“It was a very unique spot. You could tell that they’ve been through something, some kind of trauma. There’s almost a look to trauma that I deal with a lot in my day job that you can usually see. But at the same time it was conflict-free. An event with thousands upon thousands of people in a small parking lot, shoved together in front of this space, and I just don’t recall conflict. I don’t recall yelling, anger, anyone having any sort of exchange that wasn’t positive.”
~ Forrest Page ~
Forrest Page walked into the George Floyd Memorial in Minneapolis carrying a camera and left carrying something he wasn’t expecting: clarity about what community actually looks like when it’s built to last. For 18 years, he’s been a teacher in Michigan - and is currently a physical education teacher at a Juvenial Detention Center. For decades, he’s been a father, a photographer, and a quiet radical. In this discussion, Nick and Forrest dig into what that means — through the work of raising kids, showing up to events, and building institutions that don’t replicate the failures of the men who came before.
The spine of this conversation is privilege and responsibility. Forrest grew up in a home where his father chose teaching over money, where his mother held the household together while carrying an impossible load, where being “good” wasn’t optional. He internalized early that being a man meant sacrifice for others and willingness to grow when challenged. Those lessons shape everything: his work with Valor Media, his approach to parenting four children through a time of political violence, his quiet presence at events where the community is still processing collective trauma. Forrest doesn’t perform activism. He lives it — and he’s teaching his kids - both at home and as a teacher - to do the same without pretense or moral grandstanding.
The Abolish ICE event forced Forrest to reckon with something deeper: the power of a community that has learned to hold space for trauma while refusing to reproduce violence. The thousands of people gathered in that parking lot had come through George Floyd’s murder, the uprisings, the backlash, and the ongoing occupation of their city by federal agents. Instead of fracturing, they held. Instead of cycling violence, they created something rare — a space where anger and joy existed at the same time, where people who had been traumatized by the state could still laugh, still sing, still recognize each other as human. That’s what Forrest photographed. That’s what changed him.
But this conversation isn’t sentimental. Forrest is frank about what he can and can’t control as a white parent, about the limits of being nice, about the weight of carrying four kids through a moment when democracy itself is contested. He talks about traveling with his family knowing that ICE agents are at airports, knowing he has options that immigrant families don’t have, and committing anyway to being present — to using his privilege as a tool rather than a shield. That’s the work of intelligent masculinity: not the fantasy of standing apart from power, but the harder practice of standing in it and redirecting it toward what the community actually needs.
Forrest’s father modeled this for him — a man who stepped off the ladder in his late twenties, took a pay cut, worked nights at a pizza place while going to school during the day, and chose to spend decades teaching kids in public schools. His mother modeled something equally important: the work of caring for a household, making good people happen, doing the invisible labor that allows other people’s dreams to matter. Forrest inherited a practice, not a checklist. And he’s spending his life teaching it — in a classroom, at an event, to his kids, to whoever is paying attention.
The question at the heart of intelligent masculinity is simple but relentless: What are you willing to sacrifice for something larger than yourself? Forrest’s answer isn’t heroic. It’s domestic. It’s the disciplined work of choosing people over status, growth over ego, and community over the comfort of being right. Forrest Page — teacher, father, photographer, and activist — shows up to this conversation without performance and without pretense, and expands the series’ argument that the most durable form of masculinity is the kind built quietly, across decades, in service of people who are counting on you.
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I’m Nick Paro, and I’m sick of the shit going on. So, I’m using poetry, podcasting, and lives to discuss the intersections of chronic illness and mental wellbeing, masculinity, veteran’s issues, politics, and so much more. I am only able to have these conversations, bring visibility to my communities, and fill the void through your support — this is a publication where engagement is encouraged, creativity is a cornerstone, and transparency is key — please consider becoming a paid subscriber today and grow the community!.