If my past had a face, it would belong to Randy Pentis. The type of face that only a cop could have, with all its hard lines and ill humor. When I was a teenager the sight of this face meant only one thing— the certainty of unavoidable punishment. One glimpse of this man would send me and my band of hoodlums scattering down the street like billiard balls in a break. Ducking behind buildings, flying around corners. Anything to get away from the police officer that made it his personal agenda to keep me from the mistakes I was determined to make. Of course at the time, I would have said he was just harassing me.
Randy Pentis, I remember best for the grip of his hand on the back of my shirt. For dragging me up the walkway in the middle of the night to wake my mother, and explain to her why her son wore the bandana, the sneakers, the belt, and the rest of the gang attire. The man who taught me never to run from the police. Randy Pentis is the man who arrested me.
There was an amount of what I consider, inevitable introspection. The memories of these events replayed in my mind as I drove to the interview. Fifteen years later, and I found myself contacting Randy Pentis to set up a meeting. I had two intentions in mind. The first was to gather his insights for my documentary in progress Teaching Without Class. As a police officer of 27 years, Randy Pentis would have a good idea of what changes needed to happen in the educational system, to prevent children from becoming criminals. The second intention was to pay respect to the man who marked the most significant turning point in my life.
The mental recapitulation was, as I said, inevitable. What I didn’t expect was to be nervous. Surprising for someone who can stand calmly in front of a crowd of thousands. My sympathetic nervous system kicked in the second we pulled into the parking lot of the police building. More than a decade later, and I still had that kinesthetic memory of being in trouble. Constant trouble.
It had to begin somewhere, so I guess you could say I was born into it. I was the youngest child of a single mother struggling in poverty to raise six children, some of which had already traveled the path I was rapidly shuttling down. I had two brothers and an older sister who had been in and out of the system for robbery and drug related crimes. With no guiding influence in my life strong enough to overpower the circumstances I was raised in, I fell easy prey to the media’s glorification of crime and the peer pressure of gang life.
Even for a kid who wants to get out, the possibility of escape is overshadowed by the danger of getting dragged back in, beat up or killed. Randy Pentis knew this. If he was going to help me get out of the gangs, he would have to make me his personal project. He followed me everywhere I went. He got my family involved. My mother finally asked for help, and with enough momentum and self-love, I survived.
Now I was on my way to thank him. Maybe find a way I could make his life easier, to make up for the grief I had given him. I had come full circle. Fifteen years later I found myself in the same police station where I once stood—a cocky young man with my Dickies and my shaved head, facing Randy Pentis in an interrogation room that smelled like hell.
This interview would be one of the proudest moments of my life. To hear the Captain of the Ventura Police Department, the man who once put me in handcuffs, tell me that I had become a success. The basic goodness he saw hidden inside of me as a young man, had prevailed in the end. My story could offer an example of hope to a new generation of at-risk youth.
When I thanked him for what he’d done for me, Randy would say, “Ryan, I didn’t save you. You saved yourself.” And I agreed with him. Why this man felt called to go beyond his duties to help me, I will never know. As a spiritual person, I can only be grateful for the messengers that have been sent along the way.
But before any of this, the cameras started rolling, our lighting had been given its final adjustments, and the long awaited interview had begun.
“I want to apologize for some of the heartache and the gray hairs I gave you,” I said.
Kindness broke through the hard lines of Randy Pentis’ face, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as he laughed. This was the face of a typical cop, of a fine man, and a good father.