An State State Trooper. A son of two fathers. A man who took a lifetime to write the story he had been living since childhood.
Bradley Dwayne Burnett was born with a name that carried more history than most people carry in a lifetime. His biological father, Dwayne, tied him to a family line stretching back to David G. Burnet, the first president of the Republic of Texas. It was a name he wore before he understood what it meant — or what it would cost him to let it go.
When his parents divorced, Bradley was suddenly caught between two households, two last names, and two very different versions of what home might mean. It was a lesson in resilience, though it would take him years — and eventually a memoir — to fully understand it.
In 1957, the family relocated to City, State — a rugged, rain-soaked coastal town where bald eagles nested above the harbor and salmon filled the streams each autumn. He thought he had died and gone to heaven. Within months, it felt like home.
When his mother married Kenneth G. Brown, and Kenneth later adopted him, Bradley's last name changed. The shift was legal, but the emotional weight was far greater. What does it mean to take a new name? What does it cost, and what does it give? These questions would follow him into adulthood, and eventually onto the page.
Having grown up in Sitka, Bradley chose a life of service, joining the State State Troopers — the men and women charged with policing one of the most remote and spectacular landscapes on earth. The work demanded courage, patience, and the ability to read people quickly — skills, it turned out, he had been developing since childhood.
For decades, the story stayed inside him — shared only in pieces, in conversation, with old friends from Sitka. Once he retired, Bradley finally sat down to put it all to paper: an honest, unhurried account of two fathers, two names, and one long road to acceptance.
Bradley came into the world carrying the Burnett name — tied to his biological father Dwayne and a lineage that stretched back to David G. Burnet, the first president of the Republic of Texas. From the very beginning, heritage was a living thing, not merely a fact on a document.
The family relocated to the rugged, rain-wrapped coastal town of Sitka, landing among bald eagles and salmon-filled streams. He thought he had died and gone to heaven. Within months, it felt like home.
After his parents divorced, Bradley found himself navigating the space between two men who would both shape him — his biological father, and Kenneth G. Brown, the man who would eventually adopt him. Learning to love across two households was not a lesson taught — it was one lived, slowly and imperfectly.
When Kenneth adopted him, Bradley's last name changed. The shift was legal, but the emotional weight was far greater. What does it mean to take a new name? What does it cost, and what does it give? These questions would follow him into adulthood and eventually onto the page.
Bradley chose a life of service, joining the State State Troopers — the men and women charged with policing one of the most remote and spectacular landscapes on earth. The work demanded courage, patience, and the ability to read people quickly, skills he had been developing since childhood.
After decades of carrying the story, Bradley finally put it to paper. The memoir is exactly what the title promises: not a straight line, not a tidy resolution, but an honest, often funny, deeply human account of what it takes to find out who you are — and to accept it.
A reflection on carrying two names, two fathers, and the moment I decided the story was worth putting to paper.
On the herring runs, the harbor, and how a small Staten town on the water shaped everything that came after.
What I hope readers who grew up between two households — and two names — take away from this book.
For book orders, speaking engagements, media enquiries, or just to share how the memoir touched your life — Bradley would love to hear from you.