Toriano Porter | Author. Speaker. Mentor. Journalist.

Finding work/life balance

Wed, 19 Apr 2023 04:00:05 -0700

Finding a work/life balance is harrrrrrddddddddd.

As an opinion writer for the Kansas City Star Editorial Board, I take pride in shining light on injustices. My track record here in the Kansas City community is solid. I am here to serve.

On Friday, when I read a headline online that a young man had been shot after mistakenly ringing the wrong doorbell, not once did it occur to me that this tragic incident took place right here in this great city I have called home since 2007. The next day, the story of Ralph Yarl spread like wildfire. Ralph, a Black 16-year-old honor student at Staley High School in North Kansas City, was unarmed and posed no threat when he was shot twice by a white homeowner.

Community activists, celebrities and others in the community sprang into action. By Sunday, protestors had descended on the alleged shooter’s home and other dignitaries were weighing in.

Over the course of two-and-a-half days, relatives from St. Louis called to ask me what was going on. I don’t know, I said. I am on dad duty this weekend, I told a cousin.

Later, a longtime friend from Detroit messaged me on social media to express outrage and another friend from St. Louis rang my line as well. In all, about five people contacted me over the weekend asking about my thoughts on the situation. Most wanted to know if I was going to write something about the incident that put Kansas City in the international spotlight for all the wrong reasons.

Sports parents often get a bad rap. But being the parent of a youth athlete is hard. We invest, both financially and emotionally. We tend to live and die with every play and each whistle. We question coaches and show little mercy to game officials.

We oftentime bring misplaced passion and energy to practice and game day. We teach while in motion, at the grocery store, or watching games on television.

Some of us have perfected the art of not taking youth sports and activities too seriously. Those folks are to be commended and emulated. Most of us simply lose our minds in the spirit of competition. We experience probably the most exhilarating times of our lives supporting our young ones.

We want the best for our children and their teammates. We want to win and we want our child to contribute to the team's success. We mull over playing time and coach's decisions. We think we know the rules better than the refs. We damn sure don't know any more than the coach drawing up the Xs and Os.

I'm not bashing parents of youth athletes. It takes great sacrifice to support a child's athletic endeavors. I've committed my fair share of personal fouls as a sports parent. But be mindful of your behavior at games and try to model good sportsmanship for young people, especially your own.

I have read articles and blogs on the top tips for parents of youth sports. I have real world experience as well. I've learned some strategies to help cope with the adrenaline, anxiety and other emotions associated with competition.

By no means do I feel I am an expert of sportsmanship in youth sports. But I do believe in some tried and true measures to simply ease the stress of game day:

Trespassing on federal property

Sat, 25 Sep 2021 16:25:45 -0700

My day began at 6:30 a.m. I had no idea it would start like an 1980s action movie.

The train bound for Chicago idled on the tracks outside of Union Station in Kansas City. I'd decided to park nearby and ride my refurbished Felt bicycle the rest of the way. There is a crosswalk that connects Union Station to the Freight District near Baltimore Street. Instead of entering the train station from the main entrance on Pershing, I tried a route that I wasn't too familiar with. I damn near miss the train.

What ensued would be outright hilarity if I didn't almost end up in custody for trespassing on federal property. There are much more serious things for security to worry about than some random, bike-riding dude with a backpack pushing through restricted areas and setting off alarms, I thought. Boy, was I wrong.

I was pressed for time. Minutes remained to check in. It wasn't going to happen if the private security guy hell bent on protecting federal land had anything to do with it.

He was a young dude that wore a fitted Titan Security shirt. His biceps and forearms bulged through the gray work shirt. He was armed, and spoke into a walkie. The young man seemed to be very good at his job. It was evident that he took his responsibilities very seriously.

"Sir, this is a restricted area," he told me after I tossed my bike over the fence. I finished my leap to the other side which would put me in front of the Southwest Chief Amtrak. The fact I almost tilted over the fence and onto my face was lost after I stuck the landing. The security guard was not...Read More

Continue to show up

Mon, 05 Jul 2021 12:33:42 -0700

The last few months have been a whirlwind.

Yet, I continue to show up.

This year alone, I have lost a trusted colleague, my grandfather died, and my uncle’s ALS diagnosis became public. No one would believe some of the personal 'Ls' I've taken over the first half of 2021.

Yet, I continue to show up.

I planned to celebrate my 20th year as a professional journalist on February 25, but a former colleague, Terez Paylor, was laid to rest on the same day. I just couldn’t bring myself to rejoice.

In 2015, I was a starving journalist looking for a shot at a major newspaper. Real talk. I was 42 before I realized a dream I set forth as an 18-year-old college freshman. At the time, I had never written for a daily newspaper. Ever. I applied for but did not get a position at the Kansas City Star. The rejection stung. I was ready to leave the profession altogether.

Yet, I continued to show up.

Terez was a sports reporter at the Star. He covered high school sports, Mizzou Athletics and the Kansas City Chiefs. At the time of his death in February at age 39, he worked for Yahoo Sports covering the NFL for a national publication. He was very instrumental in me staying in the business. Write something to get the top editors' attention, Terez told me.

As I have since that day, continue to show up.

My...Read More

Unbreakable

Fri, 04 Jun 2021 22:47:30 -0700

Some of you may know that my first born son Toriano II was murdered about 12 years ago at age 16. I've been pretty public about how he died.

Here's a detail most don't know. The day TP2 was killed in St. Louis, I worked as a high school sports reporter at the Examiner newspaper in Independence, Missouri, just outside Kansas City. On this day, Monday, September 28, 2009, my assignment was to cover a high school softball game that began at 4 p.m.

My son was shot at 3:58 p.m. as he left a store in north St. Louis. Within minutes, his mother was on the scene and called me with the news. They were putting up the tarp to shield his body, she told me. I was devastated. I called my mom and older brother in St. Louis to makes plans to return home some 232 miles away.

After a few more calls to close friends, I settled into the bleachers to cover the softball game. It lasted about an hour-and-a half. I interviewed a couple of players and coaches from both teams before I headed back to the office to file my game story, which I turned in by 7 p.m. I then summoned the sports editor and managing editor. Both were speechless as I delivered the news. I can't imagine what they thought.

Who covers a damn meaningless game when their son has been gunned down? And then files a story?

Well, my son was dead. There was nothing I could do about it at that point, so I did my job. And I have been showing up every day since. For my family and friends, for my community, for my colleagues. Good, bad, indifferent or ugly, I show up every single day. Control what you can control. Also, I am UNBREAKABLE...

Don't feel sorry for me

Sat, 29 May 2021 04:30:42 -0700

I prayed to God after my 16-year-old son, Toriano II, was shot and killed in north St. Louis. It was one of the first things I did.

I’d been on a mission to make a difference in the lives of those that were at-risk to succumb to the challenges of everyday life. But I came up short raising my own. He ran away often at age 13. He died three years later. I asked not to be rendered useless.

My formative years were spent in the 3400 block of Park Avenue in south St. Louis. The neighborhood was considered one of the city’s most notorious hot spots for gang, drug and crime activity. Many young people failed to take advantage of an opportunity to educate themselves. The pitfalls that awaited them were real.

I feared my son’s resistance to me would make my message moot. I beat myself up over the situation. I couldn’t inspire my own son to greatness. How could I reach others?

"Fat Joe" Clark, a close friend, basically told me to ‘get over it.’ He didn’t put it in those words, but he did tell me, “You ain't God. Ain’t nothing you could have done about it.”

You did the best you could as a parent and to let it be, he said. That helped start the road to redemption.

I spoke to a group of at least 50 students at Roosevelt High School in south St. Louis two days after Toriano II was buried in 2009. The message to students was one of resilience. And forgiveness. Compassion, too. Education, I said, was a ticket to a better life. Dream big and never stop dreaming.

"Don’t end up a statistic," I said. "Have a dream and never stop pursuing it. Obstacles await. Have faith that you will see them...Read More

I've cried all day

Mon, 26 Apr 2021 15:08:30 -0700

“This is the biggest fight of my life and I’m gonna win.” - Boris Powell on ALS diagnosis.

My uncle, Boris Powell, once turned down close to $1 million to fight Mike Tyson. People thought he was crazy to walk away from a near seven-figure payday to box one of the greatest knockout artists of all time.

Soon after, I asked Boris why did he decline the Tyson fight - Iron Mike’s first after his release from prison for a rape conviction. The purse was only $750,000, Boris told me. After taxes, expenses, and fees for management and training, his take-home pay would have been about $100,000. My Aunt Phyllis and the three kids the couple shared would have rightfully gotten half of that.

“Ain’t no way I’m getting in the ring with Mike Tyson for 50K,” Boris told me.

It’s a conversation I’ve never forgotten.

More than 25 years later, Boris is in the fight of his life. In October, he was diagnosed with ALS, commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease. The progressive nervous-system disease is, as KSDK’s Frank Cusamono says, absolutely undefeated.

The former Golden Glove National Champion in the heavyweight division is the father of three of my younger cousins. I have known Boris since I was a child. He was a hulking 6-foot-4 inch, 230-pound athlete without an ounce of fat on him. He ran often and trained more than the average fighter. He was 30-2 as a professional and once held the WBO Heavyweight title.

As a youngster, Boris was Superman to me. Always jovial. Never disrespectful or mean. We spoke last about three years ago when he inquired about my oldest son, General.

“Man, what’s the Young General up to these days?” he would often...Read More

"You owe us a play"

Sun, 17 Jan 2021 19:19:19 -0800

Leaders, how are you showing up for others? Are you offering words of encouragement or tearing down members of your team?

Affirmation is critical. A college football teammate that I hadn't spoken to in about 25 years recently reminded me of the power of words.

He wrote: "Damn TP 3rd book. You were always a great leader when we were in school and now you have the platform to have your voice heard. You said something to me on the field when I was a rookie that I teach the younger kids that I coach. It was the most positive way to tell me I fucked up. You simply said "you owe us a play."

"At 44 I remember that comment stopped me in my tracks. Not that you need any validation from me or anyone but I'm proud of you T. It's not every human that could walk in your shoes and come out on top."

#author #speaker #mentor #journalist #writer #therealtp #words #affirmations Read More

Road to healing

Thu, 31 Dec 2020 07:46:55 -0800

My first-born son and namesake, Toriano II, was just 16 when he was gunned down outside a decrepit neighborhood supermarket in north St. Louis. Rarely, do I visit the site. Why would I ever want to be where my son took his last breath?

But shying away from the place where my son died would not change the outcome. I had to face head on the realization that Toriano II was gone. There was nothing emotionally easy about the stop. There were no flowers, stuffed animals, written messages, or balloons. Just me and my son’s spirit alone with our intimate thoughts.

Nearly 4,110 days have passed since the death of Toriano II, or Little T as I called him. He was fatally struck in the chest three times at point-blank range as he exited Salamas Market, homicide detectives told me. He didn’t suffer and died instantly, they said.

Police have identified the suspected triggermen. No charges were filed in the shooting. Unreliable witnesses, investigators say. Thankfully, the run-down business at St. Louis and Euclid avenues is now shuttered.

In the 11 year's since Little T's death on Sept. 28, 2009, I've visited the location just once. On Monday, I said fuck it and did what I had to do. After a morning coffee near downtown St. Louis, I cruised through midtown towards the north side of the city, where the trauma of losing both my best friend and son to gun violence has been overwhelming at times. I’ve avoided the area at all costs.

Was I apprehensive about the impromptu visit? Absolutely. Losing a child is, in fact, the worst feeling imaginable. My son’s death did a number on me. The emotionally toll is indescribable. But the road to healing is an everlasting journey. And I am finally at peace with that.

Confessions of a Porch Pirate

Mon, 23 Nov 2020 09:31:56 -0800

When I was 12, I was an avid reader of the local newspaper where I grew up, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Only issue was, my mother couldn't afford a yearly subscription.

On the days Mom couldn't or wouldn't drop change on me for the daily paper, I would rise before the sun came up. I often walked the north St. Louis neighborhood we lived in near James Cool Papa Bell Street in search of a freshly-delivered morning print edition sitting on an unsuspecting neighbor's front yard.

Sometimes it would take a few minutes, other times up to an hour. On several occasions, I came up empty. And without my morning read, my day would not be quite right.

Well, I swiped more than my fair share of newspapers over the course of my seventh-grade school year. I also established a clear love for reading and writing that would later lead me to a career in journalism.

If I could, I would reimburse every single person that I wronged by swiping the papers they used their hard-earned money to purchase. But that was well over 30 years ago, so I highly doubt that I could.

Instead, I have decided to donate to the Kansas City Star's Givebutter campaign to raise funds to continue its award-winning investigative reporting. In 1988, the estimated cost of a yearly subscription to the Post-Dispatch was $135. As a way to pay it forward and make amends, that is the amount I have donated.

If you want to support quality journalism, and hold the powerful accountable, please consider a donation by following this link: https://givebutter.com/TheKansasCityStar.

Also, the next 25 people that subscribe to my personal blog, will be entered into a contest for a 1-year digital subscription to the Kansas City Star. Just enter a valid email address below to subscribe to the blog.

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