Jesse Alberti

Jesse Alberti was born in Catskill, New York. He earned a high school diploma from Windham-Ashland-Jewett Central School and attended Mission College. Alberti's career experience includes working as an assistant director, newspaper boy, dishwasher, clown, environmentalist, babysitter, chess coach, football coach, bank teller, bartender, security guard, cook, chef, waiter, housekeeper, restaurant manager, building manager, and maintenance manager.[1]

Who are you? Tell us about yourself.

Good question. Let's start slow—it is our first introduction, after all.

Here are a few words I identify with:

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White – A label I’ve wrestled with. Not because I reject it, but because I know how much it can say before I open my mouth. I’ve worried that, by sight alone, people might assume I’m not safe—or not a friend.

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Male – Same feeling. It’s not shame exactly, but awareness. I want people to know I don’t carry harm in my posture.

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Age: 52 – Proud of it. I’m old enough to help, young enough to remember what needs fixing. (My children asked me to tone down the “old man wisdom” jokes. Fair enough.)

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Cis – I had to look up the proper usage, and I’m not ashamed to say that. We grow by learning, not by pretending to know it all. No shade to my LGBTQ+ family. I have no enemies.

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Married – Happily, for 16 years. And yes, my daughter is also 16. Math tells stories.

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From Windham to California

I was born in the Catskill Mountains of New York. My parents were just teenagers—16 and 17—and we lived in a little town called Windham, which I’ve always thought sounded like the hometown of a video game hero.

I grew up in the tri-state area: New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania. My mom moved around a lot, chasing work, housing, and sometimes relationships, trying to hold it all together. That came at a cost. When I was 16, she passed away after her third battle with cancer. She was only 32.

At the time, she was in the hospital and I was l

Please list below 3 key messages of your campaign. What are the main points you want voters to remember about your goals for your time in office?

Immigration policy in America has always been about control, not fairness. We took land through eminent domain, killed or displaced its original people, then welcomed those who looked like us. Slavery brought in others by force. Immigration wasn’t a problem when newcomers were white—or profitable. But as civil rights grew and demographics shifted, the white male power structure needed a new tool. Immigration replaced eminent domain: a legal means to restrict who enters and who threatens the status quo. Fear was the message, not truth. If jobs are undercut, blame capitalism, not the people just trying to live.Healthcare should be free. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s right. We already pay—through taxes, bankruptcies, lost wages, and early deaths. The only difference is who profits. Other nations provide care as a human right; we treat it like a subscription service, managed by insurance CEOs. We don’t ask firefighters to check your credit before saving your house. We don’t bill victims for police response. Why is your body any different? Profit-based healthcare doesn’t make us safer or healthier—it makes us sicker and more scared. A healthy population is a strong one. Free care isn't radical. Charging for survival is.Religion has no place in government. Believe what you want, but no one should be forced to live by another group’s faith. This country was founded on freedom from religious rule—not under it. Yet lawmakers push policies based on doctrine, not data, shaping laws for millions who don’t share their beliefs. That’s not democracy. That’s theocracy. Faith is personal. Government is public. If your god has power, let it persuade people—not legislate them. Eternal salvation isn’t the government’s job. Equal rights, safety, and freedom are. Keep the pulpit out of policy.

What areas of public policy are you personally passionate about?

I want government to work like a job—with real accountability. Every elected official should have a two-year term and a performance review. If they hit 25% of their campaign promises, vote on 80% of legislation, avoid corruption, and serve the public—not themselves—they can earn up to four extensions. Fail, and you're out. No stock gains. No lobbyist payoffs. No backroom deals. No pretending. Just service. Campaign donations must be capped, strictly monitored, and disconnected from power. If we don’t hold our leaders to measurable standards, we’re not a democracy—we’re a marketplace. I’m here to change that.

Is there a book, essay, film, or something else you would recommend to someone who wants to understand your political philosophy?

Vinland Saga revolves around Thorfinn—a young Viking driven by revenge after witnessing his father’s death, employed under his father’s killer, Askeladd. What begins as a gut churning quest for vengeance shifts profoundly: in Season 2, Thorfinn, sold into slavery, confronts his violence, befriends fellow slave Einar, and renounces warfare in favor of a life of peace and moral purpose.

This arc echoes my own belief: “I have no enemies.” Thorfinn learns that real strength comes not from weapons or hate, but from choosing forgiveness, growth, and rebuilding—exactly what I mean when I say conflict must end with peaceful resolution. He becomes a “blue collar technocrat” of the Viking world—grounded in hardship, driven by data (his own conscience), and guided by a measurable goal: to build a peaceful settlement in Vinland where diverse peoples can live together without violence.

By contrast, Prince Canute becomes a ruler who believes he can impose a utopia by force—vying for power and reshaping England through authoritarian measures after divine betrayal. His path shows how power without empathy or checks becomes tyranny. That clash—Thorfinn’s pacifist community building vs. Canute’s top down control—mirrors my sense of politics. Real governance is rooted in service, not dominance.

If someone asked me to recommend something that captures my political philosophy, Vinland Saga is it. It contrasts revenge and forgiveness, power and service, control and community building. It embodies humility—understanding that even the most violent person must rebuild from scratch if real peace is to exist. It frames ambition through accountability—the same way I want our leaders judged: by what they build, not what they conquer.

In Vinland, Thorfinn doesn’t just walk away from his enemy—he transforms the world around him by refusing to remain broken. That’s the ethic I carry into public life: no enemies, only collective progress.

What characteristics or principles are most important for an elected official?

Accountability – They must answer to the people, not hide behind party lines, spin, or silence.

Integrity – No backroom deals. No lying. No self-enrichment. Their word should mean something.

Transparency – Open records, clear decisions, honest communication. If it’s done in our name, we deserve to see it.

Service-First Mindset – They’re there to work for us, not for a legacy, a book deal, or their donors.

Courage – The willingness to take hard stands, not just safe votes. To do what’s right, not what’s easy.

Competence – Knowing how to do the job: policy, budgeting, negotiation, leadership.

Empathy – Understanding how decisions impact people, especially those without wealth or access.

Humility – Knowing they don’t have all the answers—and seeking out those who do.

Consistency – Saying what you believe and sticking to it, even when the cameras are off.

Fairness – Making decisions rooted in justice, not favoritism or identity.

If you could be any fictional character, who would you want to be?

If I could be any fictional character, I’d be Superman.

Not because of the powers. But because of the restraint.

Superman has the strength to crush cities, vaporize armies, or force peace through fear. And yet he chooses patience. Dialogue. Mercy. He holds himself back because he knows that having enemies while being invulnerable is meaningless. You don’t need to destroy what can’t harm you. That’s not strength. That’s ego. Real strength is knowing you could act violently—and choosing not to.

That’s the essence of my political philosophy: I have no enemies. And if I had Superman’s abilities, I’d live by that tenfold. When you’re untouchable, the true challenge becomes moral, not physical. The question isn’t “Can I stop this?” It’s “Can I help change it without becoming what I hate?”

Superman is often criticized for being too idealistic. But in a world driven by division and reactivity, I think that kind of idealism is exactly what we’re missing. He doesn’t fight for personal gain. He doesn’t lead for profit. He listens before he acts. And when he does act, it’s with the knowledge that every life—even a villain’s—has value.

It’s easy to use fear to gain power. It’s harder to build trust, to make peace, to lead by example. Superman isn’t just powerful—he’s responsible. He understands that his presence alone can change the world, so he’s careful what message he sends with every move.

In that way, he’s who I try to be as a leader. I want to serve, not control. Speak truth, not impose it. And leave space for people to grow—not be crushed by the weight of my authority.

Superman doesn’t need to win fights. He needs to prevent them. That’s how I view leadership in the real world too. Not about domination. But about protection, compassion, and creating a future where force is never necessary in the first place.

What was the last song that got stuck in your head?

The last song that got stuck in my head was “My Girl.” Not just because it’s catchy—but because it became part of one of the hardest parenting decisions I’ve had to make.

Last year, I canceled my daughter Catalina’s Sweet 16 party. Her grades were slipping, and in my opinion, she wasn’t taking the steps needed to turn things around. It wasn’t an easy call. The venue and catering were already booked. We’d put down nearly $10,000. Walking away from that wasn’t just a financial hit—it was an emotional one. But I wasn’t willing to trade a life lesson for a party.

Instead, I asked everyone—friends, family, people who love her—to record messages. I stitched them all together into a video birthday card, and I kicked it off with “My Girl”. Thank you, Smokey Robinson and Ronald White, for giving the world that song.

It played in my head for a month—part melody, part mantra. Every time I heard it, I was reminded why I made the choice I did. Not to punish her, but to prioritize her growth. Not to give in to pressure, but to hold a boundary with love. That song became a soundtrack for something bigger than a birthday. It became the beat behind a decision to put long-term values over short-term optics.

“My Girl” is still hers. So is my love. But that day, I needed to show her that sometimes being a good parent means doing the hard thing—even when it costs more than just money.

What do you love most about your state?

What I love most about California is that it doesn’t pretend to be simple. It’s complicated, layered, sometimes messy—but always alive. We’re a sanctuary. A superpower. A home. A contradiction. And we’re still evolving.

Los Angeles—my city—is the kind of place where you can sit on a city bench next to someone who speaks a language you don’t understand and still feel safe. You can walk through a neighborhood where ten different cultures are cooking dinner at the same time and nobody has to apologize for who they are. That’s not an accident. That’s policy. It’s legacy. It’s identity. We made LA a sanctuary city because we understand that humanity comes before paperwork.

I love the wealth of this state—not just the money, though we are the fourth-largest economy in the world—but the wealth of imagination, drive, and grit. From agricultural fields to Silicon Valley, from immigrant-run food trucks to aerospace labs, this state is built by workers who innovate because they have to, and dream because no one’s told them to stop yet.

And most of all, I love our diversity. Not just in race or language or tradition—but in perspective. There is no “normal” here. No single lifestyle. No one path to success. That means our politics are tougher—but it also means our solutions, when we find them, are stronger.

California is not perfect. But it is possible. And what I love most is that every day, this state gives us another chance to prove that a future built on safety, equity, and humanity is still within reach.

What organizations or individuals have endorsed your campaign?

No one you have heard about.

What are your views on financial transparency and government accountability?

Financial transparency and government accountability aren’t just ideals—they’re baseline job requirements. If elected officials expect trust, they must earn it in public, with receipts. I believe every dollar spent, every vote cast, and every promise made should be visible, trackable, and reviewable by the people who hired them: the voters.

Too many politicians treat elections like auditions and their terms like blank checks. They take millions in campaign donations—often from special interests—and then operate behind closed doors, protected by vague reporting laws and buried disclosures. That’s not public service. That’s privatized governance.

I support strict donation caps, quarterly public report cards, and mandatory performance tracking for elected officials. I propose two-year terms with up to four extensions—but only if the candidate meets minimum service benchmarks platform delivery, legislative participation, and a clean ethics record. Miss the mark? You're done. No bailouts. No excuses.

As for financial gain—public office should not be a stock portfolio. I support banning elected officials from trading stocks, profiting from insider knowledge, or cashing in on board seats and speaking fees while in office. No outside investments. No revolving-door lobbying. If you're here to serve, serve. Make your money after the job is done—not because of the job.

This isn’t about punishing success—it’s about re-centering government around results, not relationships. I believe public office should reflect public values, and the clearest way to do that is by putting sunlight on everything. If a regular employee had to meet goals, show work, and stay out of conflict-of-interest territory to keep their job, why shouldn’t politicians?

Government should work for us. And if it doesn’t, we should have the tools to fix it—starting with full financial transparency and real, enforceable accountability.

A governor is the top executive authority in his or her state. What does that mean to you?

Being the top executive authority in the state doesn’t mean you’re the boss. It means you’re the one who stands in front when things go wrong. It means you take responsibility when no one else will. You don’t hide behind party lines, polls, or press releases. You show up. You speak out. You protect people, not egos.

To me, being governor means understanding that every decision you make affects real lives. It means not treating politics like a career ladder or a media game. I don’t want to play chess with people’s housing, their rights, their health, or their safety. I want to fix what’s broken—and call out who’s breaking it.

That includes standing up to federal overreach, political bullies, and big-money interests, regardless of party. I’ve watched the back-and-forth between Gavin Newsom and Donald Trump and thought: this isn’t leadership—it’s a playground shouting match while real people are suffering. California doesn’t need another personality war. We need someone grounded in service, accountability, and actual results.

Being governor should mean you’re the first to take the hit, the last to leave the room, and the only one in power who isn’t afraid to lose it doing the right thing. You are the employee of 39 million people. That’s not a promotion—it’s a job. And it should be treated with the seriousness of someone who knows lives are at stake every single day.

If elected, I won’t be the flashiest. I won’t pretend to have all the answers. But I will be honest. I will listen. I will stand up to anyone—including the federal government—if they threaten the people of this state. And I won’t waste your time with theater. I came to do the work.