebrities.

“I think it’s great,” Danielle says. “I think all musicians should do that. When people think about heavy metal, they don’t think about such kindness.”

“I’m a softie,” Mike says laughing. “I try to wear a white cowboy hat, ride a white horse.”

Mike’s wife, Sydney, says that her husband is definitely a hero. She supports him as much in all of his contributions to charities and nonHprofit organizations as she does with his music.

“It’s in his heart and his kindness. He always wants to give back,” she says.

Recently, band members Mike and Jerry, along with many other celebrities, made an impact on the lives affected by childhood cancer by participating in a

charity golf tournament and silent auction in Palm Springs to benefit St. Jude.

“I wish I could play bass and cure cancer,” Mike says. “But that’s not how the world works. I met a little girl there five years cancerHfree. She had a cancer that used to have a 4 percent survival rate.

The members of Alice in Chains have been involved in several other charities over the years as well.

“When we had our fantasy football league, we each played for a charity,” Mike says. “I played for Gentle Barn.”

The Gentle Barn is an organization that rescues abused animals and rehabilitates them with the help of atHrisk or special needs youth. Located in Santa Clarita, The Gentle Barn is home to 130 animals that have received a second chance at life. Children who work with the animals at the farm learn about empathy and love.

“As the animals heal, the kids heal too,” Mike says.

Now it’s 96 percent because of research. That’s heroic to me.”

However, despite his charity work, Mike humbly denies that he is a hero.

“Hero is such a loose term,” Mike says.

According to him, firemen and policemen are real heroes.

“One of my friends was a policeman in 9/11,” he says, “That’s above and beyond the call of duty.”

The band also offers special seating at their concerts for veterans from Operation Ward 57, a fund for wounded soldiers. This organization is close to the hearts of the members of Alice in Chains because every bandmate comes from a military family.

“It’s easier to keep stuff simple,” Mike says. “I guarantee not one person in my band would say they’re heroic. We’re just making a racket with guitars.”

“I wish I could play bass and cure cancer. But that s not how the world works.”

- Mike Inez

Story by: Lorrie Reyes

Most kids growing up watch their favorite cartoon characters fight and triumph over evil on Saturday mornings before their parents wake up.

Watching the “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” defeat Shredder each week was the highlight of lots of kids mornings in the 80’s and 90’s.

But not martial artist and stuntman Steven Ho. Steven was handpicked to be Jet Li’s stunt double in the film “Dragon Fight” in 1989 before graduating from Pepperdine University. In the early 90’s, he was busy being Donatello in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II and III. Prior to his film work, Steven grew up doing martial arts.

“My hero at the time was Bruce Lee,” says Steven. “He was the only AsianQAmerican male figure out there.”

Before Bruce, Steven first became interested in fighting while he and his father watched Muhammad Ali fight on television. His family had moved from Indonesia when Steven was 4Qyears old.

He taught himself how to speak English from library books and wanted to go to preQ school that had the “RockQem, SockQem Robots.”

“It was the only preQschool that had them,” says Steven. “But I got in trouble before I even got to play with them because I climbed on the bookcase to get them down.”

Steven was drawn to combat from a young age. He tried to teach himself with books and recordings that his uncle would sneak him. His mother didn’t let Steven take classes until he was almost 11 years old.

But once his mom gave in, he worked on his craft every second he could.

“My parents at several points forbade me from working out too much.” Steven says. “So I set my alarm every night to midnight and I’d train by myself secretly for an hour or two; I just wanted to improve.”

Steven has been cast in many films and can now periodically be seen on “The Conan O’Brien show.”

He originally went on the show to be a stunt coordinator but ended up teaching Conan some tricks. It was supposed to be a one time thing, but the bit was popular and he was asked to return several times.

they are currently expecting twins.

Steven has been working locally to be nearby Nina.

One local thing Steven likes to do is to train kids at the Westside Boxing Club in Los Angeles.

Ignacio “Nacho” Saucedo, 32, coQowner of Westside Boxing Club has known Steven for the past four years, since he’s been training there.

“Steven is a great person,” says Nacho. “He’s always helping with the kids and willing to help out in any way he can.”

One of the kids Steven trains at Westside Boxing Club is 12QyearQold Jose “Chachin” Saucedo. Chachin has been coming to the gym since he was 8. Steven has been training him for two years and has been teaching him discipline and to work on his form.

“I think it’s important, especially for young kids, to have mentors in their lives,” said Steven.

Steven has taught Conan how to kick and punch through wood, fly through glass and even how to defend himself with just a baby and a stroller.

Because Steven does adventurous stuff during his day job he isn’t really afraid of anything.

Except for standQup comedy.

“My biggest fear was just comedy,” says Steven. “It’s just them and the mic and people heckling them.”

So, he decided to face his fear and do a standQup set.

Nowadays, Steven operates Plush Home with his wife Nina Petrozio in West Hollywood. They opened it 10 years ago with an idea and one accordion file.

It seems like a far away life from his days as a stuntman.

“It was the opposite of film work,” says Steven. “The challenge was to start something from scratch. We took big chances to make this happen.”

A new challenge for Steven and Nina is that

Steven has become a mentor of Chachin’s. Chachin was having some problems at school with other kids. Steven stepped in and gave him some advice.

“He’s really fun and has taught me discipline,” says Chachin. “He taught me not to listen to the bullies.”

Stuntmen and coordinators do not see much of the limelight. They stand in and take punches for the action movie stars and don’t ask to be recognized.

“The stunt department is definitely the most under the radar department in all of Hollywood,” said Steven. “It’s the only major department in Hollywood that does not have a category for an Academy Award.”

Although Steven thinks the department is not recognized nearly as much as it should, he still doesn’t necessarily think he is a hero.

“Hero is such a big word and is thrown around a lot,” says Steven. “I think being a stuntman is a fun job, but I don’t think they are heroic.”

Most heroes can’t admit when they are one, but standingQin and getting punched for wellQpaid actors and being a mentor to children certainly qualifies one as a hero to others.

With%an%extensive%and%diverse% resume,%%Steven%Ho,%39,%is%making% moves%on%and%off%the%set.

“I think it’s important, especia y for young kids, to have mentors in their lives.”

-Steven Ho

Elyse has worked at Ciao Coffee in Sherman Oaks as a barista for the past four years. A fullNtime student juggling 14 units between three different schools within the Los AnN geles Community College District, Elyse gets to work every morning before most of us have even gotten out of bed. She knows about 80 percent of her regulars by

name or drink.

Name: Elyse Schwartz

Age: 23

HEROcation: Caffeine

N K. Mabry

“I think that other people’s lives are fascinatN ing and I like listening. It’s such a good feeling to get to see a lot of people that I genuinely like on an almost daily basis. It’s a super good way to start the day. SomeN times you kind of feel like a bartender, some customers come in and right away you

can tell something’s bugging them. I always like to ask if they need to talk. A regular came in once and I asked if she wanted a hug, and she politely declined—you get sweaty pulling shots and running back and forth beN hind the [espresso] bar.”

N Elyse Schwartz

j l X

treme ustice eague

innocence from evil.

Story by: Calvin B. Alagot

Afull moon oversees the historic heart of San Diego in Downtown. These 16 blocks, known as the Gaslamp Quarters, are lined with bars and clubs overflowing on the sidewalks with the loud and rowdy celebrating Spring Break.

With so many bad decisions waiting to be made, anything can happen, but luckily for these folks, the Xtreme Justice League doesn’t take breaks.

The XJL emerged from the shadows in 2006 with one man and his doJwell intentions. Known only as Mr. Xtreme, this security guard turned costumed crimeJfighter has gone from providing those in need with supplies to organizing foot patrols in search of crime.

Since the league’s culmination six years ago, they’ve come to star in the HBO documentary “Superheroes,” highlighting masked vigilantes across the country. The league has also caught the attention of local news station, NBC 7 San Diego, for the members bizarre appearances and services to society.

As unusual as these masked vigilantes may seem, the XJL is but a small chapter of a much larger international, crimeJfighting organization known as Real Life Superheroes. This online network of undercover activists discusses tactics, organizes patrols, and recruits new members on RealLifeSuperheroes.org.

These citizen crusaders dedicate much of their time to public safety and spreading awareness to their cause of actively preventing violent crime.

Urban&Avenger.&Rouroni.&Grim.

Just a leap and bound away, three members of the league assemble in front of a columned courthouse that is the Hall of Justice right before midnight.

The night begins with a routine equipment check: flashlights, tasers, pepper spray, walkieJ talkies and cell phones. After a quick divvying up of duties and plotting an itinerary, Grim takes point leading the threeJman troop through the night.

A blue skull mask shields his identity. During the day he installs alarms and lives with his girlfriend of five years. Once a member of the United States Navy as a part of their nuclear program, he stands as the tallest and newest addition to the league. Coming to a busy intersection, he throws a fist over his shoulder, indicating the others to stop.

Urban Avenger and Rouroni stand post at high alert, closely observing their surroundings. The intersection clears, Grim signals for them to cross.

The team moves through the San Diego

nightlife, smoothly slipping through the cracks. Time passes and the heroes pass the time with idle conversaton, ignoring ridicule of passersby. The night continues quietly with no major events. Posing in photographs and debating about what the ideal cheeseJtoJegg ratio for an omelet is, seem to be all the action the leauge will be seeing tonight.

Rouroni argues more cheese, excessive cheese. Grim disagrees.

Urban Avenger, reflecting on past patrols, with a tone of reflecton in his voice says “80 percent of the time nothing happens, but that

A week later, Urban Avenger and Rouroni run their regular routine of meeting at the Hall of Justice. They’re short a man because Grim couldn’t make it due to outAofAtown guests that he has to entertain. Only a couple of blocks into their patrol, they encounter a domestic dispute on the outskirts of the Gaslamp Quarter.

MELISSA'&'ADAM

A man, violently screaming and waving his arms, towers over a sobbing woman who is balled up against a storefront. The sidewalk spectacle begins to draw a crowd, entertaining commuters waiting for the midnight train. It seems to be a lovers’ quarrel.

Rouroni and Urban Avenger approach with caution. Trying to deA escalate the situation, they assume nonAthreatening positions behind the unsuspecting man. Rouroni removes his conical hat, exposing his eyes, leaving only his mask to conceal his face.

“Please calm down, sir.” says Urban Avenger in a cool voice.

The man turns around, startled by the two costumed strangers.

“Please, get him away from me!” shouts the woman named Melissa.

“All I want is my memory card it has pictures of my daughter on it!” argues the abrasive man named Adam.

Rouroni, crouches down to speak with the woman who is crying. She begins to scream expletives at Adam. Harsh feelings are exhanged. The battle goes back and forth. The complicated couple airs out their laundry up and down the stretch of Fifth Street that runs along the metro rail. Urban Avenger and Rouroni shadow them, making sure that things stay relatively civil.

“If things get out of hand, then we’ll call the police,” says Rouroni who spends his days working in an office environment.

Adam says he’s going to leave Melissa. “You can deal with ninja superhero here,” pointing at Urban, “or you can deal with ninja superhero over there,” pointing at Rouroni, “or I’m leaving you in three seconds.”

Melissa smashes Adam’s phone against the gray sidewalk and

we’re'regular' people.'we’re' just'activists.' ''''''''''';mr.'xtreme

pieces fly everywhere. The memory card is momentarily lost. Our heroes remain on standby. Melissa slaps Adam.

“We’re not allowed to conduct a citizen’s arrest on private property unless a felony is committed,” says Urban Avenger. “But even battery is still a misdemeanor.”

During the dispute, a stumbling man with the smell of liquor on his breath expresses concern for the two vigilantes.

“They just look the part,” he says. “If one of them were to pepper spray me, that’s a liability. Vigilante liability.”

The altercation continues on for almost an hour. Ultimately, the two lovers settle down and lower their screams to sore, coarse voices.

“She’s in a hotel,” says Rouroni while Adam smokes a cigarette outside the doors of the lobby. “He won’t start anything in there.”

“The best we can hope for is that he doesn’t get violent and they work it out,” Urban Avenger says.

Adam, apparently stressed, shows his appreciation toward the two heroes for mediating the situation as they walk away. “Thank you, guys.”

Rouroni puts his hat back on. Urban Avenger, who spends his days working in a restraunt, keeps moving forward.

“We’re looking for stupid people,” Urban Avenger says, the most senior member with two years under his utility belt. “I do like 18 hour days. This is the hardest day of my week.”

Rouroni assists a woman at the Fifth Street trolly platform in

Mr. Xtreme poses for a photo in front of the Hall of

THREE’S'A'CROWD

With the duo drifting through the night, the hordes seem less dense than the week prior, but they have already proved more troublesome.

Urban Avenger crosses the street, while Rouroni takes notice of a minor altercation between a homeless man and a group of young males. The homeless man makes a few racist remarks, but Rouroni’s appearance and presence seem to have scared him away.

Urban Avenger turns around and waves from across the street, unaware of the confrontational situation that almost was.

Radio chatter scratches over the walkie@talkie on Rouroni’s waist. “It’s Mr. Xtreme,” he says. Their leader confirms their 1:30 a.m. meet@up. “Copy that,” says Rouroni.

“He tries to make it to all of the patrols, even if he’s late,” says Urban Avenger as they make their way to the rendezvous.

While waiting for Mr. Xtreme on the corner of East Street and

CALLING'ALL'HEROES

“I was the only member for a while,” says Mr. Xtreme. “It really started picking up when Urban Avenger joined in 2010, and then Radnor and Rouroni joined and then Grim joined.”

Bars begin casting their last calls and the streets start filling up with groups of patrons stumbling across the scene.

“There’s a lot of situations that we’ve caught and we’ve dealt with,” says Mr. Xtreme, “but there was also an ample amount where, man...we missed.”

Urban Avenger nods his head in agreement “It’s all about timing. We can’t be everywhere.”

Recently the gang has been limited to Mr. Xtreme, Urban Avenger, Rouroni and Grim, but at one time the league consisted of over a dozen members.

“We’re trying to get more people to join us,” says Mr. Xtreme. “A three man patrol can only cover so much area. If we had like, maybe, three three@man patrols we would have a higher probability of catching a lot more of these situations.”

“The police are understaffed,” says Rouroni

Mr. Xtreme’s cape, fitted with the XJL logo flows behind him as he strides across the pavement. Stickers of Spiderman adorn his helmet and tributes to rape victims can be seen on his vest as he explains the need for vigilante justice.

“We’ve done quite a bit over these last six years. We’ve saved lives, gone out on a lot of patrols, done a few campaigns. We spoke at City Hall in Chula Vista,” says Mr. Xtreme. “It’s been a fun ride so far, and right now we’re just barely getting started.”

“We’re regular people. We’re just activists,” he says. Rouroni nods and adds that he joined because, “It seemed like a good thing to do.”

Fourth Avenue, passing people make various remarks. A fight breaks out across the way. The two spring to their feet and

“I HEAR THOSE GUYS BE TAKIN’ PEOPLE OUT!!”

“I JUST PASSED THREE NINJAS!”

“IS THAT RAIDEN?” “MORTAL KOMBAT!”

“FINISH HIM!”

race toward the fight, but before anything can happen a police officer disperses the crowd, threatening to deploy his pepper spray.

“They’ve got this,” says Rouroni, with Mr. Xtreme standing casually behind him, appearing out of nowhere in a real Batman@like fashion.

“What happened?” asks Mr. Xtreme.

“A fight. Stupid. Especially with the cops right there,” explains Urban Avenger.

Leaving the sprawling chaos, the three move out in tight formation. Urban and Rouroni walk side@by@side through the dispersing party@goers with Mr. Xtreme following closely behind.

Rouroni poses for a photo in front in downtown San Diego, Calif.

Room 1300

Pierce students bond as they struggle to pass symbolic logic

Story: Russell Gill

Photo Illustration: Erin Stone

Failure was not an option. They were horrified. Many visibly trembled, others began to cry. Panic stricken they received the results of their first quiz. Graduation this semester was at stake. Jordan Dorn, calmly looked at the frightened faces of his friends and feared they would fail.

“Get used to being uncomfortable,” warned Professor Mia Wood. The class was Philosophy 9 Symbolic Logic.

Understanding Symbolic Logic was like understanding the fine print in a long legal contract.

Jordan knew almost instinctively that x( an(x) Mortal(x)) meant, “all men are mortal.” Bored with the trivial statement, he quickly popped an Oreo in his mouth, grabbed his mobile phone and began another round of his favorite game “Angry Birds.”

Unlike his homework, Angry Birds was challenging. After all, he was a math and science guy. He didn’t know how or why he knew, he just thought that way. It was like riding a bike. He couldn’t explain it; he just did it.

Unlike everyday “natural” language, which includes emotion, slang and personality, symbolic logic forced the students to communicate in black and white, using a system or code, like robots.

Basketball players, using natural language, talk smack on the court to sway other players. Computer programmers and lawyers use codes and rules, such as using coupon codes to get discounts or laws to negotiate their point. Jordan understood both languages, he was biV lingual. Gabriel and Angela were not.

Week 1: “Atomic Sentences.” “It was the hardest class I have ever had,” Gabriel Gasabyan exclaims.

That first week Gabriel, who was normally laid back and funny, was so angry he wanted to punch through his computer screen.

“I thought I understood it in class, but when I got home, it was like total stress,” Angela Espinoza says. “I couldn’t remember anything.”

Jordan, on the other hand, would try symbolic logic problems and, “it worked.” Then he would play “Angry Birds.”

Jordan didn’t care that he understood the class. He wasn’t aware that understanding the language of symbolic logic gave him the power to think like an attorney, philosopher, or mathematician and better distinguish true statements versus halfVbaked stories.

Using this power he could “tear to pieces the flimsy illogical arguments which (he would) continually encounter in books, in newspapers, in speeches, and even in sermons,” said symbolic logician Lewis Carroll, author of Alice in Wonderland.

Week 2: “First Quiz.” Many in the class did not pass. Jordan received an “A.”

Week 3: “Boolean Connectives and Tautologies.” Angie clearly remembers statements such as ¬(A (¬ A (B C))) B. That week Angie cried herself to sleep every night. She was traumatized. She

thought she understood the language and was ready to learn; instead she was given more symbols, more rules, more codes, more stress.

Week 4: “First Exam.” “It kicked our asses again,” became the weekly sentiment after leaving Room 1300, says Gabriel.

The friends formed an elite task force to combat symbolic logic. Jordan was tasked with teaching his friends. He didn’t even know how he understood the language. How would he teach others?

They met at Starbucks early in the morning, multiple times per week, to swap stories about how confusing the class was. Each meeting, visibly sleep deprived, the partners would quietly arrive and order their signature power drinks, all Venti, of course.

By week six the group had grown: they had four laptops, two for the men and two for the women. Some days the group would study all day;

when one of the partners left for class or work the others would stay and work on problems until they returned.

“I would finish [the problems] first, then we would work together and cross reference it. I ended up teaching them a lot,” Jordan says modestly.

The partners began to adopt a strategy. “In class,

you had to pay attention. Some things could be vague and when the professor broke it down you had to be alert,” says Angie. “I would drink a Red Bull before each class, it made me alert.”

From that point on, no class was attended without Red Bull in each of the student’s utility belts. Jordan, however, preferred Oreos & Angry Birds, as his personal study aids.

Collaboration became a ritual … in Starbucks, on Facebook … anywhere. One afternoon before class, the team drew a chessboard like grid on the sidewalk outside Room 1300. Using the symbols, like miniature soldiers on a military map, the students were able to visually formulate strategy and deduce answers to their questions. Jordan’s teaching was proving effective.

The process was straightforward, like putting together furniture from Ikea. They had to break down the package and separate the pieces before they could put the furniture together. Understanding the rules, and how and when the pieces fit together, was key.

As the weeks progressed the level of difficulty increased, and the team began to adopt the vocabulary of symbolic logic, even in romantic settings.

On one occasion a classmate told Jordan, “If your premise is true, you must be thinking about me,” Jordan responds. “and thus your statement is valid.”

On the last day of class the team was equipped with Red Bull, Oreos, and Starbucks.

They entered the classroom prepared to combat the whirlwind of symbols. This would be the hardest battle, but they were a wellZprepared team. They attacked, hurling themselves into the structure of symbolic logic. Each symbol a struggle, each properly solved problem a triumph.

They survived.

Jordan had become the “Big Brother.” If it weren’t for him, Room 1300 would have won the battle.

Although the friends now better understood the language of symbolic logic, they seemed to most treasure how the team experience enriched their lives. Ironically, Jordan still wasn’t sure how he understood or would use symbolic logic in his life.

After it was over, Jordan picked up his cell phone, and turned on Angry Birds. He placed the Black Bird into the slingshot, understanding the important variables of the scene.

He made his calculations and fired.

The bird tornadoed through the air and exploded, perfectly shattering the frighteningly complex structure that housed the evil pigs. Problem solved. Advance to the next level.

I thought I understood it in class but when I got home it was like total stress.

Angie Espinoza

DEFINITION(OF(SUCCESS

L.A. actor finds his passion teaching self-defense

Story by: Kat Mabry

With small hands resting just below per5 fectly tied ranking belts, on black gi pants, they stand in a straight line, side5by5side and bare5 foot. The 125year5old students are still, quiet and focused, with all eyes on Sensei John.

Upstairs in the Rising Lotus Yoga studio on Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks every Thursday afternoon, five youths are learning to be confident, stand up for themselves and to speak in their own voice. More importantly, they’re learning respect.

It’s a normal session for martial arts instructor John Tague and “his kids” as he affectionately refers to this group of karate students, most of whom he has been with for about eight years.

“Every single one of these kids are excep5 tional, just as far as being people, and I think that karate had a lot to do with that,” says John. “In this room, everybody is the same. There’s no difference between us.”

The art Tague teaches his kids comes from a Japanese combat system. The form was first used in Okinawa, where peasants relied on

farming tools and their bare hands to defend themselves against invading forces. They had to develop their own fighting styles because Oki5 nawa was constantly being threatened by China

and Japanese royalty, John says.

John has taught youths from 4 to 15, both boys and girls, and he has provided private sessions to children with special needs, includ5 ing bipolar disorders, autism and Asperger’s syndrome. He’s had no formal training, but he’s patient and talks to them like he would any other student.

The dojo, which trains red belts and exclu5 sive black belt students, requires an invitation, respect and punctuality. Shoes must always be left at the door.

Two of his advanced students are testing for black belts before summer. Will Jones is the oldest student in the class at 14. Will has stuck with his lessons and improved greatly over time, John says. The other student testing is Oliver Mancini.

Olin Hernandez, the only girl in the class, has already passed her black belt test and she isn’t treated differently than the boys. In fact, they think she’s pretty good. The only obvi5 ous visible differences during class are that the

Photo by: Lorrie Reyes

family portrait at Rising Lotus Yoga Studio.

12#year#old’s sparring equip# ment is pink and not blue or black like the others.

“Girls that walk around scared and feeling like they’re a victim, they’re the ones that usually have incidents where they get attacked,” says John. “I think that confidence is the thing that women develop most in this.”

John has been the only martial arts instructor to teach at the yoga studio since he and his wife, Claire Hartley, opened it six years ago. Both actors, the New York couple moved to Los Angeles origi# nally so John could pursue his career, but ended up finding something more fulfilling and against what most consider the Hollywood actor’s stereotype.

“We’ve always pursued what we really want to do and we’ve never compromised on that,” says Claire. “Especially for John, to say to him you can’t do what you love because it’s not bringing in enough money—the amount of inner, spiritual sacrifice that takes, it’s just not worth it.”

John’s love for martial arts started in New York, before the couple met at the T. Schreiber Studio where they took acting classes. One of the first pieces of advice he got from his agent was that if he wanted to compete in the business he would have to get into better shape.

When the couple married in 2004, Tague wasn’t sure if he wanted children, which is funny now considering it might just be his greatest achievement, says Claire.

“I will always think that John’s biggest success is how he is as a father, and it was the most unexpected thing for him,” says Claire.

“That child calls me daddy so many times thor#

has used the lessons taught in class and applied them to situations at school. 12#year#old Max Tadman was another student John started teaching at 4.

“Max gets picked on a lot because he’s biracial and there’s still a lot of racism in the world,” says David Tadman who’s practiced martial arts with Bruce Lee and who encour#

“I hated gyms. Lifting weights wasn’t my thing,” John says.

That’s when he came across a karate stu# dio, and thought it would be a good alternative. John studied on and off for 10 years to get his black belt, training in different styles in New York and continued studying after moving to Los Angeles.

“I’ve been teaching for five years in this location and I do it for them,” says John. “I wish I could rely on this as my only source of income, but it’s more about that I enjoy doing this for these kids.”

ough out the day and I think she will be the most creative legacy he leaves behind.”

John grew up in a small town outside Manhattan. Surrounded by his parent’s high# powered Wall Street execs, lawyers and doctor friends he was turned off by worldly success, and he rebelled at an early age.

“He’s an actor, he’s a musician, but karate’s his love. He has to be able to express himself in that way,” says Claire. “You only have a certain amount of time on this planet and I think that the majority of how you spend your day has to fulfill you in some way.”

John never teaches his students anything that he doesn’t feel that they’re 100 percent ready to accomplish.

“I get excited when I see it click with the kids, because it’s more than just beating people up,” says Tague. “When they’re into, I’m into it.”

When Hartley first agreed to put their 4#year#old daughter, Nova, into John’s class, her confidence was a concern. She was the last one of several students that John agreed to start that young. One year later, Nova just tested for her orange belt in March and passed.

“I was really glad that she was starting karate because I thought it would give her that voice,” says Claire. “Even if she didn’t know quite why or how to use it, she would sort of build up that ‘no.’”

Nova isn’t John’s only prized pupil who

aged his son to give it a try.

Max’s experience as a first degree black belt has given him a sense of accomplishment, says David. If he sees someone fall, he’ll stop what he’s doing and try to help them up.

“Most 12#year#olds just let people pick on them so I have to stand up for them,” says Max. “Don’t start it, end it, that’s what my Sensei says.”

John plans to continue teaching in one form or another, until he’s no longer able to. But just like anything else, work is work, and there are days that he doesn’t feel like teach# ing. You can get burned out on everything after a while, he says.

“Would I like the house on the hill and the car and all that? It’d be cool, but it’s not going to make me happy,” says John. “This makes me happy.”

Claire says that her husband’s contribu# tion to the world has to do with purpose and integrity. Whatever he’s doing has to be something of worth that he’s leaving behind.

“I’ve always wanted to be respected as an artist. The music, acting, martial arts, all are fulfilling my desire and the lines are blurred for me—I don’t distinguish one from the other,” says John. “I guess I just want to be remembered as somebody who had value in people’s lives.”

“Would I like the house on the hi and the car and a that? It’d be cool, but it’s not going to make me happy. This makes me happy.”

- John Tague

punches during class.

WE#ARE#HEROES

Photos by: Jose Romero

Story by: Lorrie Reyes

Traveling#from#around#the#world, #these#girls#teamed#up#in#Los#Angeles# to#create#the#dance#crew#“We#are#Heroes.”

Having the word “heroes” as a part of a dance crew name means you have to live up to the hype.

But, as the purple banner with the word “Champions” written across it dropped from the ceiling during season four of MTV’s “America’s Best Dance Crew,” “We Are Heroes” has been trying to do just that.

“We Are Heroes” was the first, and only, female group to win the show and the smallest crew, barely meeting the minimum requirement with five members.

Their style is heavily influenced by male dominated genres like “popping,” “tutting” and break dancing. But, they blend both tricks and studio dancing to provide a more feminine feel to their sets.

“We’ve never been the girl crew to say that we are better than guys,” says Riquel “Riqi” Olander, 24, and “We Are Heroes” member. “We wouldn’t be who we are without the men, but we like to wear our heels and go beyond what the girls in the club are doing.”

Formed in 2009, Hiroka “Hero” McRae, 27, pieced the fiveJmember group together from different parts of the world.

Hero and Mami Kanemitsu, 28, moved from Japan to pursue dancing in America.

“I wanted to make the dopest female crew that would represent and I individually called them,” said Hero.

Alison “Ali” Iannucci, 28, moved from New York and Riqi is from Idaho. Their fifth member Nichelle Thrower, who is from Los Angeles. Nichelle is currently pursuing other endeavors in her career.

“We all moved out here to pursue a professional dance career,” says Riqi. “The base has always been business, but we’ve become family and best friends.”

just focused and just wanted to dance,” Ali says. “We didn’t know how much we inspired people.”

Fans use both their shows and social media to tell “We Are Heroes” how inspiring they have been in their lives.

“We do feel like we actually are heroes because we broke through so many barriers,” says Riqi. “Nobody respected us as a crew as much as they do now.”

We Are Heroes are also heavily involved in charities.

Hero and Mami, along with the rest of the crew, dedicated a show to Japan to raise money after the tsunami.

“We donated $2,000 after the earthquake in Japan,” says Mami. “It was really special that we were able to do that.”

They also appeared on a charity episode of America’s Best Dance Crew in season five, and in the season finale in season six.

Horoka “Hero” McRae, 27, taught herself how to dance in Japan.

Her heroes are her grandmother, her crew and Beyonce.

The heroes realized their journey to Los Angeles and to the America’s Best Dance Crew stage was fate.

“We come from all different backgrounds, but that’s why our styles blend so well,” says Riqi.

Since America’s Best Dance Crew, now in its seventh season, the group has made numerous appearances including daytime tv shows Oprah and Ellen, and in music videos.

But the crew also loves performing at colleges and clubs to stay more inJtune with their fans.

“When we were on the show, we were

Mami Kanemitsu, 28, has only been dancing since she was 19.

Her heroes are her mom, Michael Jackson and the girls in her crew.

“We Are Heroes went and proved to everybody that there are no boundaries and no limitations. No matter who you are or where you come from, you can rise to greatness,” says Phillip Chbeeb, a season six contestant of America’s Best Dance Crew during an interview.

The crew’s plan is to not just ride on what they have already accomplished but to continue to push boundaries.

Just like any hero, their job is never done.

Riquel “Riqi” Olander, 24, spent a lot of her dance life in the studio while growing up in Idaho.

Her heroes are her mom and her crew.

Alison “Ali” Iannucci, 28, is originally from New York.

Her heroes include her family and anyone actively pursing their goals.

We do feel like we actually are heroes because we broke through so many barriers.. Riki