Richard Stroquer grew up in a working-class neighborhood in East Baltimore, the kind of place where you learned to keep your head down and your fists ready. His father, Thomas, was a welder who put in long hours at the shipyards and didn’t say much unless it needed saying. His mother, Elena, was sharp-tongued and sharper-minded—a public school teacher with no patience for excuses and a deep love for gritty determination. Richard inherited both their toughness.
From an early age, he was mechanically inclined. While other kids were getting into trouble, Richard was rebuilding dirt bikes in his neighbor’s garage or wiring together homemade security systems for pocket change. He wasn’t the loudest kid in the room, but he earned respect for being competent—and for never backing down when challenged.
School was fine. He got decent grades, mostly because he could do the work in half the time. He wasn’t a loner, but he wasn’t chasing popularity either. He had a tight circle of friends, most of them gearheads, troublemakers, or both. Teachers either liked him or left him alone, and he was smart enough to keep his head down when it counted.
Looking back, that mix of hands-on skill, street-level problem-solving, and a no-bullshit attitude was the foundation of everything he’d become.