other. In fact, I seemed eligible for neither.
Still, my experience at Harvard was far more positive than not. I made some close friends, and through them, through professors who opened more new worlds for us, and through mentors who inspired us, we burrowed ahead in our effort to be considered part of the elite, which pleased my mother as much as it appalled my father.
I graduated on an overcast day, but I was elated. I was about to join a storied group. My grandparents, mother, and sister came, as did Mrs. Quaintance, my sixth-grade teacher. Their pride and enthusiasm reminded me why this journey mattered.
Later that evening, after graduation was over, we all went out to dinner at a restaurant on Boston Harbor. It was a fun but low-key evening: Everyone was pretty worn out from the abundant festivities Harvard offered tosoften us up to become grateful and generous lifelong donors. I caught Rhonda looking at me strangely throughout dinner, and I suspected she was again judging how far I was from what I was supposed to become. She had finished high school, lived in her own apartment, and was working on her cosmetology license. She was living on the South Side and making her way. I was graduating from a prestigious college with no certain plan except to travel overseas. We were clearly on different paths.
After dinner, Rhonda pulled me aside, looked me in the eye, and said softly, “I am so proud of you.” Then she burst into tears. We held each other, crying, for many minutes, heaving our sobs of joy and forgiveness, letting go of the years of judgment and jealousy, accepting each other for who and what we were. Much more would be said in endless conversations that summer and in subsequent years, but nothing else was really needed.
Some people will always believe that, but for Milton, I would be peddling drugs or gangbanging on the South Side of Chicago. I reject that. Even back home, others had high expectations for me, and I had them for myself. Milton was a launching pad, but I always had some spring in my legs. Like Milton, Harvard exposed me both to great privilege and to the folly of equating that with fulfillment or salvation.
For some time, I thought the lesson of my years at Milton or even Harvard was that you had to adapt to your newenvironment, learn the code, if you were going to belong. But eventually I came to see that belonging has nothing to do with place. It has to do with purpose, with values. The expectations of the South Side and Milton Academy implied a choice: Be of one or the other, but not both, because they inherently conflict. That choice, however, was false and was totally unsuited for the world I wanted to experience and be part of.
I learned to focus less on where I was and more on who I am. Candor, compassion, generosity of spirit, curiosity, and learning to listen, as Louis Pasteur once wrote, “without losing your temper or your self-confidence”—these were the qualities I wanted and that I would always try to carry with me. These became the points on my compass.
That decision carries risk. It is easier to follow someone else’s star, some well-worn and recognized path. Strangers and loved ones alike question nonconformists and often true independence itself. But I have come to love taking risks, even those that seem to defy all logic. Once you take personal responsibility for your choices, once you let your values lead you, the journey itself—be it through an unfamiliar school or on a campaign trail—can be wondrous. Eventually you’ll connect with those who share your vision. You’ll find or form a community of those with similar values. And that is reward enough. Leaping into the unknown can be enriching beyond measure if, as Poppy would say, you “remember who you are and what you represent.”
Chapter 3
Dean Jeremy Knowles used to tell a story about a sculpture in Harvard Yard, by the renowned British artist Henry Moore, which sits on the green next to Lamont
Still, my experience at Harvard was far more positive than not. I made some close friends, and through them, through professors who opened more new worlds for us, and through mentors who inspired us, we burrowed ahead in our effort to be considered part of the elite, which pleased my mother as much as it appalled my father.
I graduated on an overcast day, but I was elated. I was about to join a storied group. My grandparents, mother, and sister came, as did Mrs. Quaintance, my sixth-grade teacher. Their pride and enthusiasm reminded me why this journey mattered.
Later that evening, after graduation was over, we all went out to dinner at a restaurant on Boston Harbor. It was a fun but low-key evening: Everyone was pretty worn out from the abundant festivities Harvard offered tosoften us up to become grateful and generous lifelong donors. I caught Rhonda looking at me strangely throughout dinner, and I suspected she was again judging how far I was from what I was supposed to become. She had finished high school, lived in her own apartment, and was working on her cosmetology license. She was living on the South Side and making her way. I was graduating from a prestigious college with no certain plan except to travel overseas. We were clearly on different paths.
After dinner, Rhonda pulled me aside, looked me in the eye, and said softly, “I am so proud of you.” Then she burst into tears. We held each other, crying, for many minutes, heaving our sobs of joy and forgiveness, letting go of the years of judgment and jealousy, accepting each other for who and what we were. Much more would be said in endless conversations that summer and in subsequent years, but nothing else was really needed.
Some people will always believe that, but for Milton, I would be peddling drugs or gangbanging on the South Side of Chicago. I reject that. Even back home, others had high expectations for me, and I had them for myself. Milton was a launching pad, but I always had some spring in my legs. Like Milton, Harvard exposed me both to great privilege and to the folly of equating that with fulfillment or salvation.
For some time, I thought the lesson of my years at Milton or even Harvard was that you had to adapt to your newenvironment, learn the code, if you were going to belong. But eventually I came to see that belonging has nothing to do with place. It has to do with purpose, with values. The expectations of the South Side and Milton Academy implied a choice: Be of one or the other, but not both, because they inherently conflict. That choice, however, was false and was totally unsuited for the world I wanted to experience and be part of.
I learned to focus less on where I was and more on who I am. Candor, compassion, generosity of spirit, curiosity, and learning to listen, as Louis Pasteur once wrote, “without losing your temper or your self-confidence”—these were the qualities I wanted and that I would always try to carry with me. These became the points on my compass.
That decision carries risk. It is easier to follow someone else’s star, some well-worn and recognized path. Strangers and loved ones alike question nonconformists and often true independence itself. But I have come to love taking risks, even those that seem to defy all logic. Once you take personal responsibility for your choices, once you let your values lead you, the journey itself—be it through an unfamiliar school or on a campaign trail—can be wondrous. Eventually you’ll connect with those who share your vision. You’ll find or form a community of those with similar values. And that is reward enough. Leaping into the unknown can be enriching beyond measure if, as Poppy would say, you “remember who you are and what you represent.”
Chapter 3
Dean Jeremy Knowles used to tell a story about a sculpture in Harvard Yard, by the renowned British artist Henry Moore, which sits on the green next to Lamont
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