Where Winders Meet Gexes: The Dance Between Passion and Precision

I am who I am largely because of my folks. My mom’s side of the family? They’re the social, passionate ones. Educators, coaches, jockeys, public servants—people whose lives revolve around family and community. Their energy? It’s relentless, almost electric. Put two of them in a room, and suddenly sleep seems optional. I’ve seen them play pitty pat until dawn, energized by conversation and laughter. These are poker-playing, nickname-having people—the kind that always gathered for Sunday dinner. Always Uptown, always on Sunday. And it was never just dinner—it was an event. I think we all miss that. Their sense of togetherness, their belief in always showing up for each other, has become the foundation of my sense of community.

Then there’s my dad’s side. They are… peculiar. Brilliant, but peculiar. Inventors, philosophers, engineers, poets—intellectuals through and through. Devout Jeopardy players and athletes. They navigate the world through ideas, forever in pursuit of knowledge. Lords of nuance, to the point where nothing was ever black and white. Growing up, I often found them puzzling. Conversations full of riddles and philosophical debates, constantly pulling apart the layers of everything. You know the type—the kind you’ve probably seen in films, but I lived with them.

They came from the 7th Ward of New Orleans and grew up extraordinarily poor. My dad and his brother Gex (real name Bill, but everyone called him Gex—don’t ask me why) came up at a time when racism and colorism were the air they breathed. Despite their “good” Creole family background, they were estranged. My grandmother, separated from her husband at a time when it was unheard of, struggled to raise them. Gex had stories and tales about those days.

“We were so poor, we couldn’t afford the ‘r’ in poor,” Gex would say, grinning like he had just made the joke of the century. “We lived in the back of the ghetto. I used to sneak on the golf course to steal balls and sell them in the parking lot.” He’d laugh, recounting how he and my dad tap-danced on Bourbon Street for spare change until their mom caught them and whipped them. My dad, though? He rarely talked about that stuff. He had one pair of pants, one shirt, and no time to look back at what they didn’t have. He was too busy thinking about how to get out.

When their mother passed while they were still in high school, it was just my dad and Gex who were sent to an orphanage—Boy’s Town in Nebraska. Gex described it like a war zone. “We had to fight them Colombian n*** every day,” he’d say, somehow laughing as if it were nothing. My dad was smaller, so Gex did most of the fighting, while my dad treated the whole situation with ambition. He wrote letters to distant family members, hoping someone would take him in and let him return home, so he could attend St. Augustine High School. He didn’t want to survive; he wanted to thrive.

My dad was brilliant. It wasn’t just genetic (though his uncle was a licensed engineer); it was also circumstantial. He knew his mind was his only way out, so he dedicated himself to it fully. Intellect and ambition became his identity. I remember being seven years old, watching him on Saturday mornings, practicing math problems. No test in sight—just practicing to stay sharp. “Stay ready, boy,” he’d say without even looking up. “I’ve forgotten more math than you’ll ever learn.”

And he wasn’t joking. His whole philosophy centered around endless practice. “You should practice so much,” he said, “that by the time you reach the test, time should dilate.” I didn’t even know what that word meant at seven years old, but it stuck with me. He meant that time should slow down, that if you were sharp enough, everything would move in slow motion. It wasn’t just a goal; it was an expectation. Get so good that the world itself bends to you when the pressure’s on.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that “slow motion” state lately. Most people call it the flow state, but for me, it’s always been my dad’s slow-motion mode. Whether on the golf course or tackling a challenge, when I slip into that rhythm, I can almost feel my dad watching, nodding in approval. He taught me that to get there, you need four things: comfort, focus, energy, and an objective. But the most important thing? No distractions. Whenever I follow that formula, success is inevitable—whether it’s a chemistry exam or a seemingly impossible golf shot.

But I’ve added my own twist to his method: stress management.

For my dad, sheer focus and preparation were enough. But I’ve found that stress can derail even the sharpest mind. Managing stress—knowing how to keep it at bay—is what allows me to stay in that flow state. Without that balance, everything can unravel in an instant. My dad’s intensity shaped me, but my own experiences have taught me that how you manage that intensity is just as important.

Finding My Own Balance

So, what happens when you combine these two worlds—my mom’s boundless energy and my dad’s disciplined intellect? You get someone like me. Passionate but deliberate. Community-driven but problem-solving. My mom’s family taught me the value of connection, of always showing up. My dad’s family? They taught me the power of a focused mind, the strength of intellectual rigor. The challenge has always been finding a balance between these two forces. Sometimes they clash—one side pushing me to pause and feel, the other telling me to push forward and think. But other times? They harmonize perfectly.

Whether I’m facing challenges at work, lining up a shot on the golf course, or tackling life’s everyday puzzles, I carry their stories, their philosophies, and my own adjustments forward. And in the process, I’m shaping something entirely new—something I’ll pass down, like a refined formula, to those who come after me.