Impact doesn't have to be global to be big

My father died on Saturday, Nov. 6, in Philadelphia, a city in which he did not live. He was 52 years old.

I could write many more than seven hundred words about my father. He was a man who never failed to speak his mind. He loved his family ferociously. I could write volumes about the breakfasts he cooked, about watching him in court, about the Daily Princetonian columns he read before I submitted them.

I could write about my father, but I will not. What I have learned in the week since his death is not just about him. It is about all of us, the students who read this newspaper and populate this University. It is about the lives we are beginning to build.

We walk around this campus hungry for success. We have done what we were told, filled out the right forms, played along. We want to be shown the next step to fame and fortune. For us, fame and fortune are not clichés. They are real possibilities, forsaken at our own risk.

I have often heard in the voices of my friends — and in my own voice — desperation to make a difference. Some want to earn millions, others to pass landmark legislation or solve society's problems. We are all hoping to earn our privilege, to make our mark, to mean something. We are all unsure how such a daunting task will be accomplished in a world with so much uncertainty.

But making a difference may not be as difficult as we think. It may not require elections or promotions or genius. It may be as easy as leading a good life, as following our own path and giving what we can.

My father was a partner at one of the New York law firms to which many of us aspire. He was a member of our local school board. He coached basketball and high school debate. He would do anything for his friends, and he loved my family.

My father was not famous. He was never on the front page of The New York Times. He did not make any list of the wealthiest or most powerful Americans. His is not a household name.

Yet hundreds came to his funeral, to tell my mother, brother and me how much he meant to them, to share their stories. Fifteen year-old boys, in suits meant for men, talked about how my dad taught them to debate. Thirty-year-old women told how he offered his advice as they balanced career and family. Fifty-year-old men laughed at how he would push deals through, determined to accomplish his best for clients and to find the right restaurant to celebrate in afterward. Friends talked about passionate games of tennis and cards, teachers about respectful negotiations, young people about how he treated them like equals. His funeral became a celebration.

We can all work hard. We can all offer our advice to those coming behind us and our help to those who need it. We can all serve our communities. We can all care for our families, telling our parents we love them and promising to someday raise children, someday, who promise just as much to the world. Of this, there is no uncertainty. For this, we do not need a road map. No matter what we do, no matter how much money we make or change we accomplish, these are goals we can achieve, if we only realize their importance.

I think we're already on the right track. What no one tells you when you go to college is that your friends become your family, learning to live with you day in and day out. I could not have asked more from my friends this week, nor been prouder to be a member of the Princeton community, as care and support poured in from professors, administrators, roommates, teammates and friends. I could not be more grateful. We have already begun to give.

We are all ambitious. For that there is no need to apologize. We can all do great things. What we must remember is that greatness is measured in many different ways. It can be measured in dollars and cents, in newspaper headlines, in power, in prestige. It can also be measured in the number of people we touch, the success of the communities we serve, and the strength of the families we build. We are lucky not just for what we have but for how much we have to give.