Commencement speaker Marc Morial, president of the National Urban League, spoke passionately about the wonderful accomplishments of the students, and he talked about the world they’ll inherit. He talked about the negativity that’s so pervasive in the media. He questioned why a shooting in the neighborhood was more likely to be covered in the news than the annual success of this institution. By the time he was done, the same question was resounding in my head, and I was hoping against hope to see a story about Girard’s graduation in the news the next day.
But it wasn’t to be. None of the news outlets said a word about it. Instead, I was informed of an arrest for shoplifting, an armed robbery and a car crash. Why did students who were beating the odds slip under the radar but a car crash and an arrest didn’t? I’m not sure, but writing this book is my effort to share more of the stories that matter.
When my wife was sick with leukemia, we spent a lot of time at the hospital, and a patient advocate suggested we create projects to give us purpose and focus during such an emotionally draining experience. So I began writing about the friends, family members and complete strangers who rescued us from that dark time, often with the smallest gestures, and I found that I didn’t want to stop. I knew that like Girard College, the world was full of other people’s inspiring stories that didn’t make the news, so I sought them out. I scoured the Internet, I talked to people at countless nonprofits and I asked everyone I knew for their stories. And I found what I was looking for.
I found the story of the third-grade teacher who changed a boy’s life with a simple lesson in shoe-tying. The story about the band of seamstress grandmothers who descend on Philadelphia every week to patch clothes—and, in the process, mend hearts—for homeless people. The story of the woman whose decision to make an extra meal to feed someone in need led to a movement that’s provided more than sixteen million meals. And so many more about people whose love for others has made a difference in the world.
The heroes in HumanKind don’t command an army of helpers or have an abundance of free time. They’re everyday people who focus on what they can do to make a difference. Their acts of kindness change lives and even save them. These everyday heroes don’t just hope the world will get better—they make it better.
Each chapter’s conclusion and the Hall of Fame at the end of the book highlight easy ways you can have a meaningful impact. You’ll discover where a $195 donation can cure someone’s blindness and where $500 can pay for a treatment that enables a disabled child to walk. You’ll find a dozen ideas, many of which surprised me, that people going through difficult times suggest as the best ways to help them. You’ll discover thirteen nonprofits that will forward your letters of encouragement to hospitalized kids, foster youths, recently diagnosed cancer patients, deployed troops and others who will cherish your support. You’ll see how buying someone a meal or sharing a few words of encouragement at the right time really can change a life.
I hope HumanKind leaves you feeling grateful for the blessings in your own life. I hope the people you read about also leave you feeling inspired and plant the seeds for more inspiring stories. Stories about the difference you decide to make in the world.
CHAPTER
1
LOVE DOES
“Every day I wake up and say, ‘I’m going to save a life.’ All day long I look for situations where I can save a life. And I do it. Every day I save at least one life. Today I probably saved five lives. And I feel good about it. Try it. Wake up tomorrow and say, ‘I’m going to save at least one life today.’ Even helping an old woman across the street counts. Even responding to an email and helping someone make an important decision saves a life. Even reaching out to a distant friend and asking, ‘How are you doing?’ can save their life. You can save a life today. Don’t let the sun set without doing that. You are Superman.”
—JAMES ALTUCHER
“MIA HAS LEUKEMIA.”
What?
“It’s important for her to start treatment immediately,” the oncologist said. “She’ll need to be admitted to the hospital as soon as possible.”
Is this really happening? To us?
The doctor kept talking, and despite the chaos happening in my head, I paid attention as best I could and took notes. But it wasn’t till we left her office and I looked back over what I’d written that it started making sense to me: “Don’t read about leukemia online . . . . The treatment is two and a half years, so focus on one step at a time and not the entire process . . . . Mia’s odds are very good . . . . A new treatment regimen had clinical trial results with a high level of success, and Mia will receive that treatment . . . .”
One thing I very clearly remembered hearing was that Mia would undergo a month of inpatient chemotherapy—which would encompass Christmas and New Year’s—followed by nine months of intense outpatient chemo, during which my wife would probably feel awful. And that would be followed by about a year and a half of maintenance chemo.
It was really happening. It was going to be a rough two and a half years.
Right off the bat, things were going to change drastically at home. Mia was typically in charge of anything resembling work around the house, while I served mainly as chief fun officer. I was the one to persuade Mia and our five-year-old son, Jack, to dance outside in the rain, the one to invent new sloppy desserts, and the one to come up with indoor games that were a little reckless and usually ended with something in pieces on the floor. Now I would have to perform the duties of director of fun, household operations manager and defender of normalcy. Social workers told us that because of Jack’s young age he wouldn’t become anxious or even detect that Mom was less involved as long as I managed everything Mia used to do and remained upbeat. If his life didn’t change, he wouldn’t notice. No pressure.
I was determined not to blow it, but I was also terrified and completely unprepared. Before long I was exhausted, too. I couldn’t even think clearly enough to delegate when people reached out to help. Wearily, I told them I’d get back to them. Fortunately, they knew better than to wait for me. Instead, family and friends took the initiative to make our lives easier in more ways than I knew were possible.
My brother, Rob, and his wife, Tippi, talked to nurses, doctors, and cancer patients and made a comprehensive list of items that people undergoing inpatient chemotherapy need. Then they went out and bought every single item on the list and dropped off the mountain of stuff just before Mia was admitted. There were special pillowcases to keep her scalp from getting irritated when her hair fell out, lemon drops to take away the chemo aftertaste, special mouthwash to ease the pain of mouth sores, creams for the skin irritation chemo would cause—the list went on and on. Rob and Tippi had even thought to include some books on explaining cancer to a child.
My cousin Betsy came by our house one day with an enormous bowl of candy for me to give to the nurses who took care of Mia. Betsy knew my high opinion of them, and she also knew I might not find the time to pick something up.
My colleague Mitchell, a fellow board member of a local nonprofit, knew I wouldn’t be able to pay as much attention to my nonprofit commitments and basically said, “Here’s the work I’m going to do for you, and I want to do more. What else can I do?” I wouldn’t have asked for help even though I needed it (a problem I’ve since overcome), but Mitchell made it easy to accept assistance.
Mia’s friend Meg came to visit almost every week. She brought lunch, planned a weekly craft project, and brought all the supplies for each project. Meg’s family and work life is so busy that it’s hard for us to schedule a night to go out together, but when Mia needed her, Meg wouldn’t let anything get in the way of being there.