Breaking Night

Epilogue

I WAS SEATED IN THE MAIN EXHIBIT HALL OF A CONFERENCE CENTER in Buenos Aires, Argentina, one person in a crowd of people waiting for the Dalai Lama to take the stage. It was the thick of summer and the air conditioning was weak, so my skirt suit got itchy, causing me to shift in my seat, which was near the front, stage-side. I had to strain to find a good view over the heads of the people in front of me, an audience of top-performing CEOs from different countries around the world. Seven hundred of them had gathered for their annual conference of networking and inspiration; the Dalai Lama was their keynote address. After him, I would take the stage as the next presenter.
As the Dalai Lama spoke, a handful of CEOs had the rare opportunity to ask him questions. Most of the inquiries were complex—political or philosophical in nature—and in response, the Dalai Lama gave generously of his time. With the help of a translator, his Holiness took nearly ten to fifteen minutes to answer each question in painstaking detail. When his time finally drew to a close, a point person searched the room to choose who would get to ask the final question. As a fellow presenter that day, that person happened to be me. I was allowed to ask the Dali Lama a single question. But what would I ask? All eyes fell on me in the hushed exhibit hall; hundreds of CEOs and his Holiness himself stared and waited. What happened next would turn out to reveal one of the greatest life lessons I have ever learned. But I will get back to that lesson later.
First, a little explanation of how that day came to be. That day with the Dalai Lama became yet another occurrence in my life that caused my friends in the Bronx to tease me with my nickname: “Forrest Gump.” Over the years, they have grown used to me traveling to various countries, working with thousands of people to deliver workshops and speeches to inspire others. In New York City I founded and currently direct Manifest Living, a company that empowers adults to create lives that are most meaningful to them. In doing this work, it just so happened, I found a path that has become most meaningful to me.
I had no idea things would turn out this way. It started after the New York Times article; other media followed. There were magazine articles, awards, a half-hour 20/20 special, and even a Lifetime Television movie, Homeless to Harvard: The Liz Murray Story. What unfolded from there was a series of events so rich and detailed that they cannot be told in this short space—they are another story altogether. What I can say here is that my years at Harvard up until my graduation in 2009 were packed with experiences that taught me lessons about the strength of the human spirit; the truth that people from all walks of life face adversity and must learn to overcome it. Ultimately these experiences inspired me to develop workshops designed to empower people to change their own lives, which is my passion, and the work that I dedicate my life to today.
Over the years, I traveled, took part-time study, full-time study, and even year-long breaks in my education, and I kept my home base in New York City, where the biggest grounding force in my life became my relationships with friends and the time I spent caring for my father.
Daddy quit drugs after he was diagnosed HIV positive. His shelter played a vital role in connecting him to the right medical resources for each one of his illnesses. When all was said and done, after more than thirty years of hard-core drug abuse, Daddy was HIV positive, his heart needed massive repair requiring open-heart surgery, he had hepatitis C, and over three quarters of his liver was cirrhotic, gnarled as a calcified sponge.
One afternoon, in the middle of one of my early semesters at college, I was walking through Harvard Yard when I received a phone call about Daddy from a doctor who spoke in a hushed voice that told me it was serious. As Peter Finnerty’s medical proxy, I’d “better hurry to New York before it was too late,” he said. Daddy had had a heart attack and was on life support. I rushed for a bus to get to him (a trip that had become routine) and, shortly after I arrived, the priest stood over Daddy’s bed, reading him his last rites. I held Daddy’s hand and searched his face for signs of life, but his eyes were shut tight and the tubes through which he was breathing just pushed his chest up and down, his forehead crinkled as though frozen in worry.
Somehow, Daddy survived this and other brushes with death, and so my friends—who helped care for him and who also liked to tease Daddy to keep him in high spirits—gave him a nickname, something that made Daddy chuckle after they removed the intubation tube: “Peter Infinity,” for his ability to survive a mountain of life-threatening medical conditions. He found the name so funny that when the nurse signed his discharge papers he repeated it to her, trying (unsuccessfully) to get her to laugh, insisting out loud that he had “more lives than a cat.” I wheeled Daddy out the sliding doors of Mt. Sinai Hospital onto the sunny streets of New York City, and from that moment on I took full responsibility for his care.
Once it became clear that death was a constant possibility for Daddy, I asked him to move in with me in my New York apartment. He required a firm regimen of medical care to keep him alive, which included rotations to the key doctors, ongoing blood work, constant (often painful) medical exams, chemotherapy for his Hep C, and, to help contain the viral load of his HIV, antiretroviral meds as well. Or the “cocktail,” as his doctors called it—medication made available to HIV patients only after Ma had died. Getting Daddy’s needs met, staying on track in college, and traveling internationally to deliver my workshops and speeches shaped the next few years of my life. There were many ups and downs during this period, and I could not have gotten through it without the love of my friends.
The support that sprang up around me was nothing short of a miracle. Through every twist and turn in our lives, my friends and I were there for one another and in the process, we truly became a family. There were my longtime friends like Bobby, Eva, James, Jamie, Sam, and Josh, and also new ones who came to stay, like Ruben and Edwin. We celebrated birthdays and holidays together, and even lent a hand with one another’s families when it was needed. On any given day I could come in from Boston to find Daddy at home watching the latest episode of Law & Order in the living room with Edwin sitting beside him; they would be splitting a bag of cookies and laughing together.
Whenever I had to travel or be away at school, Edwin (Ed), whom I met through Eva, faithfully took Daddy to all of his medical appointments, bought and carried Daddy’s groceries, and made sure he had clean clothing and hot meals. More than that, he became Daddy’s friend. Ed and I purposefully kept apartments within walking distance of one another in New York and whenever I could be home, we spent our days taking trips to the local diner with Daddy, or to the movies, where we helped Daddy sneak his contraband Snickers bars and water bottle into the theater. Ed and I shared a smile each time Daddy unwrapped the candy bars before the flickering movie screen with a pleased little smirk across his face. In those moments I do believe Ed and I witnessed in Daddy a glimmer of pride for outsmarting “the man” just one more time in his life.
Lisa and Sam ultimately landed on their feet. Today, Sam is happily married and lives in Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband. After years of struggle and her own ups and downs, Lisa successfully graduated from Purchase College in New York State. Today, she is a schoolteacher for autistic children. Jamie has two children and is married, living in Nevada. Bobby is in school studying to be a nurse, and he is happily married with two children. We remain essential parts of each other’s lives.
In the last few years of Daddy’s life, after I had spent some time away from school to live in New York and see him through heart surgery, I returned to Cambridge to complete college, and Daddy came with me. We rented a five-bedroom house near Harvard, one bedroom for each of us: Ed, Ruben, Ed’s little cousin whom he took care of, Daddy, and me. Just a month before Daddy died, Ed and I took him on a long-awaited trip to San Francisco. Daddy insisted on showing us areas he said were meaningful to him in his youth. We never asked for details, and he didn’t offer any. Ed and I just followed Daddy to his favorite spots: Haight-Ashbury, Alcatraz, and his beloved City Lights Bookstore. Together, we stood before old wooden shelves where Daddy skimmed the pages of Allen Ginsberg’s and Jack Kerouac’s books, privately smiling at familiar passages. When we flew back to Boston at the end of that week, and I was alone in my room, I found a card that Daddy secretly put inside my suitcase. It read:
“Lizzy, I left my dreams behind a long time ago, but I know now that they are safe with you. Thank you for making us a family again.”
I taped the card high up above my desk, right where I did all my papers and school assignments, so that I could look at it while I worked. Each time I saw Daddy’s familiar bold script, it filled me with love for my father and a certain peace, knowing that he was nearby, warm and safe.
Just three weeks later, Daddy went to sleep upstairs, and he did not wake up. His heart gave out in his sleep. Daddy was eight years sober and sixty-four years old when he died. For much of those eight years, he led a weekly “relapse prevention group” for recovering addicts, and he kept a tight circle of friends from the group whom he loved dearly. The night he died in my apartment, I found myself in my bedroom surrounded by friends. Eva, Ruben, Ed, and a couple more friends dragged two extra mattresses into my bedroom so that we could huddle near one another under blankets and talk. We shut the door tight so that Ed and I would not have to hear the crackle of policemen’s walkie-talkies and the medical examiner carrying Daddy out of our home.
By Daddy’s request, he was cremated. On Father’s Day, Lisa, Edwin, Ruben, Eva, and I spread his ashes throughout Greenwich Village, stopping to place small handfuls of ash at each of his favorite spots: the doorstep of a friend’s building, in front of his methadone clinic, and on the block where he first lived with Ma back before they ever had children. Then we took the rest of his ashes and mixed them with rose petals, and sent them out to the sea off the boardwalk in Battery Park. The pink petals floated away in the receding sunlight that evening, and Lisa, my friends, and I sat on a bench leaning on one another, sharing stories of our favorite memories of Daddy. Quietly, Ed reached down and squeezed my hand, tight, and I knew we were both heartbroken but also proud that Daddy died happy, surrounded by people who love him.
When I graduated from college, my friends Dick and Patty threw me a party at their home in Newton, Massachusetts, and Lisa and all my friends came out to celebrate. When they brought out the cake I looked up to see a ring of support surrounding me, the faces of loved ones old and new, everywhere: Lisa, Ruben, Anthony, Ed, Eva, Shari, Bobby, Su, Felice, Dick and Patty, Mary and Eddie, all singing in celebration. I stood there and took them in, my patchwork family, and I loved each of them. In that moment, I could feel my heart opened by the love I first knew from Ma and Daddy, the same love I felt staring at my friends; the love I feel for all of my family still.
On the day that I had just one question to ask the Dalai Lama, here’s what I asked. I wanted to know: “Your Holiness, you inspire so many people, but what inspires you?” He paused and leaned over for a moment to talk with his translator. Then His Holiness turned to me and with a lighthearted laugh he said, “I don’t know, I am just a simple monk.” The enormous conference hall erupted into giggles and whispers. It was by far the shortest time he’d spent answering any question that day, and it did not go unnoticed. With that, the Dalai Lama’s speech ended abruptly, he was whisked backstage, and the CEOs and I dispersed for a break into the crowded lobby. And that’s when the real lesson from that morning hit me, through the reactions I experienced from others.
Walking in the massive marble lobby among the crowd of executives, I was trying to sort out what had just happened when all of a sudden, one by one, the CEOs approached to tell me what they knew His Holiness had actually meant by his answer. First, a gruff man in his forties approached me and said, “I’ll tell you, it was very Zen of the Dalai Lama, the way he talked to you, very Zen. His answer was all about simplicity.” A tall woman in a power suit was next. “It’s deep,” she said, “the not-knowingness of it all. As a monk, he is okay with the ignorance inherent in the human condition.” And next, a tall man with a furrowed brow, obviously angry, said, “Liz, he didn’t answer you about what inspires him because he didn’t want to lower himself to our level. It’s arrogance!”
Nearly a dozen executives came to me during the short break and interpreted, with certainty, the meaning of the Dalai Lama’s answer. Until finally, later on, backstage, when I was being miked for my own speech, one of the Dalai Lama’s stagehands found me to apologize. “Sorry, Liz,” he said, “the interpreter fumbled your question and His Holiness wasn’t able to understand you, because, well . . . we goofed. Oops.”
It turns out there was actually no meaning whatsoever to the Dalai Lama’s answer. Or rather, there was no meaning beyond the one each person had assigned it. What’s more, each person had witnessed the very same exchange, and not one of them came away with the same interpretation.
Standing there ready for my speech, I peeked out onto the crowd, and I smiled inside. Much more than the differences between people, what was so clear to me in that moment, instead, were our similarities: the tendency for people to make meaning of their experiences. Like my certainty of my love for Ma and Daddy; or the moment I finally trusted that I could, in fact, change my life. The executives were certain of their interpretations of the Dalai Lama, just as my homeless friends were once certain that there was simply “no way out.” Not unlike the belief I once held that “a wall” blocked me from my dreams, the same walls I watch tumble down when participants in my workshops finally decide that the only time to embrace life fully is now.
As I stepped out into the bright lights before the room of executives crowding the enormous exhibit hall, I took them in, marveling at one thing I know for sure: homeless person or business person, doctor or teacher, whatever your background may be, the same holds true for each of us: life takes on the meaning that you give it.



Acknowledgments

THE DEEPEST GRATITUDE GOES OUT TO A POWERHOUSE TEAM OF people at Hyperion, whose patience and faith saw this book through to fruition. In particular, I am grateful to my editor, Leslie Wells, for her diligent work and heartfelt vision, which she poured onto these pages. I am equally grateful to Ellen Archer and Elisabeth Dyssegaard for their support and commitment to this book. Thank you for hanging in there with me, for your backing and belief in my story. You ladies have the patience of saints.
Thank you to my agent, Alan Nevins at Renaissance, who was there with me from the beginning. What can I say, Alan? From the start, you believed in what was possible with my story and then you went and made it happen. I am so grateful to you.
I am proud to acknowledge and thank author Travis Montez for his invaluable insight, edits, and hard work that were key to making Breaking Night possible. Travis, thanks for the many late nights, for being count-on-able, for lending your time and exceptional talent for poetry to the details of this project. This book would not be the same without you.
Thanks to my dear friend and sister, Eva Bitter, for helping lay the foundation of this book. Eva, your insights and edits were key in shaping the expression of my story, and your support and love throughout the years have given me the courage to tell it. I love you.
Much love and gratitude to my dear friend and brother, Robert Bender, who has been nothing less than completely supportive of my dreams from day one, including this book. Bobby, thank you for your unwavering love all these years, and for being my family. Here’s to many more years to come.
A very special thank you to my dear friend Ruben, my “FP.” Ruben, this book and so much of the person I am today is because of you. I am forever grateful for your tireless support and unconditional love, for you opening your heart and your family to me. There are no proper words to express what you mean to me, Ruben. I love you, siempre.
Love and appreciation to my sister, Lisa Murray, whose life also appears in the pages of this book. Lisa, thank you for your support throughout all these years. It was your love of writing that first inspired me to pick up my own pen, and I am grateful to you. I love you.
Thank you to “Sam,” whose life also appears in the pages of this book and whose friendship got me through some of my darkest moments. Sam, I love you.
The utmost appreciation to Alan Goldberg from 20/20, whose commitment and vision took my story from a handful of newspaper articles into the homes of millions of people, where it could make a difference in the lives of others. Alan, during that whirlwind of an experience, I want to thank you for your kindness. Your compassionate response to my family left an impression on my heart that I will never forget.
Absolute gratitude to Christine Farrell, president of Washington Speakers Bureau, for her love and unconditional support in helping me share my message over the years to thousands of people throughout the world. Christine, when it was time to take care of my father and follow my dreams at the same time, your tireless work and solid friendship lifted me up and made it all possible. There is no way to measure or express the difference you have been in my life. Thank you.
I want to thank my high school teacher, Perry, who appears in this book, for dedicating so much of his life to teaching. Perry, what greater gift could you have given us students than your passion? Thank you for your part in making Humanities Preparatory Academy a place where anyone can come in earnest to enrich their mind and soul, and belong to a community that accepts and uplifts them.
Equally heartfelt gratitude goes out to my teachers at Prep. This book and much of my life simply would not be the same without your care and commitment to your students. The deepest thank you to Vincent Brevetti, Jessie Klein, Douglas Knecht, Caleb Perkins, Elijah Hawkes, Maria Hantzopoulos, Jorge Cordero, Susan Petrey, Christina Kemp, and Matt Holzer.
Thank you to Elizabeth Garrison, and her sons, my Puerto Rican brothers, Rick, Danny, John, and Sean, whose names appear in these pages and who fed, housed, and loved me like one of their own. I love each of you and want you to know that I am forever grateful for the difference you have made in my life. We will always be family.
There are a handful of people who opened their homes to me when I had nowhere else to go, and who fed me, in some cases, with the very last of their food. I am so grateful to you: Elizabeth Garrison, Paula Smajlaj, Julia Brignoni, Maria “Cookie” Porras, Martha Haddock, Margaret S., Jerzy Bitter, Daniel Lachica, and Michelle Brown.
Special thanks to my friend and fellow speaker Tony Litster for his generous advice and time spent laboring over these pages into the wee hours of the morning. Thank you, Tony.
Thank you to the New York Times Scholarship Program for their commitment to supporting students who are working hard to better their lives. Though I know this list will fall short of all the folks at the Times who made a difference in my life, I would like to give special thanks to: Arthur Gelb, Jack Rosenthal, Nancy Sharkey, Jan Sidorowicz, Dana Canedy, Cory Dean, the late Gerald Boyd, Chip McGrath, Bob Harris, Sheila Rule, Bill Schmidt, and Roger Lehecka. One way or another, I have witnessed and been moved by your dedication to seeing young people break through boundaries of poverty and move onto lives wide open with possibility. Thank you for the difference you have made.
I would like to particularly thank some of my friends and family for their support year after year, through thick and thin, as I worked on this book. Whether directly or indirectly, your love and encouragement has held me up in a way that made this book possible. I love you guys: Bobby, Ruben, Edwin, Eva, Dave Santana, Chris, James, Shari Moy, Lisa, Arthur, Jamie, Josh, Ramiro, Felice, Fief, Ray, Melvin Miller, Dick and Patty Simon, Jaci Lebherz, Mary Gauthier, Ed Romanoff, Travis Montez, Robin Diane Lynn, Robinson Lynn, Dick Silberman, Lisa Layne, and Lawrence Field.
Last but not least, thank you to Stan Curtis and Blessings in a Backpack, for allowing me to be a spokesperson and dedicated advocate for your cause of feeding hungry children across America. If only I’d had access to a program like Blessings in a Backpack when I was an undernourished child in New York City, I may not have gone to bed hungry all those nights. Thankfully, with your continued commitment, thousands of children across America won’t have to.