The Power of Volunteers: Changing History, One Act at a Time

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.”

Margaret Mead (1901–1978; renowned American cultural anthropologist; strong advocate for social change and human rights, influencing discussions on gender, family, and education.)

Blue-tipped flames, shooting up from the oak logs burning in my kitchen fireplace, are chasing away a mid-September, early-morning chill. I’m sitting at the table, facing the flames, enjoying the warmth. I’m fresh shaven and freshly showered. I’m wearing my best casual shirt and my favorite Chinos–both from acclaimed clothier Charles Tyrwhitt of London–along with my Allen Edmonds loafers. I’ve even fragranced myself with a delicate spray of Sage & Citrus Oud, my favorite cologne by Habibi of New York.

Where am I going? No where. I’m hunkered down right here, sipping a decadent whip-creamed-topped hot chocolate in my favorite stoneware mug with a simple wooden handle that bespeaks rustic elegance.

But even though I’m staying right here, I’m working on a critically important task, and when something’s critical, I believe in getting myself in the right frame of mind.

Let me tell you about what I’m doing. I’m a volunteer, sending out postcards to voters in Swing States. I’m writing my message, a simple, straightforward reminder to vote on Tuesday, November 5. I’m taking my time. I’m making sure that every word is clear and legible, signaling the heavy duty that all eligible voters have to vote. I’m writing in a slower and more deliberate manner, mirroring our slow and deliberate choices when we vote.

I’m writing cards to people living in little towns I’ve never heard of. They’ll be getting cards from someone living in a little town they’ve never heard of. That doesn’t matter. What matters is getting people to vote on Tuesday, November 5.

As I address my 300 postcards—each one a small but powerful step toward change–I can’t help but reflect on the significance of volunteer work in the United States and how we have a long tradition of citizen-led efforts that have changed our nation for the better.

I’m thinking, for example, about the American Revolution. Who doesn’t remember Paul Revere’s midnight ride to warn the people of Concord that the British were coming? He was an ordinary citizen, just like the other 230,000 Minutemen who volunteered to fight for independence. Without the commitment of these volunteer soldiers, the struggle for freedom might have turned out very differently.

Fast forward to the Abolitionist Movement. I’m thinking of Harriet Tubman who was born into slavery, escaped to freedom in the North, and then risked her own life to lead other enslaved people to freedom through the Underground Railroad, a volunteer movement operating secretly across 14 northern states and parts of Canada. By some accounts, more than 100,000 enslaved people escape to freedom through the help of the Underground Railroad.

Without this vast network of volunteers, the escape routes and freedom efforts would have been far less successful, and many would have remained enslaved.

Or what about the Women’s Rights Movement? Volunteers like Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton come to mind. They and thousands of other activists worked tirelessly for decades to secure the right to vote for women. But one volunteer in particular looms large in my mind because she loomed large in life: Sojourner Truth, one of the most powerful advocates for women’s rights in the nineteenth century. At the 1851 Women’s Rights Convention held in Akron, Ohio, she delivered what is now recognized as one of the most famous abolitionist and women’s rights speeches in American history, “Ain’t I a Woman?” If you haven’t read it, this would be the perfect time, so that you’ll appreciate more fully subsequent volunteers whose steadfast work and determination led to the eventual passage of the 19th Amendment in 1920, giving over 26 million women the right to vote.

Sadly, that victory was only a partial win for women. Three years later, Alice Paul introduced the first version of the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA), aimed at ensuring that “men and women shall have equal rights throughout the United States and every place subject to its jurisdiction.” I have not the ability to explain the complicated chronology of the ERA Campaign since then, nor can I comprehend why the amendment has not been ratified. Most recently–on January 27, 2020–Virginia made history to become the 38th state to ratify the Equal Rights Amendment, thereby reaching the required number of states for ratification. Now, the attention is focused on the fight for Congress to remove its 1982 deadline. I am convinced that eventually, the amendment will ratify its way to the Constitution, and when it does, it will be largely because of grassroots volunteers from 1923 until now.

Without those volunteers, the fight for women’s voting rights and gender equality would not have achieved the critical progress it has, and the ongoing efforts to secure full legal equality might not exist at all.

Then we have Voter Registration Drives and the Civil Rights Movement. How well I remember both. I lived through them. I’m thinking especially of The Freedom Summer of 1964. It’s a perfect example of grassroots volunteerism. Over 1,000 volunteers, many of them college students, traveled to Mississippi and other Southern states to register African American voters. Despite the dangers, including arrests, beatings, and even the murders of three civil rights workers, these volunteers worked door to door, held freedom schools, and organized workshops to encourage African Americans to exercise their right to vote. And let’s not forget this fact: Black women domestic workers led community efforts to organize and advance voter registration drives as well as the Civil Rights Movement. Equally important, let’s not forget the grave danger that more than 60,000 African Americans in Mississippi risked by attending local meetings and choosing candidates. 17,000 African Americans attempted to register, though only 1,200 were allowed to do so because of the restrictive laws. However, these efforts were pivotal in raising awareness and helping to pass the Voting Rights Act of 1965, which banned discriminatory voting practices.

Even today, grassroots voter registration drives continue. I’m thinking about those led by Stacey Abrams’ Fair Fight Action aimed at empowering marginalized communities. Through her efforts, over 800,000 new voters were registered in Georgia between 2018 and 2020.

Without those volunteers, both today and in the 1960s, critical voting rights victories and the enfranchisement of marginalized communities might never have been achieved.

I’m also mindful of several other initiatives dear to me where volunteers have made a powerful difference.

How well I remember the start of the Earth Movement with the first Earth Day, on April 22, 1970. It was a massive grassroots effort with over 20 million Americans—about 10% of the U.S. population at the time—participating in events like cleanups, rallies, and educational forums, making it one of the largest civic demonstrations in our history. Organizers reached out to schools, universities, and local communities to mobilize people, and the idea spread rapidly through word of mouth, local environmental clubs, and volunteer-driven networks. How vividly I remember that Seventeen magazine took out an ad in the New York Times. I just looked it up so that I could provide the poignant text that appeared beneath a photo of a couple strolling, hand in hand, along a beach:

“Today—Earth Day—we salute millions of earnest young people who have accepted the challenge of seeking solutions for our environmental ills. Having reached the moon in the Sixties, perhaps in the Seventies we shall rediscover the earth!”

Volunteer participation helped generate the momentum that led to the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) later that year and the passage of key environmental laws, including the Clean Air Act and the Clean Water Act. Today, who is not familiar with Greta Thunberg, who at 19 years of age became a Swedish environmental activist and rose to fame worldwide. She has become one of the world’s most famous figures and has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Without Greta and the long line of volunteers just like her, the modern environmental movement, and critical regulatory bodies like the EPA, might never have gained the traction needed to protect our natural resources.

As a gay man, I am mindful of the role that volunteers have played going all the way back to Henry Gerber, who founded The Society for Human Rights in 1924—the first gay rights organization in the United States. That was long before I was born, but I well remember the Stonewall Uprising in the summer of 1969, when New York City police raided the Stonewall Inn, a gay club in Greenwich Village. Those riots served as a catalyst for the gay rights movement in the United States and around the world.

And look how far we’ve come. Thanks to tireless volunteers, in 2015, marriage equality became the law of the land. More recently, in 2020, Pete Buttigieg made history as the first openly gay candidate to make a serious run for president and later serve in a key role during the Democratic campaign. His rise is a testament to the hard work of volunteers who have pushed for visibility and inclusion at the highest levels of politics.

Without those volunteers, none of this progress would have been possible.

Or what about the AIDS Crisis? In the 1980s and 1990s, ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power) and GMHC (Gay Men’s Health Crisis) were grassroots organizations at their core. Thousands of ordinary citizens, many directly affected by the AIDS crisis, volunteered for roles in advocacy, caregiving, and public awareness. By 1986, ACT UP had grown to over 10,000 volunteers and by 1991 GMHC provided services to over 15,000 people living with AIDS by 1991, thanks to volunteers who offered emotional and practical support. One person, though, haunts my memory: David Kirby, a Gay Rights Activist who died prematurely from HIV/AIDS. As he drew his last breath, surrounded by his family, Therese Frare took a picture that was published in November 1990, LIFE Magazine. It was titled “the picture that changed the face of AIDS.” After its public display, the photograph became one of the most powerful photos identified with the HIV/AIDS pandemic.

Without those volunteers, the public response and the government’s response to the AIDS crisis would have been delayed, and countless lives might not have been saved by the advancements that followed.

Most recently, we’ve all grappled with the COVID-19 pandemic. Once again, volunteers played an essential role in responding to its challenges. From helping with vaccine distribution to supporting food banks and providing community care, volunteers were at the forefront of the response. In the U.S., over 80,000 volunteers with the Medical Reserve Corps (MRC) assisted at vaccination sites, helping to administer vaccines, manage logistics, and ensure smooth operations. At the same time, grassroots efforts like Mutual Aid Networks connected volunteers with elderly and vulnerable populations, delivering essentials like groceries and medications to those unable to leave their homes. Food banks, facing a 60% increase in demand, relied heavily on volunteers to distribute meals to millions of families affected by the economic fallout. Retired healthcare professionals and medical students also volunteered in hospitals and clinics, providing critical support to overwhelmed healthcare systems. Volunteers even staffed crisis hotlines, offering mental health support to individuals struggling with isolation and loss. But one small group of five volunteers stand out to me because they embody the true spirit of volunteerism. They were healthcare workers at New York-Presbyterian Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital who made headlines for their bravery and dedication. They volunteered to clean the rooms of COVID-19 patients, a task that involved significant risk. Their willingness to step up and ensure the safety and cleanliness of the hospital environment was crucial in preventing the spread of the virus and in setting a model for others to follow.

Without thousands upon thousands of volunteers, the pandemic response would have been far less effective, and countless communities would have lacked the support they needed during one of the most challenging times in modern history.

I could continue my reveries and showcase more volunteers and their extraordinary power even more fully. If I were to do so, the same adjectives could be used to describe them.

● Courageous.
● Relentless.
● Trailblazing.
● Resilient.
● Visionary.
● Fearless.
● Compassionate.
● Selfless.
● Determined.

With such noble traits, it’s easy to see why so many are eager to contribute to meaningful causes. I’m fortunate to be involved in one right now, and that brings me back to where I began. I’m sending out postcards to voters in Swing States, an effort that feels critically important.

I’m just one volunteer, and I’m only writing 300 postcards. But get this. I’m working with more than 265,000 other volunteers, all part of the Progressive Turnout Project Initiative. Together, we’ll be sending out more than 40 million postcards. Vote by vote, we will make a difference.

And what about you? What can you do? If you’re an American voter, I urge you to exercise your right to vote on November 5. Together, we can change history once again.

Remember, too, that volunteerism is a powerful tool for change regardless of who you are and regardless of where you live. Look around your own corner of the world for a cause that you can champion. As you do, you will join hands with more than 1 billion volunteers worldwide. As you do, celebrate the realization that as a volunteer, you have the power to change history, one act at a time.

Not Alone

“When one person is oppressed, all are oppressed”

Nelson Mandela (1918-2013; prominent anti-apartheid revolutionary and political leader who served as President of South Africa from 1994 to 1999, advocating for peace, reconciliation, and social justice.)

Imagine an early June morning on a West-facing mountaintop in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. With the temperature just a mark above the 55% humidity, it’s perfect for being on a deck, high in the air, nearly high enough to reach up and touch white clouds and blue sky.

On the deck is a man closer to eighty than to seventy, with a faded burgundy baseball cap shielding his balding head and spectacled face, gray ponytail curling out the adjustment loop in back, dark blue polo, tan shorts, and clogs showing the tops of colorful Bombas.

The man could be sitting on one of the Adirondack glider chairs, moving effortlessly back and forth, or he could be reclining on the chaise lounge, sipping slowly on a cup of steaming coffee.

But he’s doing neither. Instead, he’s kneeling on the weathered deck, leaning forward with a putty knife in hand, scraping and lifting layer upon layer of paint, teasing away at the past.

He’s playing Gospel music, and the songs are trumpeting through the open doors, breaking the morning quiet. A black dog measures the deck’s length and width over and over again, stares through the railings, looks down the gravel road to see who might be going out or coming back in, and from time to time comes over and kisses the man first on one cheek and then on the other, as if to reassure him that all is well on the mountain and that he is not alone.

I know these details. I know them all and more because I’m the man on the mountain, lost in a deep reverie.

As I scrape away the old paint, I can’t help but ponder the bigger picture. I find myself musing over mankind’s place in the universe.

I don’t mean that to sound pompous, though I suppose that it does. Actually, musing over mankind’s place in the universe is an overstatement. I mean, it’s not as if I go around all the time contemplating questions such as:

Are we the only intelligent beings in the universe?
What would it mean if we found alien life?
Could we communicate with alien beings?
What ethical responsibilities do we have toward alien life?

Pondering and answering such profound questions is better left to astrobiologists, astronomers, philosophers, scientists, theologians, and stargazers.

However, make no mistake. From time to time, I do think about our human desire to connect and belong. I would hope that finding extraterrestrial life would encourage us humans to rethink our (in)significance in the greater scheme of things. I would hope that it would deepen our sense of spiritual connection and ethical duty to all forms of life. I would hope that it would make us feel less alone and more united in the universe.

But when I think about the possibility that we might be alone in the universe–and being alone strikes me as being nearly impossible–it never frightens me. I’m far more sobered by what the speaker feels in Robert Frost’s “Desert Places”:

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars–on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

My own desert places. In those four words, Frost captures the self-consciousness and the alienation that most of us–some more than others–experience at some point in our lives.

To be certain, I can relate, especially as a gay guy born in the Bible-Belt in the late 1940s, growing up there in the 1950s and 1960s, knowing all too well my own desert places. I imagine that most gay guys of my era knew their own desert places, too.

In those days, I never heard the word homosexual. Instead, I heard queer, always brandished or whispered with disgust and derision. Being gay was something no one talked about, and I certainly wouldn’t have brought it up with my family or my friends or my teachers. Besides, all of them–teachers, friends, family–often told me that I was different. I took it to mean that everyone knew that I was gay and simply chose not to discuss it.

But here’s the thing. I saw being different as being special. Actually, I thought that I was super special. I felt that way not because I was gay but rather because I was a human being, filled with potential, waiting to be fulfilled.

Nonetheless, it still carried with it the feeling of being an outsider. It carried with it the feeling of not fitting in. I felt that way through grade school, through high school, and even through college. In fact, I was convinced that I was the only gay guy in the universe, although I felt confident that surely other gay guys existed somewhere. I simply didn’t know where.

As a result, those years found me doing my best to fit into a society that had not made a place at the table for a gay guy like me.

Actually, society had made a place for gays like me, especially in the South. Being queer was widely viewed as immoral and contrary to religious teachings, particularly within Christian denominations that had significant influence in the region. Being queer was heavily stigmatized and carried with it ostracism, harassment, and violence. Being queer was not seen in media, politics, or public life. The invisibility reinforced negative stereotypes and perpetuated ignorance and fear. Being queer came with prevalent sodomy laws, which criminalized sexual acts between individuals of the same sex. Those found in violation faced fines, imprisonment, and a damaged social reputation.

I often wondered what would happen if those who saw me as different suddenly saw me as queer? Would one word turn special into rejected? Condemned? Marginalized? I daresay that my behavior sometimes mirrored Paul in Willa Cather’s famous story “Paul’s Case: A Study in Temperament”:

…always glancing about him, seeming to feel that people might be watching him and trying to detect something.

These feelings of isolation and disconnection led me to develop my own strategies for fitting in. I managed to navigate my own fears within the framework of that environment. I had my own strategies, not the least of which was an intense focus on academic achievements.

I excelled in various competitions and consistently maintained a top academic standing. Everyone in my community saw that I was headed toward success. I became an active member of key clubs and organizations in my schools, often holding leadership positions.

Those strategies paid off. I managed to fit in, in my own way. I was accepted. I was the model son. I was the model brother. I was the model friend. I was the model student. I was best dressed. I was teen of the year. I was most likely to succeed.

I did something else, too. I decided that I would just be me. Gay. Who else could I be? I was a gay guy. I never tried to pass as a heterosexual, nor did I lead a double life, carefully curating my behavior and associations depending on the social context. I recognize that many had to do so for their own reasons, but for me, it was important to maintain my authentic self and stand for what I believed, even though I stood alone. I was proud of who I was, of who I had been, and of who I was becoming.

I did something else, too. I cultivated a fierce resolve and determination to not let others feel the isolation that I sometimes felt. Whenever I saw someone struggling to find their place–whenever I saw an underdog for whatever reason–I made it a point to befriend them, to let them know they weren’t alone, and to let them know that they had found a safe space with me.

When I started my professional career and afterward pursued graduate studies, I moved away from my rural roots to urban areas that were more liberal and accepting. Nonetheless, I kept my resolve to create inclusive and welcoming environments wherever I happened to be. It became a guiding principle in my life, shaping my interactions with everyone. In my federal career, I was known for my appreciation of diversity and for my insistence on inclusivity. Those values carried over into my career as a community college professor where I always made it clear that my classes provided a safe, caring, and nurturing environment where students could share their views and celebrate their authentic identity.

Perhaps more important than anything else, I always included Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” in all of my classes, and I always made a point of reading aloud and emphasizing what I consider to be one of the most empowering and liberating paragraphs in literature:

O father, O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived with you after appearances hitherto. Henceforward I am the truth’s. […] I appeal from your customs. I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. […] If you are noble, I will love you; if you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your companions; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, but humbly and truly. It is alike your interest, and mine, and all men’s, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth.

As I look back and share what I experienced, I am not pointing the finger of blame. I grew up in a time and place when social norms were different. The society I knew in the 1950s and 1960s had its own set of rules, shaped by cultural, religious, and social influences that were pervasive and powerful. It was a world where being different often meant being misunderstood, and where silence was often the safest response to anything outside the norm. My parents, my friends, my teachers—they were all products of their time, doing their best within the confines of the world they knew. They provided me with love and support in the ways they understood, and for that, I am profoundly grateful.

Although they were silent about my sexuality, they were supportive of me in countless other ways. They celebrated my achievements, encouraged my interests, and stood by me through my successes and failures. Their silence on my being gay was not a rejection but a reflection of the times. They showed their care through actions and support, even if they did not have the language or the understanding to address every part of who I was. Their love was a constant in my life, a foundation that helped me become the person I am today.

Things have changed a lot. I celebrate those advances. The progress we have made in terms of acceptance and equality has been remarkable. These changes eventually allowed me to be fulfilled in an openly gay relationship. When I met my late partner, we knew at once that we were soulmates. We said our vows, exchanged rings, and went on living our lives together, openly rather than in silence, as all people should be allowed to do. Our relationship was a testament to the strides society has made, allowing us to live authentically without fear or shame.

At the same time, I am aware that much remains to be achieved for all of us who might be marginalized. It’s critical that adults—especially educators—do everything in our power to foster a spirit of inclusion and to provide safe spaces so that everyone realizes they are not alone. We don’t have to embrace everyone, but we do need to accept everyone. We must continue to work towards a world where everyone, regardless of their background, identity, or circumstances, feels valued and included. The silent ones, those who feel they have no place, need our attention and our compassion. It is our duty to ensure that no one feels the isolation that I once did. It is our duty to let everyone know that they have a seat at humanity’s table.

And that brings me back to the man on the mountain, lost in reverie, scraping and lifting layer upon layer of paint, teasing away at the past, and musing about mankind’s place in the universe. The past is a great teacher, but it is not a place to live. The present moment is all that we have, and it is in this present moment that I find my solace, my meaning, and my connection to all of humanity. I am not alone. We are not alone. And in the vastness of the universe, that is a comforting thought.

My story is just one example of how struggles can be outweighed by resilience and acceptance. It is a testament to the power of love, support, and the human spirit’s ability to adapt and thrive.

If my message reaches only one person, my heart will be fulfilled knowing that the message was a touchstone, perhaps to be paid forward. If my message reaches many, my soul will be fulfilled in the belief that many can touch more.

We have come a long way, but our journey towards true inclusion and acceptance has a longer way to go. That’s why I believe it’s crucial that we continue to work towards creating a world where everyone feels seen, heard, and accepted.

Let’s muster up our full measure of strength, resolve, and determination to make sure that no one ever feels alone.

Celebrating Our Independence

“Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello / shalom,
buon giorno/ howdy / namaste / or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.”

Richard Blanco (b. 1968; fifth American poet to read at a United States presidential inauguration. “… the first immigrant, the first Latino, the first openly gay person, and at the time [2013], the youngest person to be the U.S. inaugural poet.”

As we celebrate our Nation’s independence, let us also wrap our arms around and celebrate–today more than ever before–the inclusive oneness of the American spirit, which is at the heart of who we are.

Perhaps no poem captures the spirit of our oneness better than Richard Blanco’s “One Today,” written for Barack Obama’s Second Presidential Inauguration, January 21, 2013.

One Today

By Richard Blanco

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello / shalom,
buon giorno/ howdy / namaste / or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn’t give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together


Copyright © 2013 by Richard Blanco.