Bradford (BJ) Yamamoto, Jr.

I grew up in Hilo, Hawaiʻi, raised by my grandparents on the Big Island. Public schools shaped me. Community grounded me. And somewhere in fifth grade, when a trombone was placed in my hands, I found my voice. Music became everything to me. I took it seriously, getting good at playing the trombone and euphonium, and I had a simple, clear goal: I wanted to teach band. I wanted to give other kids what music had given me.

That desire to teach led me to the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, where I pursued music education and deepened my commitment to the craft. From there, I moved into classrooms, teaching band and orchestra in the public schools, living out the purpose I had carried since fifth grade. But beneath the surface, I was struggling. Mood swings and difficult interactions with the people around me shadowed those years in ways I could not yet explain.

It wasn't until I moved to California that everything came to a head. A mental breakdown led me to a diagnosis I had long needed: bipolar disorder. Later, a diagnosis of ADHD added another layer of understanding to a life that often felt like it was working against itself. What started then was a journey with mental disability that I still navigate today—one that has shaped my inner life, my work, and my understanding of what it means to persist.

The diagnosis shifted my perspective on the classroom. I wasn’t ready to go back to teaching. Not yet, and not in the same way. So, I pursued another passion. I returned to undergraduate studies at Cal State LA as a political science major, while continuing to develop as a musician and shifting my focus toward academic and civic engagement. That path led me to Claremont Graduate University, where I studied public policy with a focus on education policy, a field that allowed me to think deeply about the systems that influence learning, opportunity, and community.

It was there that I rediscovered my path. Not just to education as a subject, but to education as a conviction. The belief I had held since childhood: that education can shape individuals and change society, which became a clear, renewed focus and purpose.

With a clearer understanding of myself, I started to rebuild. I stepped into leadership and entrepreneurship, serving as Executive Director of a music education nonprofit, founding several private companies, including a data science startup, and developing a career at the crossroads of education, community, and innovation. I was always moving, always creating, always believing that education, in all its forms, could transform people's lives.

Then everything stopped.

A medication reaction caused acute kidney failure. I nearly died and woke up from a coma, unable to communicate, feeling like I was in a world suddenly unfamiliar because of my own body. The experience left me with a speech impediment that still affects how my tongue moves today. It also meant I could no longer play trombone or euphonium at a proficient level. The instruments that had defined me for decades were no longer fully mine.

I was also going through the end of a long-term relationship. Having lost much of what I had based my identity on, I had to reflect deeply on who I was and my purpose. Out of that stillness came clarity.

Alongside two colleagues, Kuʻulei Arceo and Rickey Badua, I co-founded AlohaMusic, a nonprofit dedicated to organizing all-state music events in Hawaiʻi. It was a return to my roots. A way to serve the community that raised me, through the art form that first gave me purpose. After years of loss and reinvention, I had finally found my way back to music.

Recently, I took a significant step in my lifelong pursuit of understanding. I am now a doctoral student in the PhD program in Education at Claremont Graduate University, where my research concentrates on education as a public good and the role that arts and music education play within it. I serve as a graduate assistant in the School of Educational Studies, and my days are filled with nonprofit management, coursework, and a growing research agenda that combines everything I have experienced and everything I believe.

The practitioner turned scholar. A lifelong learner living up to the title.

I believe education changes individuals. I believe it changes communities. I have seen it. I have experienced it. And I am not finished yet.

Living and Working with Disability

I live and work with several co-occurring conditions that affect how I communicate, think, and work: Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), Bipolar Disorder, and a speech impediment. I share this publicly not to explain myself, but to invite better understanding and more effective collaboration.

How These Conditions Affect Me

These conditions don't limit my intelligence, drive, or commitment. They create barriers to how I execute—and they interact in ways that are sometimes unpredictable. On any given day, I may experience challenges with task initiation, sustained focus, working memory, verbal fluency, or emotional regulation. These can shift without warning, and they compound under stress.

How I communicate and show up may vary. That variation is not a reflection of my engagement or capability.

My Support System

I work with a personal aide who functions as a prosthetic—an extension of my functional capacity, not a substitute for my judgment or voice. They help manage communications, provide structure, and buffer the professional consequences of my symptoms when needed. If you interact with my aide, you are interacting with a trusted extension of my professional presence.

I also use assistive technology, including generative AI tools, as cognitive scaffolding. My thinking, analysis, and voice remain entirely my own.

How to Work With Me

Written communication is my strongest channel—when possible, it's the best way to reach me and get my best thinking. In conversation, patience goes a long way. If I'm working through what I want to say, please wait. I know what I want to say.

Clear and direct communication works best for both of us. I don't need adjustments made for me without my input -- just honesty, structure, and the assumption of competence.

A Note to Collaborators

Disability doesn't make collaboration harder. Silence does. If something isn't working, say so. I will do the same.