A Reason to Believe_ Lessons From an Improbable Life - Deval Patrick [1]
Of course, I acknowledge the unlikelihood of my good fortune. I also recognize the hard work and discipline that have made it possible. But above all I cherish and celebrate the many people who have taken moments to enlighten me, to renew my ideals, and to spur me to action. There have been teachers and preachers, supervisors and colleagues, friends and family. There have also been strangers, many strangers—whether on a dairy farm in Massachusetts or in the sands of the Nubian Desert—who through their words or deeds have delivered transcendent messages about life, faith, and friendship. I have always tried to listen. And they have made all the difference.
This book is a tribute to them. It is an effort to distill some of the many lessons that have made me the idealist I am and to convey them in a way that is meaningful and lasting. My journey is far from over. There are lessons yet to learn. But my experiences have been rich, giving me a broad window into the lives of others, and I believe these experiences offer a guiding light for other seekers. That’s a bold statement, but it’s grounded in a truth taught by my “improbable” life: Each of us, from the mightiest to the meekest, has the capacity to teach, inspire, and ennoble.
Pass it on.
Chapter 1
In 1999, in a weekly meeting of the five most senior executives at Texaco, our boss, the chief executive officer, asked whether the company lacked vision. The global energy industry was in the midst of great consolidation, with legendary giants merging and famous brands disappearing. I was a relative newcomer to this world, and it felt like a game of billion-dollar musical chairs played around the circular table of a plush, walnut-paneled conference room. We sensed we were losing, and I was surprised by the muffled response to the boss’s question. If there was a vision for the company beyond just making money, no one in that room knew what it was.
The moment resonated with me for a different reason. According to scripture, “Without a vision, the people will perish.” I knew that lesson well.
Growing up with no money, I knew my family had a simple vision: to no longer be broke. Though we occasionally lived from hand to mouth, my grandmother hated for us to describe ourselves as poor. “We’re broke,” she declared. “Broke is temporary.” Splitting rhetorical hairs seemed odd when we were hungry. But my grandmother’s message conveyed a much larger truth, especially in that place and in those times. She taught us to imagine a life that was better than or different from our own and then to work for it.
The South Side of Chicago was like a small southern town in the 1950s and ’60s. Many of the inhabitants were recent arrivals from “down home,” as they called it—the cotton fields of Mississippi and Georgia, the tobacco fields of the Carolinas, or the railroad yards of Arkansas and Louisiana.
People spoke like southerners, with a lyrical quality to their speech. Subjects and verbs rarely agreed, and sentences had the rhythm and pace of the South. Everyone communicated by telling stories, often allegorical, never hurried. The old folks quoted scripture freely and from memory. My grandma Sally’s favorite was the Ninety-first Psalm, which she summoned when she was stressed: “For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.” The elderly also carried