“This I Believe. By that name, we present the personal philosophies of thoughtful men and women in all walks of life. In this brief space, a banker or a butcher, a painter or a social worker, people of all kinds who need have nothing more in common than integrity, a real honesty, will write about the rules they live by, the things they have found to be the basic values in their lives.
We hardly need to be reminded that we are living in an age of confusion—a lot of us have traded in our beliefs for bitterness and cynicism or for a heavy package of despair, or even a quivering portion of hysteria. Opinions can be picked up cheap in the market place while such commodities as courage and fortitude and faith are in alarmingly short supply.“
Journalist Edward R. Murrow offered the graphs above as part of his introduction to a new radio program he created in 1951 called “This I Believe.”
When I read his opening remarks from 60 years ago, I feel that he could be writing about these very times, in 2021.
The Public’s Radio, my local public radio station, has a series called “This I Believe New England.” It builds on the legacy and continues the traditions of Murrow’s original program. I’ve listened to the essays every Wednesday morning on my transistor radio since moving to Rhode Island.
A couple weeks ago, I decided to submit an essay. For Women’s History Month, I wrote about the origin story of the nonprofit I founded in 2008, Women’s Education Initiative, .
The host, Frederic Reamer, accepted my essay. It aired on Wednesday, March 24. “The Next Good Thing.”
You can click on the link above and listen. I’ve included the essay here.
In 2003, I had a visa for Kuwait, and I planned to cover the Iraq War. As an international journalist, I’d been covering conflict and its aftermath since 1990—in Liberia, Iraq, Somalia, Eritrea, Mozambique, Afghanistan.
I had, in retrospect, what I’ll call an emotional breakdown. I bailed on the Iraq War and went to the Philippines to earn my scuba instructor rating.
I dodged the war, but I nearly killed myself in an ATV accident in the jungles in the Philippines. I shattered my wrist and required immediate surgery.
I believe that bad breaks often lead to good things.
I arrived alone at St. Patrick’s Hospital on Easter weekend.
“Where’s your companion?”
The nurses, doctors, everyone who entered my room asked the same question. Filipinos always stay with family in the hospital. They would never leave a loved one alone. They could not fathom my situation.
The owner of the dive shop where I’d trained sent one of the waitresses from his resort to be my companion.
During our five days in the hospital, I learned that Leah had abandoned her dreams of becoming a teacher when her father died. She quit school and left her tiny village to find work. She sent her wages home and paid for the construction of the single room cinderblock home where her family lived.
Leah was with me when I settled my hospital bill for $2,500. “How will you ever pay it, Cheryl,” she asked, with tears welling.
I learned from the doctor who treated my post-op wounds that an equivalent sum would pay for a college education. I asked Leah if she’d like to go to college. She said yes. I paid. At 31, she went back to school and earned her degree.
Leah’s story and accomplishments inspired people in her country and mine; so I created a nonprofit to continue the good work we’d all done together. To date, we’ve supported women scholars in Sierra Leone, Liberia, Rwanda, Malaysia, the Philippines, Costa Rica.
The idea for Women’s Education Initiative began by accident, literally. With a couple of bad breaks.
As I write this essay, I am recovering from ankle surgery. During this pandemic, I’ve been thinking about brokenness. How my mental break in 2003 led to my broken wrist in the Philippines—which eventually led to funding Leah’s education, which led to her dream career as a third-grade teacher.
Breaking requires time to heal. For me, who’s always buzzing/moving/flitting in mind and body, a break in my mind, broken bones, a shattered wrist, my shredded ankle, all have forced me at crucial moments in my life to stop, be still, ask for help. And trust that I need the time to heal and wait for the next good thing to reveal itself.
Copyright 2021 Cheryl Hatch ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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