Given everything that’s happened with me, my family, and the world since 2019, I’m taking a moment to reconnect with my roots personally and professionally. This piece is one part of that journey – one of my origin stories; a night that led me to psychology, and ultimately beyond it. Enjoy!
Image credit: Joshua Trujillo / the Arizona Daily Star / from Tucson.com, All Rights Reserved
by Ian Tingen
Curiosity has always been part of who I am. My favorite question as a kid was “Why?” It didn’t matter if you were my pastor, my principal, my parent, or any other person – at some point, little Ian would inevitably ask you“Why?”
In the spring of 2001, while my curiosity was intact, my life was not.
The year before, I had graduated Mesa High School with the 23rd highest GPA out of 750 plus students. In my time there, I completed the highest-level math classes that had ever been offered at the school; Mrs. Gibson got me, Evan Lunt, and Mike Rogan right up to linear algebra.
I led the Mesa High Engineering / Problem Solving team to a gold medal at the SkillsUSA – VICA national championships. In doing so, we brought home the first-ever national trophy to be won by any school in the Mesa Public Schools district.
On the back of these achievements and others like them, I would soon become the first in my immediate family to go to college.
Even so, I was still a blue-collar boy raised in poverty and violence – experience that breeds particular forms of pragmatism and perspective .
Ignoring my admission letter to MIT in favor of accepting at the University of Arizona felt like the ‘responsible’ choice to me. As my guidance counselor said: “They use the same electrons in Tucson that they do in Massachusetts – but they only cost a third of the price!”
Now, a year after that talk with Mr. (REDACTED), I walked towards 4th Street in Tucson, knowing that I was about to be expelled from the UA honors engineering program.
Even in my tumult of isolation, shame, and fear, curiosity won the night: I had never seen a city of basketball fanatics after losing a championship title. I figured: “Why not?”
In the next few hours, I would learn that Tucson still had one VERY important lesson to teach me. One that I could never have learned in Cambridge – what it meant to survive being caught in a riot.
When the police arrived at the end of 4th street, they did so with little commotion. Even after a number of riot-gear-clad officers set themselves in a phalanx formation, few of the rioters took notice, save 5 or 6 anarchist-punk-goth kids who sat in the middle of the street. While they peppered the police with predictable pig-related insults, I wondered if they’d ever been in a real fight before.
I had won and lost enough blood as a kid to be comfortable with calculating likely outcomes of conflict. The math I saw was:
tens of cops + riot gear + hundreds of rioters + multiple cars on fire = get the fuck out
NOW.
I worked my way along the northern side of 4th, stepping over the glass of broken windows, around blood and vomit, smelling the fumes of a homeless family’s car burn.
I took the first side street I could. Almost immediately, I saw the red-and-blue lights of a squad car. I kept walking, hurrying towards my dorm.
“Hey. HEY!” The officer standing next to the car was yelling at me. I stopped, but did not look at him. My experience with police was that that tone did not mean ‘look me in the eye like a peer’.
“Turn around. You can’t go this way.”
My brain froze for a moment. I started to explain: “I live in AZ-So, I’m just…”
“I SAID you CAN’T go this way. Find another way out.”
Johnny Law’s math was clear: agitated + exasperated + well-armed = move on.
I complied with his command.
Making my way back to 4th, I pushed through the crowd, aiming for the same side street, south of 4th. Different cop, same equation, same fundamental outcome. Just like my next four attempts.
There was no way out.
Returning to the parking lot on the south side of 4th where I began, I looked at the phalanx of police. The punk kids were still there, being punks. I didn’t know if they thought their actions were brave, or right, or principled, but their expected actions weren’t what had my attention.
About halfway down the southern arm of the phalanx, I noticed a nightstick shaking behind a riot shield.
Curiosity was in control, again.
I approached the cop, hands up, slowly, clearly in his peripheral vision. If he saw me coming, it didn’t stop his shaking.
Up close, I could see the officer was no more than a few years older than me – maybe 23 or so. I spoke: “Hey man. This is pretty intense, huh?”
He didn’t look at me to respond; “Yeah.” The shaking continued.
“So, like, how long do they train you for situations like this in the academy?”
He looked at me to respond: “A few days, not much at all.”
“Damn. Were you here for the last one of these?”
Our eyes met, peers in fear, as his answer came: “No.”
I didn’t look away: “Jesus. Good luck. Be careful.”
“You too.” His nightstick was still shaking.
I noticed the commanding officer for the phalanx was standing on top of the paddy wagon, arms crossed, bullhorn in hand. He hadn’t been there a moment ago.
I walked back to the parking lot, checking in with myself. Belt was tight. Shoes were tied. Important stuff in front pockets. Phone off. No way out.
Everyone was about to become an enemy combatant.
Next: Part II – Boys & Shadows
Intersection 9 
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