Jack graduated from Stanford University in 1995 with Honors in Human Biology. He went on to earn a Masters Degree in Philosophy from California State University, Long Beach graduating Summa Cum Laude. Currently, he teaches philosophy at De Anza College in Cupertino, California. Over the past five years, Jack has been invited to speak at conferences throughout the United States and in England. He has also published in numerous philosophy journals, primarily in sports ethics.
Jack is a world-class athlete. He was a two-time All-American water polo player at Stanford, an alternate goalie of the 1996 Olympic Team, and a member of the 2000 Olympic Training Team. He has coached high school water polo for the past four years, winning the section championship of Northern California twice. In 2002 he served as the Assistant Coach of the Men’s National Water Polo Team and has conducted his own clinics nationwide for the past eight years.
Bowen is an avid musician. As a member of numerous bands, he has been the recording drummer on over ten albums. His most recent band, Amboy Kelso, is a Bay Area favorite with the release of their third album in Spring, 2004. He lives in Menlo Park, California, and wants to own a pug which he’ll probably name “Plato.”
Why I Wrote this Book…
One afternoon while in the university bookstore perusing books for my senior year spring term, I found myself in the philosophy section. I literally think I stumbled into it. It nestled near the physics and psychology sections, both of which had become mainstays as I was a Human Biology major. I certainly didn’t venture there intentionally. At the time, I had no idea what philosophy “stood for” or what philosophers did. As I regained my footing there in the philosophy section, a light blue book caught my eye. The binding had the words “Personal Identity” in white, providing a nice contrast to the sky-blue. I peered over my shoulder, concerned that someone might see me reaching for a book in the philosophy section and think whatever people think about those sorts of things. I opened it to find a collection of essays on The Self: on what it means to be human and to be a person, on how we are the same person over time; it discussed the concepts of the mind and the soul, it drew on scientific notions of consciousness and the brain, the psychology of memory, and it explored the essence of being human.
I sat on the itchy industrial carpet perched up against the bookshelf and read. I frantically flipped through the pages, devouring them, half-rapidly-skimming to see what would be next, half-stuck on each article, contemplating the issues. I read until that ultimate moment where I had just enough time to get to my next event—that moment when, if I know exactly where I’m going, and there is very little bike traffic, I would get there right on time. I left the bookstore that day racing with an intellectual curiosity that I had never experienced. It was like I had been led behind the curtain of facts and information previously taught to me. I literally felt in some sense like I was walking out into a new world.
I returned to the bookstore every afternoon that week. I sat on the floor and read that book, like I had discovered a secret treasure. It was all I could do to focus on this one book, ignoring the others whose titles alone piqued my intellectual curiosity: “The God Question,” “The View From Nowhere,” “The Metaphysics of Morals,” “Free Will and its Consequences,” “The Philosophy of Love,” “The Meaning of Life.” But I sat and focused on the light blue bound treasure.
I did end up buying the book (along with a handful of others in that same section) and found more comfortable places to read it. From here, my story takes its own twists and turns, which I will not belabor at this point. Needless to say, it culminates with my writing the story of another boy’s journey in a world that I was fortunate enough to have the chance to experience quite intimately.
I remember my first day with that little blue book so fondly—just like that first kiss that you long for again but can never attain. I am eager to share that with the reader, and to provide them an opportunity to go on their own journey.
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