I grew up in Gloucester, Massachusetts — perhaps the most authentic working-class community in the country, where faith, family, loss, and resilience were simply part of life.

I was raised in a large Catholic family with mostly Italian roots, with a little Irish mixed in. As the youngest, I was a little bashful. My father had a larger-than-life personality, and people greeted him wherever we went. In Gloucester — and across Boston’s North Shore — everybody knew him, and they knew all of us. I spent a lot of time at his side, listening and absorbing more than I realized at the time.

I was too young to really know my grandfathers, but their lives were always part of our family story. One was a Gloucester fisherman. The other was a Gloucester police officer.

Both sets of grandparents lived above my father’s business, directly across the street from Our Lady of Good Voyage Church. From our windows, we could see the church every day. We didn’t just attend it — we lived in its shadow. It was where every baptism, every First Communion, every Confirmation, every wedding, and every funeral in our family took place.

My father took a simple idea and turned it into an iconic place in our community. Even today, when I travel and tell people I’m from Gloucester and give them my last name, the first question is often, “Are you related to Destino’s?”

I grew up watching my father run a business that drew people from every part of Gloucester. Gloucester is also a tourist destination, and in the summer the population nearly doubles. That meant we got to know people from all over — a wide range of backgrounds, experiences, and perspectives.

People came because they knew what they were getting — good food, fair prices, and a place where nobody put on airs.

Faith, work, and daily life weren’t separate in Gloucester. Many of our customers came straight from Mass across the street, stopping in for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. People came and went all day, sitting together, talking, and keeping up with what was happening in their lives and in the city.

Before long, it became a morning routine for local leaders as well. Mayors, city councilors, school committee members, and state representatives were regulars, sitting alongside the same people they represented.

In election years, Senator Ted Kennedy would stop in for a photo. After that, the real conversations continued without the cameras.

The talk was constant—sometimes serious, sometimes heated, often filled with laughter, always real.

As a kid, I listened more than I spoke. Over time, I developed a sense for people — who was real and who wasn’t.

In 1978, when I was twelve years old, faith stopped being something I just went along with. It became something I needed. That was the year three fishing boats from our town were lost at sea. Fourteen men were lost. Close friends of mine lost their fathers. I remember praying when one of the boats was still missing and the search hadn’t been called off yet. It was the first time I really prayed.

In Gloucester, that kind of loss was never distant. It was families you knew. People you saw every day. The same people who came into my father’s place, whose kids you went to school with and hung out with. It brought me closer to my own father and made me realize how fortunate I was to still have him. Most kids my age weren’t thinking about faith. But that year, I started to see why it mattered. When something like that happens, you either turn away or you lean in. I leaned in.

Just last month, with the loss of the Lily Jean and all seven members of her crew, I saw the same thing again — the same grief, the same faith, the same community coming together the way it always has. Moments like this have a way of bringing people back — young and old — to what truly matters. We’ve seen it here in Gloucester. I believe we’re seeing it in many places right now.

Growing up here, those experiences stay with you. Having to lean on your faith in those valleys toughens you and prepares you for what comes next.

I was an athlete in high school and college, which taught me discipline, teamwork, and how to compete. Later, I built a career working with people and relationships, and I was fortunate to learn from great coaches, mentors, and professors who shaped the way I lead today.

My wife and I raised our three children here in Gloucester. We’re proud of all of them. They grew up around the same faith, families, and community that shaped me.

Growing up in Gloucester, you don’t just hear about class and culture—you see it every day. It’s one of the most economically diverse communities you’ll find anywhere.

I saw people who carried real responsibility alongside the so-called elite and credentialed class, many of whom believed their education or status gave them a better understanding of the world. Too often, they underestimated the people who actually keep communities running.

Those experiences shaped how I think about leadership, responsibility, and what truly matters. Over time, they formed what I now call The Destino Doctrine.

This is where I’ll write about faith, leadership, family, community, and the cultural and spiritual challenges facing our country — not from theory, but from lived experience.

My hope is that these reflections encourage people, wherever they are, to lead with courage, take responsibility for the people in their lives, and strengthen the communities around them. If that resonates with you, I hope you’ll follow along. The lessons I learned in Gloucester aren’t unique. They are the same lessons that built this country, and we need them now more than ever.