Growing up on a farm in the mountains of Vermont, every day I could look up and see Mount Abe. Every spring, we’d work like hell to get the sugaring and lambing done — all at once. I think I was four years old when they sent me down to the sugarhouse with my father’s dinner, a quarter-mile down into the woods, in the midst of a blizzard, because my Mom had her hands full with the ewes and the lambs and of course the sap was running that night.

And every summer we’d work like hell again — and bring the neighbors over to help — to get the hay in some time after it had dried but before the rain could make it rot. And every fall, we’d gather with the folks in town to celebrate the holidays, and our connection with each other, and share what we could of the bounty of the year. And then deep winter would be upon us, and we’d all get through the hardest of it together by helping each other out again.

I grew up knowing hard work on a farm, and saving pennies to buy bubblegum and comics at the general store in town. I grew up attending Quaker Meetings in South Starksboro, where I wondered aloud as a child about the nature of peace and what it means to follow the guidance of our inner lights. Since leaving Vermont, I’ve learned a lot, and seen a lot, but there’s something that's stuck with me from the start about the sense of character and community there.

I got a degree in mathematics at Reed College, and wrote a thesis on cryptographic number theory, but it was the grade-school teachers at my local public school who first encouraged me to push past all limits and exercise my mind. I got elected twice to chair the Democratic Party for Multnomah County, whose population is the same as my home state, but it was there in Vermont that I first saw the importance of organizing together with our neighbors, whether it was for Act 250 land use regulations, for rGBH labeling, or for putting a co-operative grocery store at the center of town when a big company from out of state was slinging lies to scramble for votes.

When I’ve fielded startup pitches as an investor over the years, people inevitably ask me about my background. I figure it’s because I’m not like most of the people in those rooms. For a long time I thought they were asking because of my mathematical thought process, or because I’m a bit queer. (I’m a lot queer.) Or maybe it was because I’m more earnest and enthusiastic than they’re used to.

Years after I moved on from my service as a Democratic Party chair, someone I had worked with back then told me they always knew I'd pitch in when help was needed, and that I'd say what I thought about something even if it ruffled some feathers. What I’ve come to understand is that, when people ask about my background, what they really need to hear is that I’m from the mountains of Vermont — a place where we help each other get through the hardest things, but we’ll also ask each other and ourselves hard questions, and deliver hard truths, kindly.