When Will I Do Something?

At the end of “Outliers,” Malcolm Gladwell brings together all the disparate pieces that compose his central thesis, and he does it with the most personal story I can think of: the story of his mother’s life and how she came to marry his father.  It’s a beautiful story, and he tells it so swiftly only to deconstruct the romanticized version and reveal the layered chances and opportunities that brought his mother and father together at that poetry reading in London.  She was a woman from the back hills of Jamaica.  He was an Englishman, born and raised.  Somehow, they wound up together in that room one night.  It’s a great story.

But it’s not a story of chance.  Instead, Malcolm uses that story to reinforce every point he has made throughout his book.  He uses it to teach that one final lesson: opportunities are made and opportunities are exploited.  Whether you believe that people create their opportunities or you believe that a diety presents them to us, the bottom line is that it is up to each of us to exploit the moment at hand.  It is up to us to determine how we will use that moment to our advantage.  I am quite sure of that, if nothing else.

As I sit here and write, my beautiful children are quietly sleeping two floors above me.  My house is silent; my wife is out and about, and I am sitting here writing.  My heart is heavy with a grief that is hard to explain and hard to understand.  My kids are safe.  They live in a place that is relatively free from the nightmares that are befalling other children on this Earth at this very moment.  My children have opportunities that other children cannot even comprehend.  My wife and I sacrifice and sweat so that they can attend a school that we believe will make a difference in their lives.  As a father, I sit here, and I give thanks a million times over that I can provide for them in a way that leaves them able to pursue a relatively carefree life for the moment.  My good fortune, their good fortune, and the good fortune of my family in our little corner of the planet is something that I do not take for granted.

I grew up in a foreign country where such opportunities were not so abundant.  I grew up in a country with poverty that would make some of the poor of this country, the United States, grateful for what they do have.  I can remember seeing so many things in the years that I spent in Mexico that made me profoundly sad, even then.  But I can remember seeing even more things that showed me how easy it is to find joy in life.  This latter point is what I carry with me today.  

I remember stopping at a church once in a small town in a rural part of Mexico.  I cannot for the life of me tell you where it was.  I just remember men selling iguanas by the side of the rode.  The town was a dustbowl, as so many towns are in the dry summer months.  There was an immense tree in the town that was surrounded by the walls of the main church.  It was probably the only church for miles.  It was more cathedral than church.  We’d stopped there before, so my attention was less on the church and more on the grounds around the church.  In the shade of the tree, there was a group of children playing.  They were smaller than me; I suspect I was entering adolescence at the time.  The children were screaming and laughing as they ran around and around the small garden at the base of the tree.  They weren’t so much younger than me that I didn’t yearn to run from my parents and join them in their revelry.  In fact, I felt just that urge.  I wanted to run to them and kick that little blue ball.

I can’t recall now if I actually thought this at the time or if it’s reconstructed memory.  That’s irrelevant, I suppose.  The point is that I cannot count the number of times similar scenes played out in front of me.  Some I failed to notice, while others I did notice.  My realization was the same each time: despite the lack of shoes, despite the dusty and grimy faces, despite the filthy clothes, these children were having fun.  They were having the kind of fun that made me jealous in the moment.  I have never forgotten those screaming, laughing children.

I don’t sit here in judgment of those who do not have the good fortune to live a life like mine and with the opportunities I have.  I recall making that point with my parents on another trip: you can’t assume that people who have “less” than you are less able to experience joy.  In fact, if we look at the great spiritual leaders again, a life of poverty makes way for a like of richness in enlightenment.  Joy comes from the spirit, never from the trappings of the physical world.  

What does bring me sadness is the fact that there are children in this world, in this country, that should have the opportunities afforded to children like mine but do not really have access to the resources that will create those opportunities or that will enable them to exploit those opportunities.  That is a crime.  That is unforgivable.  That brings me shame.

When will I do something?