Good evening, and
welcome to Double Take--

Stories That Make
You Think Twice.

My name is Sarita Mehta, and
I'm a fourth-year student here

and the Student Member
of the Board of Visitors.

It is such an honor to
stand before you all

and welcome you to
this year's event.

As I look out into the crowd,
I see leaders whose names

are synonymous with UVA.

I see students whose
hardships and struggles

I could hardly fathom.

And I see individuals whose
selflessness is humbling.

But as I look out
into the crowd,

beyond this, beyond labels
and titles, I see people.

When all is said and
done, we are just

that, people, sharing
in the highs and lows

of this great human experience.

There is something incredibly
powerful about that.

To tell you a little
bit about myself,

I'm a Texan through and through
and a pretty extroverted

person.

I will always stop to talk
to the grocery store cashier

or talk to the corner
ambassador for 10 minutes.

Growing up, my dad
taught me you can always

learn something or
laugh with anyone,

regardless of who they are
or where they come from.

As a first-generation immigrant
speaking broken English,

my dad believed in that
common thread of humanity

that binds us all and
transcends differences.

I believe in it, too.

You would be surprised by
just how much you can learn

from the people around you.

In conversation after
tonight's event,

I urge you to learn, and
share, and teach, and laugh

with someone new.

Today, we're going to hear
from some incredible members

of our university community.

Their stories are
just a few narratives

that highlight the power
of reflection, resilience,

and people.

I am certain we
will all walk away

learning new things
about ourselves

and life from each
of these individuals.

Don't let the lessons
learned from these few hours

be siloed to these few hours.

Carry them with you
day in and day out.

Share your stories.

And listen, really
listen, to others.

This event would not be possible
without the fearless and, quite

frankly, awesome leadership
of Stacy Smith, Matt

Weber, and Jess Harris,
and of course, our very

own President Ryan.

This would not be possible if
not for the amazing individuals

who gave their time today to
share deeply personal stories.

And it would not be
possible without each

of you sitting in the crowd,
who decided to give your time

today to listen and learn and
to open your hearts and ears.

So thank you.

Together, you and me and the
person to your left and right,

we represent the power in
our story, in your story,

in the larger story of
our university and nation.

Even when it isn't pretty
or perfect, even when

it's more real than you
would want it to be,

your story is what you have,
what you will always have.

Thank you all so much for
being here this evening.

And without further ado,
please enjoy Double Take.

Exactly two weeks ago
today, almost to the hour,

my brother shared
something with me,

and that has completely
rocked my world.

And I hope to tell you about
it and maybe even share it

with you.

But first, I have to
give you some background.

You see, this brother, Damon,
I met him for the first time

ever in my life
about 10 weeks ago.

Now, he's 50 years old,
and I'm 49 years old.

How did we go our whole lives
and just meet weeks ago?

Well, at one level, it's
a very simple story.

We share the same
biological father.

We have different mothers.

We grew up with
our mothers mostly,

in different families, in
different parts of the country,

never had a chance to meet.

But when you're
talking about families,

it's always more complicated
than the simple story.

So I grew up in New York.
 

I grew up with my
mother, her husband,

who I considered Dad but not
my biological father, their two

adopted children, their
three natural children.

There were six of us,
two loving parents

in a dysfunctional
but wonderful home

on Long Island in New York.

Now, what makes it
maybe a little more

spicy than the typical
family is that my two oldest

siblings, my older brother
was adopted from the Sioux

Nation in South Dakota,
my oldest sister

adopted from the Cherokee
and Pima Nations in Arizona.

And unlike all the other
five Solomon siblings,

only my biological
father was Black.

But Linda, Harold Solomon, two
New York Jews with six kids--

I had a good life,
and a good family,

and a wonderful dad, who
celebrated me, cheered me on,

loved me above everything else.

But for the first
21 years of my life,

I wondered about my
biological father.

Where was he?

Was he alive?

Was he healthy?

What did he look like?

What was he like?

What did he sound like?

Do I get my voice from him?

Do I get my looks from him,
my height, my eyebrows?

I always wondered.

I tried to put together
a textured life

from the facts I
got from my mother,

that he was an activist.

They met on Martin Luther
King's Poor People's Campaign.

They had chained themselves
to a hospital that

was segregated to try to
integrate the hospital,

that he might have had a
collapsed lung, that she

thought he had two sons and
was going through a separation

or divorce, that
he was angry often.

But back then, it
was hard to find him.

I used to check the obituaries
in Long Island Newsday-- never

saw his name.

But I didn't even
know where he lived.

Fast forward a little bit.

1994, I'm trained on a
news clipping service,

kind of like the Stone
Age precursor to Google,

LexisNexis machines.

And what do I search for with
my 10 free hours of training?

I searched for the name
I'd known my whole life

and learned a lot.

Tracked him down.

Wrote him a letter.

Didn't get a response,
so I went to find him.

And this is actually
not the main story.

But I went to find him and
met him in Pennsylvania.

And despite all my
myth-making and fantasies,

he was just a man.

He was, frankly,
as cautious as he

may have been
courageous, as fearful

as he may have been ferocious.

I don't think he knew
what to do with me.

I don't think I knew how to
ask the questions that he

knew how to answer.

I did get some information.

But I left there
saying, he's just a man.

And I went back a few times
and had a few more times

to exchange
information with him.

And I always imagined
that someday he'd

introduce me to his
sons, and I'd learn more.

But life is busy.

And I had kids, and
I went to law school,

and things happened.

And time went on, time went on.

And one day, I think my wife had
heard that her father had died.

So I Googled my father's
name and saw that he'd died.

And I imagined again, someday
I'll figure out his sons.

Well, in 2017 my then
15-year-old son Miles,

who some of you may have met,
was really curious to know more

about our biological
heritage on my father's side,

the Black side of the family.

So I, candidly, got
pretty obsessed.

And the investigative
power that exists now,

with DNA testing, and Google,
and LinkedIn, and Facebook,

where everyone poses
with their family members

and tells you who
their family is--

really quite powerful.

And over the course of
the past four years,

I found those two brothers,
found two more brothers,

found three sisters.

Now, I'm not going to say
we're now one big happy family.

Some of them are
fabulous, and delighted,

and overjoyed to
have me connected,

to have more people
to love in the world.

And others remain cautious,
suspicious, not sure

what I want, afraid I'm
up to no good somehow,

think there's something they
can do for me that I'm seeking.

But despite the rejections,
I got so much more

than I could possibly
have bargained

for, dozens and
dozens of cousins,

great siblings and their
kids, new nephews and nieces.

The gifts I've received far--

and the gifts of welcome
that I've received far

outweigh the pain
of any rejection.

So speaking of
gifts, let me come

back to what my brother shared
with me two weeks ago tonight.

It was a guest blog post from
the Columbia University Press

Blog.

And it referenced a film,
The Man in the Middle.

And it talked about a
Civil Rights activist.

It was a 1966 police
training video.

So I wrote a quick email to
Professor Steven Charbonneau

at the Florida
Atlantic University,

who authored that blog post.

He actually quickly
and kindly sent me

a chapter of his book, where he
elaborates on that blog post.

And then I work
for a university.

I can actually get
a film in archives,

get this 22-minute
police-training video sent

to the University of Virginia,
or rights transferred

to the University of Virginia,
so that I could watch this.

Now, let me tell you the
surreal aspect of watching

a 55-year-old film with
a 30-year-old version

of your father with a
megaphone, commanding audiences,

bigger audiences, walking
across the street,

talking to police and youth,
urging the police to understand

the perspective of the youth,
and actually takes out a Life

magazine, puts it on the floor,
and is pointing to and saying,

this is what kids are
seeing, examples of police--

the police, the
dog, and the abuse.

It doesn't matter that it's
in Selma, Alabama, or South

Jamaica, Queens, New York.

This is what they
were seeing, urging

people to take the
perspective of others

to understand what's going on.

Now, some of you
know my interest

in fostering dialogue
and conflict resolution.

To see my biological
father doing it

was really quite profound.

Now, also profound
for my brother Damon.

In the film, he sees his
father and his father's wife,

his mother.

First time he saw
that picture of them

together other than
their wedding picture

because they, of course,
did get divorced.

As I realized that the message
of my father about taking

other people's perspectives--

I can apply that to
my own new siblings

as well, who lived 50-plus
years of their own lives,

and all of a sudden this
overeager, somewhat obsessed

brother comes knocking on
the door to say, here I am.

But it really does
make me realize

that as I now uncover more
and more layers of ancestry

and DNA, we're all family.

Thank you.

This year, I learned that
heroes truly do exist.

Some wear medical scrubs.

Some fight villains with
mops and with wipes.

And some are angels
truly walking among us.

One of those angels,
my uncle, Khalu Eltayieb Ahmed Elnaiem,

got COVID-19 last year.

December 18, 2020, was the last
day of our first full semester

during the pandemic.

After I finished my last exam
in a weird and empty Thornton

Hall, I was ecstatic to
celebrate that night.

So I decided to do a Zoom
call with some of my friends.

Around 3:00 AM, I was just
laying lazily on my couch,

talking with their
little box faces

on my laptop, when
all of a sudden I

got a phone call from Sudan.

That was weird, especially
at that hour of the night.

So I turned to my laptop.

I told my friends,
sorry, one second,

I need to take this
call, and muted myself.

Then I stared at
my phone for a bit.

And thoughts raced
through my mind

about what might be happening
because whatever this was,

it wasn't good.

I answered the call
to my cousin Aaliyah

and heard her speak to
me over a background

of wailing and sobbing.

December 18, 2020, my angel, Khalu Eltayieb Ahmed Elnaiem, gained his wings

and returned to the sky.

Now, I'm telling you
all that he's an angel.

And I recognize most
of you don't know him.

So I'll tell you a bit
about why he's so special.

Khalu Eltayieb was born in April of 1954 in my home village of Almaghaweir, Sudan.

My mom used to tell
me stories growing up

about how he was a jokester,
about his tomfoolery,

but also of his
pure heart, as he

used to give so much to
my grandmother, Haboba Aisha.

Around 21 years old, he
left Sudan to study medicine

in Pakistan, and
then return to be

a doctor throughout the
country, and to provide food

during the famine.

After that, he moved to
England and then Saudi Arabia

to practice orthopedic surgery.

All of my fondest memories in
life are thanks to Khalu Eltayieb.

When I was 13, he organized
a trip for my family and I

to go to Bahrain, where
he lavished us every night

that we were with him.

The summer before my first year,
he put together a trip for us

to go to England
and Scotland, where

we got to meet his old friends.

And the winter of 2019, he
organized this massive family

reunion for all of us to go to
Sudan for my cousin's wedding,

where he put together a
beautiful boat ride for us

up the River Nile.

The amazing thing about
him is that his love

and his generosity
are boundless.

See, for years now, I've
been seeing my family crumble

in front of me.

Khalu Eltayieb couldn't just
watch this happen.

He invested in us so that we
had a reason to still feel joy.

And I learned recently
he didn't just

do this for me and my family.

He did this for dozens, if
not hundreds, of other people.

Although he lived
in Saudi Arabia,

he constantly went to
Sudan and took medicine,

going door to door, serving
anyone who called on him.

My most recent
memories with him are

working on his nonprofit, SEDSO,
the Sudan Education Supporting

Organization.

The fall of my first year,
he messaged me on WhatsApp,

asking me if I could
help him put together

a GoFundMe because 24 school
children in Almanaseer, Sudan,

drowned when taking a boat
on their way to school.

Just like he couldn't
see my family suffer,

he couldn't watch
this community suffer.

So he organized
a group of people

to build a school in Almanaseer
so the children wouldn't

have to travel as far
for their education.

He then took that active
service and grew it

to an entire organization, which
has now built over 50 schools

throughout some of the most
under-resourced areas in Sudan.

It is really remarkable.

Today, I attempt to live my
life in the legacy of Khalu Eltayieb.

All I want, all I aspire for is
to be kind and to serve others.

And I think about him
in my daily actions.

When I host people
in my lawn room,

I think about how
much joy it brought me

when he hosted me in Bahrain.

And I think about how I
can reciprocate that warmth

to others so they can
feel joy, no matter what's

going on in their life.

When I engage with
people, I think

about how I can acknowledge
and then serve everyone

that I meet, just as he
kept on giving, and giving,

and giving to hundreds of
patients and to schoolchildren.

And when I am engaging
in my community,

whether it's organizing
in the engineering school

or it's organizing in
Multicultural Student Services,

I think about how
I can rally people

to serve those who
need it most, just

as my uncle did with his
NGO, or in his nonprofit.

I really regret that I didn't
tell my uncle that I loved him.

I didn't tell him how
much I admired him

when he was still around.

I didn't thank him
for all the trips.

I didn't tell him how much
his dedication to people

meant to me.

And now I live with pain
because it's too late.

So another lesson that
I learned from Khalu Eltayieb

is to not withhold love and
to not withhold gratitude,

because the opportunity
to give it is fleeting.

Last week, when I was
walking to my lawn room,

I found a white
rose and a letter

sitting outside of the door.

And it was a letter
from the Angels Society,

thanking me for my
commitment to my friends,

for supporting my community,
and for grounding myself

in compassion.

Khalu Eltayieb, as you listen from
above, I want to thank you.

And I want you to know that
so much of how I live my life

is with thanks to you.

Many mornings, I wake up, and
I don't want to get out of bed.

I don't want to go into
a day that is going

to be draining and tiring.

And I don't want to go into
a world without Khalu Eltayieb.

In those moments, I
reach for my phone.

And I play a song that
reminds me of him.

In Arabic, the song
goes like this.

[SINGING]

And in English,
that translates to,

may you find good and
reward in this world.

May you taste blessings.
 

And may you taste peace.

May God increase the
good in your life.

Live on, Khalu Eltayieb, the Good One.

You are always within
us and close to us.

Live on, the Good One.

You are always within
us and close to us.

Thank you, Khalu Eltayieb for
teaching me how to serve,

how to be selfless.

Thank you for teaching me how
to live without restraining love

and gratitude.

Thank you for teaching me what
it means to be a true hero.

I love you, and I pray that
your legacy lives on within me.

Thank you.

Good evening.

My name is Ken Elzinga.

And this is my Double Take.

I've been on the faculty at
the University of Virginia

for many years.

And I'm told I've
taught more students

than any professor in the
history of the university,

somewhere around ,.

And yet with all
my years at UVA,

there's something that most of
my students, and frankly many

of my colleagues, do
not know about me.

And that is I'm a widower.

My wife Terry and I have been
married for about four decades.

But when I first
joined the faculty

at the University
of Virginia, I was

newly married to a
woman named Barbara.

We were not married very long
because Barbara died of cancer.

Much of our brief marriage
was spent with chemotherapy,

remission, recurrence,
radiation, remission,

recurrence, until
finally, it was the end.

Barbara died of cancer
at the UVA Hospital.

She was only 33.

Now, in the few years
that we were at UVA,

Barbara was a great
friend to students.

I can remember coming home,
seeing cars in the driveway,

thinking these were
students here to see me.

But in walking in the house,
I learned that they were there

to see my wife.

Hundreds of people attended
Barbara's memorial service,

which was a distinctly
Christian service.

I had become a Christian
in graduate school.

Barbara had become a
Christian through the ministry

of an evangelist
named Billy Graham.

So what is my Double Take?

The invitation to give this
talk, especially talking

with Matt about this, brought
back memories of something

that I had not thought
about for a while.

Barbara's death was
very difficult for me.

But what struck me at
the time, and which

I have revisited for this
talk, is that I was never

angry with God.

And frankly, this puzzled me.

And let me try and explain why
anger with God never set in.

As a follower of Jesus,
I had a high view

of the Christian Scriptures.

And there's a passage
in the Book of Job

that goes like this.

The Lord giveth.

The Lord taketh away.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

And this verse drove home to me
that while Barbara was my wife,

she didn't belong to me.

She belonged, in
life and in death,

to her Lord and
Savior Jesus Christ.

And I had to recognize that
the Lord had taken away.

And then at that time, a black
swan event happened in my life.

An antitrust attorney,
not at Latham & Watkins

but at Arnold & Porter,
did something very unusual.

This partner at this
distinguished law firm

had a small plaque
made and sent to me

out of the blue with
a Bible verse on it.

And it's a Bible verse I'm
sure I had seen before.

But I had never paid
any attention to it.

It's from Psalm 116.

And the verse reads, "Precious
in the sight of the Lord

is the death of His saints."

Now, I don't pretend to
understand that verse,

even to this day.

But it brought comfort to me.

My wife's death was
not precious to me.

But somehow, in the
mystery of the Heavenlies,

it was precious
to my wife's Lord.

And then the apostle
Paul made an entrance.

And the apostle Paul
wrote to those Christians

who were grieving about the
death and the loss of others.

He wrote, "We sorrow, but not
as those who have no hope."

"We sorrow, but not as
those who have no hope."

Now, most people, when
they read that verse,

they focus on the second
part, the reference

to the blessed hope, the hope
that those who die in Christ,

like my wife Barbara, will
have eternal life in Heaven,

with God.

But the focus for me was on
the front part of that verse,

"we sorrow."

"We sorrow"-- it's as though
the apostle Paul said to me,

Ken, the Christian faith
is not about stoicism.

The Christian faith does not
endorse "big boys don't cry."

The Christian faith
endorses sorrow.

And those combination of
verses and other factors

kept me from being
angry with God.

Now, I realize that what
I've just said, particularly

in an academic
community like this,

and no doubt to some
of you, probably

seems pollyannaish or
delusional, in a Marxian term,

an "opiate of the
people" kind of stuff,

or even religion as a crutch.

It might surprise you
how much I understand

why you would think that.

But this is why I'm not angry
with the God of Abraham, Isaac,

and Jacob, and
for the triune God

that I know as Father,
Son, and Holy Spirit.

My name is Ken Elzinga, and
that was my Double Take.

I think of myself as lucky--

well, maybe not
that lucky, since I

was diagnosed with a rare
bone cancer when I was 16,

but lucky since I
am still here today.

When trying to come up with
what I wanted to speak about,

I was stuck.

I didn't feel like
anything I learned

was profound enough
to tell my story.

However, my father
felt differently.

He told me that
I was a survivor.

This made me mad, and
I decided I officially

did not want to tell my story.

You see, I didn't do
anything special to survive.

And I certainly didn't
do anything differently

than my friends who passed
away from the same disease.

So what makes my
story as a survivor

meaningful in the first place?

My friends who were given
a terminal prognosis

suffered far more than I did.

They endured more rounds of
chemotherapy, more surgeries,

and more heartbreaking bad news.

They should be here
today giving you

a life lesson instead of me.

So I'm not going to
tell you my story.

I'm going to share with you
what three friends of mine, all

diagnosed with
terminal osteosarcoma,

taught me about life.

I first met Kelly
at physical therapy.

She had just finished treatment,
and I was just starting.

I knew who she was because
my parents and doctors kept

trying to connect
me with other kids

with osteosarcoma to
"talk about our feelings."

But I really didn't want to.

Our moms began talking about
Kelly and I in front of us

as if we weren't there,
just like how moms do.

And my mom mentioned
I was getting really

nauseous every time they would
flush my IV line with saline.

When I tasted the saline, my
brain immediately connected it

to chemo, and I would get sick.

Kelly overheard my
mom and piped up,

saying that it was sort
of a hospital secret,

but the nurses have a
secret stash of IV flushes

without saline.

But they only used them
if you asked for it.

It was through Kelly's
advice that I understood

the power of connecting
with other people going

through the same thing as you.

Kelly and I quickly
became friends.

And she told me everything there
was to know about the treatment

road ahead of me.

I'll be forever grateful
for the guidance she gave me

and what she taught me about
being there for others,

especially when
someone is suffering.

She gave me hope and made sure
I knew she was there for me.

Words cannot describe how
much this shaped the rest

of my treatment.

And thanks to Kelly, I
became friends with John.

John was diagnosed a month
after I finished treatment.

And I like to think that I was
his version of Kelly, telling

him what to expect and the
ins and outs of the hospital.

John was my osteo friend
that I knew the longest.

I could talk about the time we
were invited to the White House

to meet with former
Vice President Pence

to talk about a new
cancer bill, and instead

spent 15 minutes trying
to convince Pence to shave

his head for Cancer Awareness.

[CHUCKLING]

He didn't end up doing it--

or about all the illegal
schemes we came up

with because everyone knows
you can't arrest or put

a kid with cancer in jail.

John taught me so much.

But the most meaningful
thing he taught me

was to look at the
world in a broader

perspective than yourself,
and to have empathy

for those around you, always,
even when you were suffering.

Around the same time John was
given a terminal prognosis,

I was told I would have
to have my entire knee

and parts of my tibia and
femur replaced, again,

due to an infection on
my metal prosthesis.

I tried to hide this from him,
since what he was going through

was so much worse.

But every single day, he
asked how I was feeling

and how my leg was doing.

Instead of comparing
our suffering

and being bitter about the
unfairness of the world,

he just wanted to make
sure I was all right.

The night before my
surgery, John and I

went to a Capitals hockey game.

And when I walked
into the building

the metal detector went off.

I explained to the
security guards

that I had metal in my leg.

John went through next, and
the alarm went off again.

John explained how he, too,
also had metal in his leg.

The eyed us suspiciously.

What are the odds
that two 19-year-olds

both have large metal
implants in their legs?

He definitely thought
we were up to something.

We laughed.

This was something
that could only

happen to us being together.

We had so much fun at the game.

And I remember being so
amazed at his perspective

on life, his constant smile, and
his ability to focus on others.

He was always thinking
beyond himself.

The next morning, I went in
for surgery, only to awake

eight hours later and learn
that John had passed away.

Not a day goes by that I don't
think about our friendship.

The last friend I want to
talk about is Charlotte.

When Charlotte and I
first met, we quickly

realized we both had
twin brothers, which

gave us a lot to talk about.

Our friendship
might have started

because we had the same cancer,
but that was not at all why

we got along so well.

Since Charlotte
lived in California,

I didn't get to meet her in
person until she came to UVA.

She was probably the most
excited and optimistic person

I had ever met.

What Charlotte taught
me is to never let

anything stop you from living
life the way you want to.

Days before Charlotte passed away,

she was talking
about how excited

she was for her senior
year of high school,

and that she was working
hard on her UVA application.

UVA was her top
choice and she decided

to apply early decision here.

Charlotte wasn't going to
let anything, even a terminal

prognosis, stand in the way of
her being excited about life

and what the future might hold.

She was still going to
write her college essay.

She taught me the
importance of living

the life you want to live,
even in the face of adversity.

And when I walk
around grounds, I

can't help but think
of how much she

would have contributed to UVA.
 

Now, back to survivorship,
and what it means to survive.

When it comes to
cancer, I'm not sure

surviving means anything
more than being lucky

that you had access to treatment
and that your body happened

to respond well.

I didn't survive a week in
the wilderness like some guy

from a survivalist show
who escapes bears or eats

gross bugs.

Anyone who knows me knows
I would never survive

a week alone in the woods.

No, I got really sick
in a hospital bed,

and luckily, the
medicine worked.

Although I don't think
surviving means much,

I do think there are
ways that I can make

my survivorship meaningful.

To me, this means
living every day the way

Kelly, John, and
Charlotte lived theirs.

I want to form
powerful relationships

with people, especially
with those who might be

going through the same thing.

I want to have a perspective
outside of myself that

sees the bigger picture
and is able to always

be thinking of others.

And lastly, I want
to live my life

with purpose, the way I
choose, and without letting

anything stop me.

If I can live my life
with these lessons learned

from these beautiful and brave
human beings, only then will

I believe that
survivorship is meaningful.

Hello, everyone.

I'm Huynh.

I'm an international transfer
student from Vietnam.

And I have recently transferred
from a university in Italy.

It's a very long road.

I'm here to share with
you the transfer process

because it was truly
transformative and a little bit

unorthodox.

Why?

Because I did it without
the knowledge of my parents.

My parents didn't know.

And, no, I didn't
hide it from them

because I was
afraid of jinxing it

or I was afraid of
pressure or anything.

I hid it away from
them because they

didn't allow me to transfer.

They had very good reasons for
not wanting me to go to the US.

They think that the US is a tad
bit dangerous for someone a tad

bit eccentric like me.

They think that Europe is
much closer to Vietnam,

so they can visit me more often.

And most importantly, I've always

been an academic underdog.

I fell short here and there,
and they saw me that way.

And they thought that I couldn't
get into a good US college.

And even if I could, I
wouldn't thrive in one.

I, on the other hand,
have very good reasons

for wanting to go to US.

The number one reason
is that my English is

much better than my Italian--

mamma mia.

[CHUCKLING]

But all jokes aside,
the real reason

that I wanted to go to
the US is that I wanted

a liberal education,
an education that

takes my unique experience
and my unique background

into consideration.

It's all about individuality
and intellectual independence

for me.

And I really saw the US that
way, and I really wanted to go.

So we sat down.

We talked about it a few times.

In the end, the
answer was still no.

And they told me, Huynh,
you're not old enough

to make these decisions.

Be grateful for what you have.

Don't throw away your shot.

And do any of you
get really annoyed

when your parents
tell you you're not

old enough to do something
or to decide something?

I was extremely annoyed.

So what did I do next?

The mature thing to do was
to either listen to them,

sit down and talk
it out, or agree

to disagree at the very least.

And as you can guess,
I did the opposite.

I didn't listen to them.

I didn't sit down
and talk it out.

And I disagreed to disagree.

To put it blatantly,
I lied to them,

and I continued the transfer
process behind their backs.

And it was tough.

It was really tough,
I'm telling you.

So COVID was
happening at the time.

So I had to stay in Vietnam
and do the online semester

and then do the whole
sneaking around.

And also, it was such
a challenging endeavor

to undertake without the
support of my parents,

without their advice,
without their guidance,

without all of their resources.

But I managed.

For the first half of
application season,

I managed really well.

But then the SAT and the
College Board came around.

So you've probably
heard stories about how

the SAT and the College
Board crush ambitions

of college applicants.

But the way they did me
in was just unexpected.

So I was registering
for the SAT 2.

And there's this little
box called CC a Parent.

And if you tick
that box, they will

send a copy of your
test registration

straight to your parent's inbox.

And I've already ticked that
and filled in the emails

when I registered for the
SAT 1 the first time around.

And that's how they found out.

It's very ironic,
very, very ironic.

And I can almost laugh about it,
if not for what happens next.

So the gist was up.

And I was surprised that
it ran for this long

because my parents would always
know when I'm up to something

or when I'm lying to them.

And maybe that's
why they were so

hurt when they found out
that they had been lied to.

The night that my
mother found out,

she and I had one of the
biggest arguments of our lives.

She called me
immature, ungrateful.

And I told her that you don't
understand me, you know?

And we both said
things that we regret.

And the fight
escalated to a point

where I had to leave the house.

And that's how it happened,
how I was practically disowned

for trying to take the SAT.

And these are the moments
that sometimes you

don't get to see behind
a college application.

Behind all the stellar test
scores, and near-perfect GPAs,

and the inspirational essays
are these moments of hardships,

of confusion, of
not knowing what's

going to happen next,
of not knowing if things

are going to work out for you.

And for me, it was
a total rock bottom.

And because of having
to leave the house,

I spent the next week
living with my grandparents.

And during that time,
all I can think of

is how much my parents hurt
because I lied to them,

and how much I miss them, and
how much I just really want

to go home, give them a
hug, apologize to them,

saying that, Mom,
Dad, it's all over.

I'm going to listen
to you from now on.

I really wanted to do that.

I really wanted to go home.

And while waiting for
permission to go home,

I started reflecting on what
my parents has given me.

I really want to renew
my sense of gratitude

and my sense of appreciation,
so when I go home

I can present that to them.

And I started
remembering things.

So when I was 8
years old, my family

sent me to a Catholic
school in Australia.

Imagine an Asian kid who
can barely speak English.

He's going around, offering
people Vietnamese food.

You want some banh mi?

I really want to be
your friend, come on.

And that kid is also
attending mass every Sunday

without the knowledge of what
religion was at the time.

Skipping forward
a few years later,

my parents sent me to a
golf boot camp in Arizona

on a scholarship.

Again, imagine a
barely-5-foot Asian kid

trying to keep up
with varsity athletes

throughout 18 holes
during the day,

and trying to keep
up with them again

through
dodgeball and laser

tag during the evenings.

It was just these
bizarre experiences.

And as I recalled
them more and more,

I started to see
the values that I

gained from them, the
interpersonal skills that

allowed me to break down
any culture or language

barrier, the flexible
tenacity that allowed

me to walk any paths ahead.

I'm so grateful for
all these experiences.

And that's when I realized
one of the greatest gifts

that my parents has
given me is allowing

me to go to these
bizarre adventures

so far away from home, and
allow me to learn from them.

And that is when I realized
I cannot stop with my college

application now.

Even though they don't want
me to, I have to press ahead,

continue to find myself
in unfamiliar footings,

and embrace the novel challenges
ahead, and become the best

version of myself,
because I sincerely

believe that if my
parents have the resources

that they had given me,
they would do the same.

So I marched home.

I offered them a
sincere apology.

But aside from that, I
showed them my game plan,

showing them that this
isn't a Hail Mary,

that I have a good chance of
getting into a good US college,

and even thrive at one.

And I'm standing here
before all of you right now,

so you can probably guess
how the argument went down.

[CHUCKLES]

So it's-- this journey is
still so surreal for me.

It still feels
like a dream, as I

go into one of the best
colleges in the United States,

walking around this
beautiful campus,

and now standing here
before all of you.

And I not only have
my parents to thank,

but this time, also myself.

Thank you.

So for as long as
I can remember,

my parents have
written me letters.

And these letters have
come to mean so much to me

that I actually keep a note
that my mom wrote me about

10 years ago in my wallet.

And I refer back to it
when I need a little boost.

I actually checked
it earlier today.

And there's a note
that my father wrote me

that I love so much in
that I framed it,

and I put it on my
wall in my house.

And so it's really
no surprise that when

I had two kids of my own, I
started a similar tradition

with them, although it takes
a slightly different form.

So I have two little boys.

One is now 4, and
one's almost 2 and 1/2.

And when each of
them were born, I

started writing in
a journal for them.

And I write in these journals
whenever I am moved to do so.

So as parents, some of you
might know what that feels like.

It's a day that you
want to remember

every detail of, or it's
something funny that they did,

or it can honestly be
just marveling at watching

them become little people
exploring the world.

But what's really
interesting is if you thumb

through their
journals, you'll notice

that almost the entire
year of 2020 is blank.

I didn't write anything at all.

And I'm sure there
are many of you

in this room who would
say, well, this actually

makes a lot of sense.

2020 was brutal for so many
people for so many reasons.

And you had young kids, and you
were probably really scared.

And you were probably
really overwhelmed,

and maybe you just didn't
have the words at the time

to be able to explain
to your kids what

was happening in the world.

And I think a lot of
parents would feel the same.

And that was true for me, too.

And then there's another
group of folks, maybe

a slightly smaller group but
that know me a little better.

And they would say,
well, you know,

I also know, Lily,
that you were going

through this professional
proving process.

You had thrown your hat
into this ring for this job

and, as your dad likes to say,
swinging for the bleachers

with this role at the
Alumni Association.

And you were probably
pretty scared

about how that was
going to turn out,

and maybe overwhelmed
by the process

and having to prove
yourself day in and day out.

And maybe you just didn't have
time to write to your kids

in those journals.

And to that group, I would say,
absolutely, that was true, too.

There was a lot
going on last year.

But then there's a
smaller group of people

who really had a
front-row seat to my life

over the past 18 months.

And some of them are here today.

And I think they would have a
slightly different explanation.

I think they would
say, I don't know

if it was the pandemic alone,
although that was obviously

so challenging for so many.

And I don't think it was
this professional process

you were going through.

I bet the reason why you
didn't write in those journals

is because you were going
through a difficult divorce.

And you had young kids.

And you were really,
really scared

about how things were
going to work out.

And you were really overwhelmed,
maybe so much to the extent

that sometimes you felt
like you were drowning.

And maybe you just didn't
know how to talk to your kids.

or you just didn't
have the strength

to be able to explain what
you were experiencing.

And those people would
be the most right.

You see, the thing about
letters or journal entries

is they have a permanence
to them, right?

That's what makes
them so special is

that you can hold on to them.

And they last forever,
like I have held

on to that note from my mom.

But that's also what made
me so fearful about how

I could talk to my kids about
what I was going through.

I was so worried I would
say the wrong thing,

or I would say too much, or
say too little, or perhaps

at worst, interrupt an
otherwise beautiful and blissful

childhood for my kids.

And so I wrote nothing.

And part of me is really
frustrated at myself

that I didn't have the
strength in the moment

to put pen to paper and
actually write something down,

because in the midst
of dismantling my life

and then building
it all back again,

there were actually so
many beautiful moments

with my little boys.

There were so many
joy-filled days.

And I want to tell
you about one of them

because it sticks in my mind.

And it's something I wish
I'd written down because it

was just so much fun.

So it was last fall,
probably this time last year.

And I bought these
absurdly overpriced tickets

to a Jurassic Park exhibit
at the Richmond Raceway.

And it was everything
you think it was.

It was over the top.

And these clunky, oversized
mechanical dinosaurs

screeched and
lunged at your car.

And you can imagine a
basically 1-year-old

and 3-and-1/2-year-old
at the time going nuts.

They loved this.

It was their
definition of a dream.

And so we had a great time.

And then afterwards,
we were all hungry,

so I drove us to the
nearest McDonald's, went

through the drive-thru, and
got us each a Happy Meal,

and parked in the parking lot.

And we ate chicken nuggets,
and we talked about dinosaurs

while they sat on my
lap in the front seat.

And we watched what ended up
being the most spectacular moon

rise I have ever seen over 64.

And it was one of the
best nights of my life,

but I never wrote it down.

And so as time has passed, and
as I've gotten my feet under me

over this past year,
year and a half,

I've thought so much
about putting something

in my children's
journals to acknowledge

what we went through, and
just how transformative

that year was for us in
so many different ways.

And even though I wasn't able to
necessarily find my own words,

I actually was
reminded of an email

that I got at one of the
darkest points of 2020.

And it was from a
friend of my mother's,

who reached out
and said that she

had put me on this prayer list.

So she was hosting services.

She was at Harvard Divinity
School at the time.

And she wanted me to know
that I was on the prayer list,

given what I was going through.

And she also included a
blessing, just for reference,

in case I needed some words of
comfort in a difficult time.

And what she doesn't know,
but I should tell her,

especially after
I give this talk,

is that that blessing
ended up being something

I referred to more times
than I can count over

the course of these
past months.

And it has served as really
a guiding light for me

in an otherwise really
bleak and dark time.

And I'd like to read
that blessing to you

today because it is
also what I've ended up

putting in my children's
journals to mark 2020,

and to acknowledge what
happened, to some extent,

and also maybe to serve as
a guiding light, or source

of comfort, or a lesson learned for them

if they ever encounter a
particularly difficult time

in their lives.

So I'm going to grab it.

And it's a blessing
by John O'Donohue.

And I think it can apply
to anyone, anywhere

who believes in anything.

That's part of why
I love it so much.

And it goes as follows.

"This is the time to be slow.

Lie low to the wall until
the bitter weather passes.

Try, as best you can, not to let
the wire brush of doubt scrape

from your heart all
sense of yourself

and your hesitant light.

If you remain generous,
time will come good,

and you will find
your feet again

on fresh pastures
of promise, where

the air will be kind and
blushed with beginning."

So some of you
might be wondering

how I started writing in my
children's journals again

after a long time away.

And there was one entry
at the very end of 2020.

And it was on December 15, 2020.

And I wrote in both of
their journals separately.

And it was actually right
after I had found out

that I had gotten the job that
I had been working so hard for.

And it's funny.

I have to tell you that for the
first time in a really, really,

really long time, I finally
felt like I had a beginning that

was worth writing about.

Thank you.

So I was born in
Buffalo, New York.

I'm one of seven kids.

And if you count the dogs
we had, I'm one of 10.

God bless my mom.

So I was born in
Buffalo, New York.

And growing up in
Buffalo, New York,

in this Irish-Catholic family,
I was sent to the same school

that my dad was in.

It was a little Catholic
school called St. Benedict's.

And I remember going as a little
kid, and going into school.

Now, I was a happy kid.

I was really happy.

I loved it.

And I remember playing along
and doing kindergarten stuff.

But the teacher
always got mad at me.

And I didn't know why.

So fast forward, we
go through the school,

and I get to this point
where my parents tell me,

the teacher says
that you're special,

that you've got to go get tested
for what you are going through.

Sorry, I'm going to
pull this a little bit.

And so we ended up having to
go to a special summer camp.

I had no idea.

I was 7 years old.

And I'm like, OK, let's do this.

And in my little kid head,
I'm like, that's fine.

And I remember
waiting for the bus.

And the bus pulls up,
and it's not a big bus.

It's a smaller bus.

And I'm like, OK, cool.

I get in, in my little
shorts and my little shoes.

And I get in the bus, and the
bus has cages on the inside.

And I'm like, man,
this is weird.

But again, I'm a little kid.

I didn't know what
to think about that.

And I sit next to my bus mate.

And he's wearing a helmet.

He can't see.

He's drooling.

And he's banging his
head against the wall.

And I'm like, OK,
I guess this is

where it is-- this is where
we start as a little kid.

So I went to the
special summer school.

And after it was over--
it was a dark time.

I don't remember much
about the school.

And I get back home.

And then my parents
say, well, you

can't go back to that same
Catholic school anymore.

You've got to go to
this other school.

I said, all right, cool.

As a little kid, again, I'm
not thinking much about this.

I'm along for the ride.

So I go to this public school.

And I walk in the class.

And lo and behold, it's
the woman who tested me.

And I'm like, that's cool.

That's really neat.

I've got this lady
that I can trust.

And I had met her before.

So I'm in this class with her.

And I had all these
other friends.

And they were all different.

And again, I don't
know what different is,

but I just knew that
if Stivola got excited,

he would flap his
hands really hard

and almost float
like a hummingbird.

And I'm like, things
are going to be cool.

Stivola's really happy.

And then there was
Maggie, who I knew

when things were getting
a little sketchy,

because Maggie would pee.

And there'd be a
puddle under her chair.

And I'd be like, oh, man,
something's going on.

I've got to pay attention.

But that was my
grammar school raising.

And then eventually, we were
indoctrinated, as they say,

into the normal kids.

And that was cool.

That was fine.

And so we are indoctrinated
into the normal school.

And I went through,
and I carried on.

And my parents had
always told me-- again,

I'm one of seven kids.

Many of my brothers and
sisters were doctors.

And they always
told me-- and they

said, John, you're special, and so we

don't expect much out of you.

And I said, OK.

They said, just do your best.

My mom and dad were doing their
best, and so I did my best.

And so I went
through high school.

I went to-- I finally got into
my family's Jesuit high school.

But again, I had to
do summer school.

Then I went to college.

And again, it was
another Jesuit college.

But again, I had to
go to summer school.

And I want no offense
to football players,

but I was in class with them.

And I was like, that's
cool, all right?

[CHUCKLING]

Yeah.

We didn't have the honor system
back then, that some of them

may have looked at
my paper or not.

I'm not going to
confess to that.

So I get into college.

And I'm studying.

And I'm studying
psychology at the time.

And I sit down.

And I was studying
in the library,

and I was studying
developmental psychology.

And I sat down and started
looking at it, really focusing.

And it had a graph.

And I went down on the graph.

And I remembered
that I had a hearing

disability as a little kid.

I had over surgeries
before I was like 17.

So I started looking.

And a light went off in my head.

And I realized, wait,
this learning disability

matches with the fact
that I can't hear.

Wait, I'm not-- and I'll use the
term of when I was growing up--

I'm not retarded, because that's
what they called me back then.

It's not a politically
correct term at this time.

I was not learning-disabled.

And that light just
went off in my head.

And I'm like, holy crap.

My GPA at that point
went from a 2.2 to a 3.8

within the semester.

And I just started
reading voraciously.

And I ended up graduating,
and then deciding,

I'm going to follow my bliss.

And I went to
graduate school, and I

studied comparative religion
and Eastern philosophy.

And the lesson I
learned in all of this

is, A, when we categorize
people, we put them in caves.

And it's like the platonic
allegory of the cave.

When I realized-- and it doesn't
matter what category that is.

It could be imposed
from outside,

or it could be what
you hear all the time.

And then you start
repeating it to yourself.

So what happened to me, like the
platonic allegory of the cave,

was I went out, and
I saw the light.

And I was damned if I was
not going to go back and lock

myself up again.

So I realized that that
categorization is not correct.

And we always have to
watch ourselves with that.

And as a father, I've tried to
raise my kids knowing I'm not

going to categorize you.

I'm not going to put
you in that hole.

The other lesson I learned was
that once that cave is left,

you can do anything.

And I've proven that.

I've made a paradigm
shift in the world,

and it's called the Pause.

And if you want
to look it up, I'm

not going to talk
about that today.

But it changed how we approach
health care and death,

not only in the United
States but on seven

continents around the world.

And the last thing, and
this is for my mama.

She felt really upset that
she had done that to me.

And I want her to know,
you didn't harm me.

What you did helped create
the man you see today.

I don't distinguish or delineate
between a schizophrenic drug

addict on the street or a
billionaire who needs care.

I don't see the difference.

And those lessons are
what occurred today.

Thank you.

[APPLAUSE]

This is a really
hard thing to follow.

So I want to begin by thanking
those who helped organize

this night, Matt Weber, Jess
Harris, Sarita, and then

everyone else who was involved.

And I think they deserve
a round of applause.

[APPLAUSE]

I also want to thank, from
the bottom of my heart,

and on behalf of
everyone here, all

of you who shared the amazing
gifts that are your stories.

And I'm already standing
up to clap for you.

But if I weren't standing
up to clap for you,

I would be standing up right
now to clap for all of you.

[APPLAUSE]

We started this a few years ago,
in part because I love stories.

And I thought it
would be a great event

to give people the opportunity
to share their stories.

But the other reason we did
was because we thought--

and I think this night
proved this once again--

that doing this would
not only enable all of us

to hear the story that we
hadn't heard from someone,

but it would make
everyone in the audience

realize that
everyone has a story.

And you might think you know
it, but you probably don't.

And one way to build community
is to share your story,

and to ask someone
else about their story,

for as surprising as the stories
might be, you also find in them

ways that you're connected.
 

And so thank you for
giving us that gift.

And I hope all of
you who are here

realize that the person
to the left of you,

the person to the right
of you has a story,

and that that is the way
that we build community.

We share our stories.

So thanks for being here tonight.

And I hope you'll
leave this event

interested in other
people's stories

and willing to share your own.

Thanks again for coming.

[APPLAUSE]