The Making of a Protector

My name is Jim Brown. I was born in December of 1972 and raised in Huntington Park and Rowland Heights, in the heart of Los Angeles County. Ours was a working-class home shaped by hard work, resilience, and quiet strength.

My father was a proud veteran, a man who spent his later years working for the Los Angeles Unified School District as a Truck Operations Assistant. But to me and my brothers, he was simply “Pal”—our own superhero. Pal had lived through a childhood filled with hardship—abuse, loneliness, and ridicule—and carried the weight of those memories with quiet grace. He was a history buff, a physical culturist, and, to our amazement, a published author of fitness books in the 60s and 70s. But more than anything, he was a man of values. His three golden rules were simple: don’t lie, don’t steal, and don’t get in trouble at school. Those rules were etched in our hearts like gospel.

My mother came from a very different world. She was a Nicaraguan immigrant, the daughter of a mayor, and a vibrant soul who brought warmth and color into our lives. A talented cosmetologist, she was known for her wild and trendy hair creations in the 60s and 70s—bright colors, bold styles, and confidence in every curl. She balanced my father’s firm hand with gentle nurturing. From her, we learned compassion, kindness, and the art of never leaving the house without saying “please” and “thank you.”

I was the middle child, nestled between two brothers. As the “middle man,” I learned early how to bridge the gap—how to care for my younger brother and manage the dynamic between us all. I now believe those early responsibilities awakened a protective instinct in me, one that has stayed with me throughout my life.

Learning to Stand Up

One memory from my childhood has stayed with me like a scar etched in time. It happened during elementary school, on a rainy day when lunch was moved to the cafeteria. I was sitting beside a classmate named Keith. He wore thick glasses and used a projector to help him with math. Though I didn’t have the language then to describe it, Keith was clearly a student with special needs.

That day, a student sitting across from Keith pointed at his lunch tray and whispered something cruel: “There’s a bug in your food.” Keith turned his head slowly to look—but before he could react, the boy lifted the tray and flung it into Keith’s face. I was stunned. For a second, time froze. Keith looked around, unsure of what to do, silent and stunned.

Then I remembered Pal’s words: “Always protect those who can’t protect themselves.”

Without a second thought, I reached across the table and flipped the bully’s tray into his lap. “Looks like you missed one of the bugs,” I muttered. It was messy, bold, and impulsive—but I couldn’t sit still. We scuffled briefly, and minutes later, I found myself in the principal’s office, awaiting judgment.

Pal arrived not long after. My stomach churned with dread. I had broken one of his golden rules: don’t get in trouble at school. But when we got to the car, instead of scolding me, he asked me to sit in the front seat and open a paper bag he’d left there. Inside was a 45 rpm record player.

He looked me in the eye and said, “I’m proud of you, son. You stood up for someone who needed you. Don’t do it again that way—but you did the right thing.”

That moment changed something in me. I realized then that standing up for the vulnerable wasn’t just a one-time act—it was a calling.

Foundations Built in Service

As I grew older, that instinct shaped every path I took. Sports taught me discipline and teamwork. I played football, wrestled, and boxed through high school and college. I competed in the California State Golden Gloves and other tournaments while attending Fullerton College, where I earned my degree in Liberal Arts in 1995.

I held various jobs—UPS, construction, telemarketing, food service, and even worked at Gold’s Gym. But the jobs that truly resonated were those where I connected with people: working in physical therapy, supporting families, and assisting children—many with special needs. Without realizing it, I was already stepping into a lifelong mission.

In 1996, seeking deeper purpose and structure, I joined the United States Marine Corps. For eight years—both active and reserve—I served with pride. The Marines pushed me to my limits and beyond. I learned leadership, grit, and the unshakable value of service.

That same sense of duty brought me to the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department in 2000. After graduating the academy, I was assigned to the Inmate Reception Center. During that time, I also earned a Peace Officer Certificate from East Los Angeles College and, later, a Bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice from California Coast University.

In 2003, I married Sonia, a fellow Deputy Sheriff. She was my partner not only in work, but in purpose. A year later, we welcomed our daughter, Sophia. And just as we were celebrating her early milestones, we faced our first major family challenge: at age 2½, Sophia was diagnosed with autism.

A Father’s Mission

The diagnosis shook us—but it didn’t stop us. We threw ourselves into early intervention: specialized diets, ABA therapy, speech, medication, and special education programs. Sophia responded beautifully to treatment. Today, she continues her journey through the Bliss Academy’s Adult Transition Program. Every achievement she makes is a testament to resilience.

In 2006, following my father’s passing, I transitioned from the Sheriff’s Department to the Anaheim Police Department. Later that year, we welcomed our son, Lucas. We hoped life might slow down—but it didn’t.

Lucas, too, began to show signs of struggle. He was prone to outbursts, struggled in school, and faced challenges at home. It wasn’t until 2020—at 14 years old—that we received his diagnosis: autism, too. A late diagnosis, but a clarifying one. We enrolled him with Inland Regional Center and began intensive therapies. Lucas now also attends Bliss Academy, where he is thriving.

Coming Full Circle

Looking back, I see clearly how the values Pal taught me, the compassion my mother modeled, and the experiences life handed me all led to this point. From the cafeteria table in elementary school to the front lines of law enforcement, to parenting two incredible children with special needs—I’ve come to understand that advocacy isn’t a role you choose. It chooses you.

Today, I volunteer in my community, serve on safety teams, and work with local organizations like JCSD Parks Ambassadors. In 2023, I retired from law enforcement—but my mission is far from over.

The latest CDC reports show autism rates at over 1 in 20. The need for awareness, compassion, and advocacy has never been greater. With nearly two decades of lived experience as a special needs parent, I am committed to being part of that solution. My journey may have started in a quiet suburb of L.A., but it now belongs to something much bigger.

I carry my past with pride—and I look to the future with purpose.