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Playlist: This I Believe

Compiled By: Erica Whitesell

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This I Believe - Martha Leathe

From This I Believe | Part of the This I Believe series | 03:33

Listener Martha Leathe believes in telling kids the truth, even if it may be uncomfortable for her.

Tiblogosmall_small HOST: Today on This I Believe, we have an essay from Martha Leathe [LEETHE] of Eliot, Maine. Leathe has taught every grade from first through eighth, volunteered in public schools, and is currently a school board member. Her belief is derived from her experience with children -- not so much the ones she has taught, but her own. Here is Martha Leathe with her essay for This I Believe. LEATHE: Several weeks ago I got a call from a good friend whose husband had just been diagnosed with prostate cancer. "Do we tell the kids," she asked. "Absolutely," I answered. "Do we use the C-word?" "Yes, I think you do," I said. "The boys deserve to know the truth, however heartbreaking it is." Adults always insist that children be honest, but how many of us are honest with our kids, particularly about the tough stuff: death, sex, corruption, our own failings? I believe in telling children the truth. I believe this is vital for their understanding of the world, their confidence and the development of their morals and values. This does not mean kids need to be unnecessarily frightened, or told more than they can handle. When our son was six, he tagged along while his older sister got her nose-ring changed. In the shop, he sifted through a big bin of brightly packaged condoms. "What are these?" he said. "Condoms," I replied. "What are they for," he asked. Briefly, I explained what condoms are, precisely where you put them, and how they work. "Oh," he said, clearly disappointed, I think, that they weren't candy. It wasn't a lot of information, but it was the truth. Many people think they are protecting children when they spare them the truth. I disagree. I believe children possess an enviable ability to cope with and make sense of what even adults find confounding; they can accept the unacceptable in a way that astonishes me. When we are honest with children, we also validate their intuition. If we can admit that yes, people can be mean, grandma does have a drinking problem, divorce is painful, we allow children to trust their gut. They can begin to recognize and rely on their own inner voice, which will speak to them throughout their lives. Kids also have an uncanny sense of when something is up: They know a fake smile when they see one, they realize when we're uneasy, they can tell when we're lying. One night I was in the car with our two oldest daughters. It was dark and cozy-the perfect time for a heart-to-heart conversation. Out of the blue, one of our kids said, "So, Mom, have you ever smoked pot?" I stalled a little, but the girls persisted. They had me and they knew it. So I told them the truth, albeit somewhat abridged. What ensued was a frank discussion about the lures and perils of drugs, well worth any discomfort. I believe my honesty was much more effective than warnings or platitudes. Time marches on, and so do children. These same daughters are in college now; we have two other kids still at home. And while I have made plenty of mistakes as a parent, I do have clear and open relationships with each of our kids. I believe that my being truthful with our children has paid off, because I'm pretty sure that now they are honest with me.

This I Believe - Joel Engardio

From This I Believe | Part of the This I Believe series | 03:33

Being raised in a Jehovah's Witness family inspired Joel Engardio's belief in individual tolerance.

Tiblogosmall_small HOST: Our This I Believe essay today was sent in by Joel Engardio of San Francisco. Engardio is a writer and filmmaker, and he currently works as a program strategist for the American Civil Liberties Union. Here's Joel Engardio with his essay for This I Believe. ENGARDIO: I was raised as a Jehovah's Witness. If I ever knocked on your door when you were mowing the lawn or taking a nap, please excuse me. I understand: a kid with a Watchtower magazine on your front porch isn't a Girl Scout with cookies, but, hey, you didn't have to sic your dog on me. I believe how we treat the people we dislike the most and understand the least-Jehovah's Witnesses, for example-says a lot about the freedoms we value in America: religion, speech and personal liberty. And all of these freedoms rely on one thing: tolerance. I learned this as a kid when I went door-knocking with my mom. We were preaching that Jehovah's kingdom was coming soon to solve the world's problems. I prayed no one from school was behind those doors. Dogs I could run from. It was hard enough being singled-out as the kid who didn't celebrate Christmas or say the Pledge of Allegiance. There was little tolerance for my explanation that we only worshipped God, and that God wasn't American. There was no tolerance when I announced to my third grade class that Santa Claus was pagan and a lie. Still, I didn't have a bad childhood. Our Saturday morning ministry meant sacrificing my Saturday morning cartoons, but our 10 o'clock coffee break was a blessing. That's when we would gather at Dunkin' Donuts, trying not to get powdered sugar on our suits and dresses, while we told stories and laughed. We always knew when you were "home but hiding." As a teenager, I decided fitting in at school and in life was worth sacrificing some principles. So I never became a Jehovah's Witness. That was the first time I broke my mom's heart. The second time was when I told her I am gay. Obviously I don't agree with my mom's belief that same-sex relationships are wrong. But I tolerate her religion because she has a right to her beliefs. And I like it that my mom doesn't politicize her beliefs. She's never voted for a law that discriminates against gay people, or anyone who isn't a Jehovah's Witness. Her Bible tells her to love, above all. My belief in tolerance led to a documentary film I made about Jehovah's Witnesses, and my mom actually likes it. The message is about being open to letting people have views we don't like, so in that sense it could also be about Muslims, gay people or NASCAR race fans. The point is the people we don't understand become less scary when we get to know them as real people. We don't have to be each other's cup of tea, but tolerance lets a variety of kettles peacefully share the stove. I believe our capacity to tolerate both religious and personal difference is what will ultimately give us true liberty -- even if it means putting up with an occasional knock on the door.

This I Believe - Azar Nafisi

From This I Believe | 04:39

From Huck Finn, Iranian-born writer and teacher Azar Nafisi learns to believe in the power of empathy.

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This I Believe - Sister Helen Prejean

From This I Believe | Part of the This I Believe series | 04:27

"Dead Man Walking" author Sister Helen Prejean says to watch what she does to see what she believes.

Tiblogosmall_small HOST: Our This I Believe essay today comes from Sister Helen Prejean [PRAY-zohn] of New Orleans, Louisiana. In 1981, she began dedicating her life to the poor of that city, and eventually to prisoners on death row. Her book about her experiences there, "Dead Man Walking," was made into a movie with Susan Sarandon in the role of Sister Helen. Here is Sister Helen Prejean with her essay for This I Believe. PREJEAN: I watch what I do to see what I really believe. Belief and faith are not just words. It's one thing for me to say I'm a Christian but I have to embody what it means; I have to live it. So, writing this essay and knowing I'll share it in a public way becomes an occasion for me to look deeply at what I really believe by how I act. "Love your neighbor as yourself," Jesus said, and as a beginner nun I tried earnestly to love my neighbor-the children I taught, their parents, my fellow teachers, my fellow nuns. But for a long time the circle of my loving care was small and, for the most part, included only white, middle-class people like me. But one day I woke up to Jesus' deeper challenge to love the outcast, the criminal, the underdog. So I packed my stuff and moved into a noisy, violent housing project in an African-American neighborhood in New Orleans. I saw the suffering and I let myself feel it: the sound of gunshots in the night, mothers calling out for their children. I saw the injustice and was compelled to do something about it. I changed from being a nun who only prayed for the suffering world to a nun with my sleeves rolled up, living my prayer. Working in that community in New Orleans soon led me to Louisiana's death row. So I keep watching what I do to see what I actually believe. Jesus' biggest challenge to us is to love our enemies. On death row I encountered the enemy, those considered so irredeemable by our society that even our Supreme Court has made it legal to kill them. For 20 years now I've been visiting people on death row, and I have accompanied six human beings to their deaths. As each has been killed I have told them to look at me. I want them to see a loving face when they die. I want my face to carry the love that tells them that they and every one of us are worth more than our most terrible acts. But I knew being with the perpetrators wasn't enough. I also had to reach out to victims' families. I visited the families who wanted to see me, and I founded a victims' support group in New Orleans. It was a big stretch for me, loving both perpetrators and victims' families, and most of the time I fail because so often a victim's families interpret my care for perpetrators as choosing sides-the wrong side. I understand that, but I don't stop reaching out. I've learned from victims' families just how alone many of them feel. The murder of their loved one is so horrible, their pain so great, that most people stay away. But they need people to visit, to listen, to care. It doesn't take anyone special, just someone who cares. Writing this essay reminds me, as an ordinary person, that it's important to take stock, to see where I am. The only way I know what I really believe is by keeping watch over what I do.

This I Believe - Lisa Sandin

From This I Believe | Part of the This I Believe series | 04:22

Michigan listener Lisa Sandin believes she is more than her body -- and more than her birth defect.

Tiblogosmall_small HOST: Lisa Sandin lives in Big Rapids, Michigan, where she is raising her two kids. And, when she read about our project, she immediately began to write of a belief that started to develop the day she was born. Here is Lisa Sandin with her essay for This I Believe. SANDIN: I believe I am not my body. Every day, we see images of perfect bodies we can never have, and we become convinced our bodies are who we are. Passing through puberty, into adulthood and now into middle-age, I've wasted a lot of time lamenting the size of my hips, the gray in my hair, and the lines in my face. Finally, as I approach my 50s, I believe my parents were right all along: I am not my body. I was born in 1959, at the tail end of the baby boom. Unfortunately I arrived without all my body parts fully intact. My left arm is a short stub with a small hand and three fingers, reminiscent of a thalidomide defect. To my good fortune, I had superb parents. They were fighters who struck "I can't" from my vocabulary, and replaced it with "I will find a way." They believed the development of the mind, heart and soul determine who you are and who you will become. My body was not to be used as an excuse; instead it was a catalyst. My body was not neglected, though. It endured surgery; it was dragged to physical therapy, then to swimming, and finally to yoga. But it was not the focus of my life. I was taught to respect my body, but to remember that it was only a vehicle that carried the important things: my brain and soul. Moreover, I was taught that bodies come in all shapes, colors and sizes, and that everyone was struggling in some way with their physical inadequacies. Infomercials have convinced me this must be true, although through adolescence I found it difficult to believe the cheerleading squad had any self-doubts. In my alternately formed body, I have learned lessons about patience, determination, frustration and success. This body can't play the piano or climb rock walls, but it taught all the neighborhood kids to eat with their feet, a skill it learned in the children?s hospital. Eventually it learned to tie shoes, crossed a stage to pick up a college diploma, backpacked through Europe and changed my baby's diapers. Some people think I am my body and treat me with prejudice or pity. Some are just curious. It took years, but I have learned to ignore the stares and just smile back. My body has taught me to respect my fellow humans -- even the thin, able-bodied, beautiful ones. I am my words, my ideas and my actions. I am filled with love, humor, ambition and intelligence. This I believe: I am your fellow human being and, like you, I am so much more than a body.

This I Believe - Peter Keane

From This I Believe | Part of the This I Believe series | 04:12

Law professor Peter Keane believes even the worst criminals deserve to have someone on their side.

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HOST: Today on This I Believe we hear from Peter Keane, a professor at Golden Gate University Law School.  Keane was the Chief Assistant Public Defender of San Francisco for 20 years, and counsel in scores of homicide and capital cases.  He says he's often asked how he can justify defending a murderer or rapist.  The answer is in his belief.  Here's Peter Keane with his essay for This I Believe.

KEANE: "Would you defend Saddam Hussein?  How about Hitler?  Would you be his lawyer?"

People ask me this all the time; the names of the bad guys change, but the question is always the same.  My answer is always, "Yes, I would."  It has to be.  Because I believe everyone, no matter what they've done, deserves to have one person on their side.

I've spent most of my life as a criminal defense attorney.  For 20 years, I was a public defender.  My clients committed every kind of terrible crime imaginable.  I defended each one of them with every ounce of skill, creativity and tenacity that I had.

In the end, most of my clients were convicted of something.  For that is simply the nature of the criminal justice system:  it's an uphill struggle for anyone who is charged with a crime.  All of the power and resources of the state, the police and the prosecution are hurled against that one person.  And the only thing protecting that person is one lawyer.

But despite the odds, there were a number of people whom I helped to go free.  Sometimes I convinced a judge to throw out a case because of a legal defect.  Sometimes I convinced a jury to return a verdict of "not guilty."

Many of those people that I helped acquit were guilty.  Some went on to commit other crimes.  One client found not guilty of murder killed another person shortly after his release. I defended him again the second time around.  He was convicted, but not because I defended him with any less vigor.

How do I feel about the 30 years I did this work?  I am proud of it.

Did my conscience wrestle with me in a moral dialogue?  Sure.

In courtrooms I confronted victims whose lives, bodies and often whose very souls had been forever shattered.  Sometimes, in their eyes, I saw members of my own family.  Sometimes, I saw myself.  The battle within me was fierce and it took its toll in sleepless nights, anxiety and depression.  But in the end, my belief in what I was doing prevailed over my misgivings.

I know that most people have great difficulty understanding this. Indeed, many are horrified by it.  But reflect for a moment:  there is one key mechanism in our society that protects and maintains all of our freedoms.  It is that we go by the rule that whenever someone does something that we condemn, no matter what it is, he still gets one person to speak up for him.

Take away this protection and all our other democratic rights, which are so carefully woven into the constitutional design of our republic, become meaningless. Without resistance from lawyers who represent people being prosecuted, all freedom is ultimately lost, because it is the natural human tendency of those who wield power to abuse those without it.

I am a law professor now.  I teach my students to be proud to defend anyone, no matter what they may have done.  I want them to stand up for the world's Saddam Husseins and Osama bin Ladens, for America's accused rapists and murderers and thieves.  I want my students to fight for them-ethically, but with all the fierce determination, talent and skill that they have.

One person on your side, no matter what you've done:  That's what keeps us a free people.  That's what I believe.

This I Believe - Jon Carroll

From This I Believe | Part of the This I Believe series | 03:17

Newspaper columnist Jon Carroll believes one of the keys to success comes from accepting your failures.

Tiblogobluesmallrgb_small HOST: People often rely on personal beliefs that help them toward their goals. They want to be better people, to serve others, to live successfully. But Jon Carroll's belief is not so much concerned with success. In fact, quite the opposite. Here is San Francisco newspaper columnist Jon Carroll with his essay for This I Believe. CARROLL: Last week my granddaughter started kindergarten, and, as is conventional, I wished her success. I was lying. What I actually wish for her is failure. I believe in the power of failure. Success is boring. Success is proving that you can do something that you already know you can do, or doing something correctly the first time, which can often be a problematical victory. First-time success is usually a fluke. First-time failure, by contrast, is expected; it is the natural order of things. Failure is how we learn. I have been told of an African phrase describing a good cook as ?she who has broken many pots.? If you've spent enough time in the kitchen to have broken a lot of pots, probably you know a fair amount about cooking. I once had a late dinner with a group of chefs, and they spent time comparing knife wounds and burn scars. They knew how much credibility their failures gave them. I earn my living by writing a daily newspaper column. Each week I am aware that one column is going to be the worst column of the week. I don't set out to write it; I try my best every day. Still, every week, one column is inferior to all the others, sometimes spectacularly so. I have learned to cherish that column. A successful column usually means I am treading on familiar ground, going with the tricks that work, preaching to the choir or dressing up popular sentiments in fancy words. Often in my inferior columns, I am trying to pull off something I've never done before, something I'm not even sure can be done. My younger daughter is a trapeze artist. She spent three years putting together an act. She did it successfully for a decade with the Cirque du Soleil. There was no reason for her to change the act?but she did anyway. She said she was no longer learning anything new and she was bored; and if she was bored, there was no point in subjecting her body to all that stress. So she changed the act. She risked failure and profound public embarrassment in order to feed her soul. And if she can do that 15 feet in the air, we all should be able to do it. My granddaughter is a perfectionist, probably too much of one. She will feel her failures, and I will want to comfort her. But I will also, I hope, remind her of what she learned, and how she can do whatever it is better next time. I probably won't tell her that failure is a good thing, because that's not a lesson you can learn when you're five. I hope I can tell her, though, that it's not the end of the world. Indeed, with luck, it is the beginning.