As another engine roared passed on the dusty road, our thumbs pointed out and friendly smiles on our faces, I thought: Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe Eric and I should have just gone with our friend back to Anchorage rather than hitchhiking to the bay. There were no busses, trains, or rental cars in this remote part of Alaska, so our options were to backtrack or hitchhike. But we didn’t want to backtrack, we wanted to explore.
About two hours later, an old blue pickup truck slowed and pulled over. An older woman rolled down the window and said she could take us about 15 miles down the road. It wasn’t the entire stretch we needed to go, but it was something. We threw our backpacks into the truck bed and hopped in. The woman, Sally, had just picked up her grandson from school and was taking him home.
“I was getting worried no one would stop,” I said.
“Yeah, I usually pick up hitchers when I see them,” she replied. “My husband used to hitchhike to work, so I try to return the favor when I can.”
Sally dropped us off and the routine began again. Thumbs out, smiles on. We waited a short while before a police car pulled over. “Uh oh,” I thought. But the police officer simply rolled down her window, asked where we were headed, said she could take us a few miles.
Eric took the back seat, locked behind the cage. I took the front. Leena was a tribal police officer, told us she was on her way back from checking on several tribal elders. Once a week she delivered them fresh baked bread—bread she made at home with her children. I remember thinking: What a kind and interesting thing for a police officer to do.
After the officer dropped us off, we didn’t wait long before a small silver hatchback pulled over. “Where you headed,” said the young woman. “Valdez? Cool, that’s where I’m going, I’ll take you the whole way.”
We talked to Rebecca for hours, learned that she, her husband and son had recently move from Valdez to Anchorage so she could go back to school. She pointed out the cross-country ski routes they used to take, suggested where we should camp for the night, where to find a good inexpensive dinner.
It struck me that dozens of cars, trucks, and RVs with plenty of space had sped past us that day, and that the three vehicles that had stopped, were all driven by women—women who were either by themselves, or in Sally’s case, with her young grandchild. These women showed no fear or trepidation or resentment at letting strangers into their cars—they simply wanted to help.
This gets to the heart of what I believe: We so often hear the stories of bad things happening, not as often the everyday, small kindnesses that keep this world moving. But I believe there is far more good in this world than bad, far more kindness than cruelty.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not so naïve or inexperienced or uniformed to think that bad things don’t happen—I know from experience they do. I know that people can do some really awful things—out of fear or oppression or greed or entitlement or desperation.
I have been incredibly lucky in my life, and I carry a lot of privilege because of who and where I was born, and yet I also have experienced trauma and hardship. I know it’s out there.
And still. I choose. to focus. on kindness.
When Russia invaded Ukraine and the war broke out, there were so many stories of the atrocities that were, and still are, occurring. But the story that stands out most in my mind is of a young Polish mother, who upon hearing that human traffickers were targeting woman and children fleeing Ukraine, organized a network of women to shuttle refugees from the border crossing to safe houses in nearby towns.
This woman chose to fight cruelty with kindness. Her efforts won’t stop a war, nor will they end human trafficking, but they are potentially life-changing for the people around her. I believe there are so many more stories like this, and that kindness prevails every day—in the most benign of circumstances in our daily lives, to the most difficult of circumstances during crises and disasters.
I believe, whole-heartedly, in the strength and power of kindness.
— Laura Gleim, July 2022, “This I Believe” written for and read as a graduation speech for the State of Oregon ASCENT transformational leadership program