I was born דוד חכם on May 8, 1984, at 11:32 AM to John Alan Wise and Sandra Dee Cude at the West Anaheim Medical Center in California. Two and a half years later, on October 29, 1986, my sister, Crystal Dawn Wise, arrived. For the first fourteen years of our lives, we were raised in a modest 1,200-square-foot house at 9312 Pacific Avenue in Anaheim.
Though that house seems small to me now, back then it felt spacious and full of possibility. The backyard felt enormous, framed by a wooden fence overgrown with ivy. On the west side of the house, Sandy kept a small garden where she nurtured tomatoes and squash. Just beyond our yard lay a Christmas tree farm and a set of railroad tracks—perfect terrain for childhood exploration. Crystal and I wandered those borders often, unsupervised and free in the way children rarely are today.
The neighborhood had a traditional, tight-knit feel. I got to know most of the neighbors simply by riding my bike up and down the street, stopping to talk, and inviting myself into whatever was happening. There was Carl, a proud Texan with two pugs; Virgil, who smoked a pipe, drove a beat-up Datsun, and kept goats in his backyard; Ludwig and Edith Woffel, chain-smoking German immigrants who baked us cookies every holiday. Frank kept a crew of noisy Chihuahuas. Carol tended her flowers. Bob and Marian had a dog named Smokey. A few doors down lived Tom and Sibbi in a wildly painted house where, to the horror or fascination of the neighborhood kids, they sometimes skinny-dipped in their backyard pool.
There were other families too: Salman and Danesh, whose parents had emigrated from Pakistan. Sandy, in one of her more unstable moments, claimed the boys had been sent back “for terrorist training.” I was so young at the time that I believed her. I didn’t question her authority or the logic of the claim—only later would I begin to understand that many of her views were shaped by deep-seated instability rather than reality. At the time, though, her words settled into my childhood imagination as fact. A Vietnamese family whose teenage son endlessly tinkered with a Nissan 240Z. A Mexican family whose hospitality I remember vividly—the food was incredible, and I was always welcome. A grittier house down the block functioned as an informal biker garage, plastered with calendars of nude women, large knives on workbenches, and the constant thrum of Harley engines.
Then there was Mr. Wilson, our mailman. He carried an umbrella tipped with a tennis ball to keep dogs at bay and would regularly pause his route to shoot hoops with me in our driveway. Just a few minutes each time—but enough that I remember it all these years later.
My more solidified childhood memories begin around the time John and Sandy separated in late 1989. According to court documents, Sandy filed for divorce on October 15, 1990, and the agreement was finalized on March 7, 1991. I was so young that I don’t have many clear recollections of our family as a cohesive unit before that. Just fragments—snapshots of going to the park and climbing on those aluminum rocket ship play structures, or a vague memory of visiting the Wayfarers Chapel, where they had been married. But not much more.
What I do remember vividly is the world my sister and I created together after the separation. We built something that rivaled The Swiss Family Robinson—a kingdom of dirt, trees, and imagination. We dug holes and made forts, hunted for four-leaf clovers, sucked the sour juice from blades of grass, and pedaled our bikes until the chain slipped or the brakes failed. We climbed trees like we were born in them and built ramps to launch our bikes like Evel Knievel.
In the summer, we’d fill old trashcans with hose water and use them as makeshift swimming pools. We’d scoop claylike dirt from the edge of the yard and try molding it into bowls or pots, pretending we were potters. We fashioned “papyrus” out of grass and wrote stories in our heads long before we could properly spell them.
Shortly after the separation, I began to notice Sandy struggling financially. Single motherhood is never easy—especially with two children and a mortgage—but her own life choices often made things exponentially harder. Instead of scaling back, she bought a brand-new Audi 5000S, a Starcraft tent trailer, and opened nine credit cards. Poverty didn’t arrive with humility—it arrived wearing luxury, almost defiantly. This pattern of living beyond her means, purchasing extravagant items on credit while lacking basic financial stability, would repeat itself over and over throughout my childhood.
In the late ’80s, as computers and printed documents became standard in the legal and corporate world, Sandy launched a small business called Wise Choice Typing. It was a smart move in theory—she had typing skills, and the work was in demand. Through her friend Sandy Fellinger, she connected with a lawyer named Larry Gallardo and began doing dictation—typing up transcripts and legal documents from audio recordings.
Because Crystal and I were still so young, and because Sandy’s work hours were irregular, we were often shuffled between family members. We spent a lot of time with our grandmother, Rita Cude, who lived in Irvine, and our Aunt Diane Owens, who lived in Garden Grove. Both women stepped in frequently to care for us when Sandy couldn’t. We were fortunate never to go without a meal, thanks in large part to the quiet generosity of Uncle Roger Cude and Grandma Rita. Their support filled the gaps Sandy couldn’t.
Baptism records show that John Wise was baptized into the Seventh-day Adventist Church on March 31, 1984, at the Fullerton Adventist Church by Pastor Rob Lloyd. Given the timing—just weeks before my birth—and the fact that John had been baptized Lutheran by birth, I’ve long assumed his conversion was at Sandy’s request. Sandy had been raised in the SDA tradition by her mother, Rita Cude, though the religious lineage is more complicated. Grandma Rita was originally of the Mormon faith but left after a disagreement with her pastor, adopting the Adventist faith instead. Her shift seemed more personal than doctrinal—a pattern I would come to recognize in other areas of our family’s life.
I remember attending the Fullerton SDA Church as a child. I was enrolled in kindergarten through second grade at the school there, tucked behind the main sanctuary. The church building itself was made of red brick, solid and square, with classrooms at the rear and a broad field where we’d race around during recess. Saturday mornings meant church services followed by potluck lunches—simple meals, but essential for our family, especially when money was tight.
The Cold War was still looming during those early school years, and we regularly practiced “duck and cover” drills in preparation for a nuclear strike. I remember them vividly, not just because of the surreal fear they induced, but because the school used a distinct bell tone for them—three quick rings that stood apart from the slower tones of fire or earthquake drills. It was a sound that seemed to pierce the imagination as much as the ear.
It was at this church that Sandy met Robert Sterling Everett. At the time, he was dating a woman named Laurie, but Sandy would soon become a more permanent fixture in his life. That relationship, and its implications, would go on to shape the next chapter of our family story.
Somehow, against all odds, Sandy—a single mother with two young children and mounting financial stress—managed to wrest Robert away from his girlfriend. Not long after they began dating, they married in the same Seventh-day Adventist church we had been attending. Sandy took his last name and became Sandy Everett. Robert moved into our house on Pacific Avenue, taking on a new role in our family.
But things weren’t neatly resolved. Around the same time, John Wise—my father—fell on hard times. With nowhere else to go, he returned to the house on Pacific and ended up living in the living room and the garage for the better part of a year while he tried to get back on his feet.
For a stretch of time, both men were under the same roof—Robert, the new husband, and John, the displaced father—coexisting in a kind of uneasy, unspoken truce. As a child, I didn’t fully grasp the weight of it, but looking back, I can only imagine the tension that must have filled those walls. It was a strange arrangement, but it was ours.
Quite frankly, I’m surprised Robert stuck around.
Sandy was volatile and controlling—her moods could turn on a dime. During their dating years, I remember them getting into heated arguments. More than once, Sandy would throw the car door open mid-traffic, leaping out in a dramatic storm, insisting she’d walk home. Robert would eventually circle back to retrieve her, like a ritual they both seemed trapped in.
When Robert moved in and John was still living between the living room and garage, the atmosphere in the house grew more unstable. Sandy’s anger, already unpredictable, became explosive. Her outbursts were often directed at Crystal and me. I remember one incident in particular—Crystal had been riding her tricycle down the driveway and lost control, bumping into Robert’s MR2. That minor accident set Sandy off. She stormed out, yanked Crystal from the trike by her hair, and dragged her across the driveway so fast her feet barely touched the ground. I watched, frozen, as Crystal left a trail of urine behind her—terrified, humiliated. Sandy threw her into the house and beat her with a board she had cut specifically for that purpose.
Another time, Sandy borrowed Grandma Cude’s car and took us to Price Club. Crystal had left a few crayons in the back seat. On the way home, Sandy exploded—screaming, hitting Crystal while driving, blind with rage over something as trivial as crayons.
She didn’t spare the animals either. I once saw her try to backhand our coonhound, Jake, but she missed and slammed her hand into the iron patio table. The bones in her hand fractured, and she wore a cast afterward. That cast did nothing to soften her temper.
She used to say, half-joking, “I’m just giving you and Crystal stories to tell your future therapists.” She said it with a smirk, like she was in on the joke—like it excused the chaos she created. And yes, there are more stories. Many more. But I’m not sure recounting them all is helpful. What’s more important is that this was the climate we grew up in: unpredictable, volatile, and laced with moments of fear that never fully left.
Having two dads in the house felt normal at the time. It didn’t seem strange to me that my biological father and my mother’s new husband coexisted under the same roof—at least not then. I idealized John, or as I called him, Dad Wise.
John Alan Wise was born June 20, 1954, in Santa Monica, California, to Dale Dever Wise and Clarice Joy Glenn. He was a rough-edged mechanic, a truck driver, and an Army veteran. He loved fishing, football, beer, camping, and anything that got him outdoors. He drove a blue Ford Bronco, smoked cigarettes, and on weekends, you could always find him in the garage, hunched over an engine or watching football on his tiny 5-inch 1980 RCA portable TV.
He was the family’s go-to guy for anything related to cars. If something had wheels and didn’t run right, you called John. But not every repair was a success. I vividly remember the time he tried to fix Grandma Cude’s Volkswagen Rabbit. Whatever he did made things worse—at least temporarily—and Grandma wasn’t shy about letting him know. Offended, John swore he’d never help the family with car trouble again. It was the kind of declaration that only half-stuck. The next time someone needed help, he’d usually show up anyway.
To me, he was a kind of mythic figure—rough but dependable, gruff but approachable, the smell of motor oil and Marlboros always trailing just behind him. Whatever else was going on in the house, having Dad Wise there gave me a sense of stability.
Growing up, one of the recurring threads of family lore was that John had served in Vietnam. It gave his roughness a kind of haunted edge—a quiet, unspoken weight we were meant to respect. But later, when I reviewed his discharge records, the story shifted.
According to his DD-214, John served in the U.S. Army as a Motor Transport Operator from December 1972 to November 1975. He received an honorable discharge at the rank of Specialist. His record listed 11 months of foreign service, but he wasn’t awarded the Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal or the Vietnam Service Medal—only the National Defense Service Medal. His time overseas, it turned out, wasn’t in Vietnam. Photographs and service notes suggest that his “sea service” credit was actually tied to a deployment through Fort Lewis, Washington—likely a stateside or allied post, not a combat zone.
This didn’t make him any less of a veteran, but it did complicate the image I’d carried of him. The idea of John as a Vietnam vet had become part of the family mythology—one of those truths we held onto whether or not they were supported by fact. Still, whether he was hauling gear across some foreign base or changing tires in the motor pool, he was proud of his service. And so was I.
Some of my fondest memories from childhood are the weekends spent with Dad Wise. He would take Crystal and me to visit Grandpa Wise out in Twentynine Palms, where they lived on a property we called “Wise Acres.” Other times, we’d go camping in the nearby national forests or head down to the fishing jetty in Seal Beach (33.7455, -118.1146). Those trips gave me a sense of peace and belonging—like life could be simple, even good.
One particular trip to Twentynine Palms stands out in my memory. We were driving back home when the Ford Bronco suddenly broke down on the side of the freeway. I watched in awe as John pulled calmly onto the shoulder, grabbed his toolbox and a spare water pump from the back, and got to work. With the hood up and steam rising, he turned wrenches with quiet confidence. Less than an hour later, the water pump was replaced and we were back on the road, as if nothing had happened. I remember thinking that he could fix anything—that we were safe with him, even when things went wrong.
Those trips, those small adventures, became anchor points for me. They were moments when the noise of home faded and something like stability took its place.
Robert Everett—“Dad Everett”—was the opposite of John in nearly every way.
Where John was rugged and rough-handed, Rob was polished, technical, and cerebral. He could swing a hammer and work on a job site when needed—often lending a hand to his brothers Darryll and Terence in their construction business—but his primary path was through computers. He held a baccalaureate degree from Pennsylvania State University and had once studied to become an air traffic controller. By the time he entered our lives, he was working at Shore Solutions, a tech firm owned by an eccentric businessman named Phil. The job seemed mysterious and high-tech, at least through my childhood eyes.
Rob also had a blue belt in Tae Kwon Do, drove a sleek Toyota MR2, played the trumpet, and had a knack for architectural drafting. He was the kind of man who seemed to be good at everything he tried. And to his credit, he didn’t keep that knowledge to himself—he took the time to share it with Crystal and me. Much of what I learned about computers, tools, and practical problem-solving came from Rob’s instruction. He approached teaching with patience and precision, and I owe a great deal of my early skillset to the time he invested in us.
Despite the tension that sometimes existed in the household, Rob gave us something valuable: a different way of thinking, a more intellectual and disciplined model of manhood. Where John made me feel protected, Rob made me feel capable.
After I finished second grade at the Fullerton SDA Church school, Sandy decided she would homeschool Crystal and me. On paper, it sounded like a new adventure—something exciting, even ideal. The early stages were filled with promise. Sandy took us to various wholesale textbook and school supply stores, often bringing Grandma Cude along. We’d spend hours browsing shelves stacked with math workbooks, science kits, history readers, handwriting guides—an entire miniature world of learning. I remember the smell of those places: paper, plastic, and optimism.
But the reality of homeschooling was far different.
Though the house on Pacific Avenue had once been crowded—with three adults and two kids—it quickly began to feel hollow. John’s departure from the house was gradual but inevitable, and with both Sandy and Rob working full-time, Crystal and I were left alone most days. The plan, such as it was, consisted of leaving us with a stack of books and instructions to complete our assignments and place them on the living room couch for review when Sandy got home. No real instruction. No engagement. No accountability.
Left to our own devices, we slipped into a daily rhythm of television and improvisation. Mornings started with cartoons—Batman, Spider-Man, and VR Troopers. By midday we were watching Ghostwriter or reruns of MacGyver, and by afternoon, we were neck-deep in Baywatch and Days of Our Lives. It was an education of a different kind—one curated by daytime programming and a slowly untethering childhood.
Food was whatever we could scavenge from the pantry or refrigerator. We lived mostly off leftovers and cereal. Because we were poor, Sandy prepared large vats of cheap food—lentil soup, spaghetti—that would stretch for days, sometimes weeks. Milk came from a giant container of powder, and it wasn’t uncommon to find bugs swimming in the powder that we’d have to sift out before mixing. Still, it was what we had. We learned how to manage.
Homeschooling, in practice, wasn’t schooling at all. It was survival. And in that vacuum, Crystal and I became each other’s world—our only consistent source of structure, imagination, and stability.
Holidays were always special to me—not because of gifts or decorations, but because they meant time with family outside our house. Uncle Roger and Aunt Lynn’s home in Temecula was a kind of magical escape. At the time, Temecula was still mostly rural, and getting there took about an hour and a half. That drive always felt like it was taking us not just to another city, but to another life.
Uncle Roger had everything a kid could dream of: telescopes, a Commodore 64, an electric keyboard, mountain bikes, Legos, a swimming pool, and a giant house with endless space to run wild. He was brilliant—on the bleeding edge of the computer world—and always generous with his time and knowledge. Aunt Lynn was no less of a miracle. She cooked delicious meals, served sweet iced tea, and welcomed Crystal and me like we were her own children. Her warmth was a balm. Her home felt safe.
And so the early years went. Homeschooling during the week, neighborhood escapades in between, church services on Saturdays, groceries paid for by family support, Sandy growing increasingly unstable, and John Wise slowly disappearing from our lives. It was a childhood shaped as much by what was missing as by what endured.
Then, in 1997, everything shifted. I started junior high school at Orangewood Adventist Academy.