The Power of Helpfulness

My father didn’t want me to go to college.  It’s not that he wanted me to fail.  He just didn’t understand the value of a higher education.  He couldn’t appreciate my yearning to think smarter and be independent.  He thought that a woman’s role was to get married and have kids.  She didn’t need a college education for that.

My three best friends—Laura, Theresa, and Patrice—were all going.  Laura went to a private San Francisco nursing college.  Theresa went to a state college, and Patrice, well, she got a full scholarship to U.C.L.A.  When I heard about Patrice’s good fortune, my stomach fell.  My grades were better than hers, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

I registered at American River Community College since my dad wouldn’t pay tuition, and it was all I could afford from my job at the ice-cream shop. I also moved out of my parents’ house so I could concentrate on school instead of babysitting my little brothers and sisters.

My budget was poverty-level.

I worried about paying my rent and my tuition, stressed about my car breaking down, and ate frugally.  My parents let me take vegetables and fruit from their garden, so I lived on cheap colas and fresh produce, with an occasional slice of cheese and boiled egg.   What I never skimped on was school books and supplies.

When one day I visited a college counselor to plan my next schedule of classes, I must have looked hungry.  Mrs. Strol recommended that I apply for a Basic Educational Opportunity Grant to supplement my income. So, I did.  I filled out the form carefully and slipped it into a mailbox.  Six weeks later, the college notified me that a check was waiting for me at the Financial Aid office.

I needed to fill my car with gas, so I went to pick up the check the next day.  Once on campus, I walked up to the Financial Aid window and gave my name.  The assistant smiled at me, flipped through a file, and pulled out a business-sized envelope.  She was so friendly that I felt like lingering, but I thanked her and left instead.

When I got back to my car, I ripped open the envelope and took out an over-sized check.  Wow. The amount was high enough to pay my tuition for two semesters and my rent for six months.  Wow.

No. . . Wow.

Someone cared enough about my college success that they gave me money, and lots of it.  I hugged the check close to my chest and reflected on my good fortune.  I could do it.  I could go to college and someone would think that it was the right thing to do.

This government assistance was the gesture of kindness that I needed to climb over the wall between me and my personal success.  This single act of charity gave me more hope than I had ever dreamed of.  I felt appreciated.  This act of benevolence erased the chains of anguish that held me down and stifled my optimism.   It was empowerment, realization, strength, determination, liberty, and direction all rolled into one.

Here I am, decades later, teaching college students.  I have received numerous checks from various people since then, but this was the most important check of my life. Within its paper and ink was a life-time of support and approval—a lifetimes worth of support for my personal growth and success.

I look around me today and I don’t see anyone who succeeds alone.  Children learn how to walk and run and say “Please” by listening to their mothers.  Young workers get advice from mentors about how to get and keep a job.  Athletes receive guidance from personal trainers and game strategy from coaches.  Cancer patients survive with assistance from doctors.  Presidents are voted into office.

Both private and public support is important, even critical. No one succeeds alone.  But those who receive assistance can and often do learn how to give it to someone else.

They grow, they succeed, and they become the next generation of givers.  The practice of helpfulness originates from a true understanding of the power of generosity.

Helpfulness begets success, and I’m an example. My dreams came true because someone once believed in them more than I dared to dream.