Category: Inspiration

Other children came. The word spread through the Surkhet district that there was a home where children could be safe, fed, and educated. Maggie Doyne became a legal guardian, then a mother – eventually adopting several children as her own.

She also became a Nepali citizen.

She called home regularly. Her parents helped fundraise in New Jersey. Word spread in the United States. Small donations arrived. Then larger ones. She used every dollar directly – no administrative layer between the money and the children.

By 2010, the home had grown enough that she needed a school. The Kopila Valley School opened – not a temporary structure but a permanent, eco-friendly campus designed to serve the whole community. Teachers were hired. Curriculum was developed. Children who had been breaking stones in riverbeds were now studying mathematics and science.

The school grew to approximately 400 students.

In 2015, CNN named Maggie Doyne its Hero of the Year – the highest honor in the network’s annual recognition of extraordinary humanitarians. She received $1 million in prize money from Travelers and other sponsors.

She donated it all to the BlinkNow Foundation to fund the school’s expansion.

The BlinkNow Foundation now runs the Kopila Valley Children’s Home – where more than 50 children live permanently – the Kopila Valley School with 400 students, a women’s center providing skills training and microloans, and a health clinic serving the surrounding community.

Hima – the girl in the riverbed – went to school. She graduated. She went to university.

She became a teacher.

She came back to teach at Kopila Valley School – the school that was built with babysitting money, on land bought by a 19-year-old from New Jersey who watched children break stones and decided she had enough to do something about it.

Maggie Doyne still lives in Surkhet, Nepal. She is in her late 30s. The BlinkNow Foundation is still operating and expanding.

She never went back to New Jersey to finish the life she had planned.

She has said she doesn’t think about it as a sacrifice. She thinks about it as the life she found instead of the one she was supposed to live.

Share this with someone who needs to be reminded that the most important decision of a person’s life is sometimes made at a dry riverbed in Nepal with $5,000 in their pocket and no plan except to stay.

Sidney Poitier Forced Hollywood To Put This In Writing: “If He Slaps Me, I Slap Him Back. Every Theater. Every Country. No Cuts.” In 1966, he walked into Norman Jewison’s office and changed cinema forever.

“I’ll do In the Heat of the Night,” Poitier said, “only if you guarantee — in the contract — that when he hits me, I hit him back. And you promise that scene plays in every print on earth.”

No Black actor had ever demanded that. No studio had ever agreed.

He did it because he knew Mississippi. He’d been there.

“I knew what southern theaters would do,” he said years later. “They’d cut the slap. I wasn’t giving them the chance.”

He outsmarted Jim Crow before filming started.

To get why that clause mattered, start with a shoebox.

February 1927. Miami. A Bahamian farmer named Reginald buys a shoebox from a Black undertaker. His newborn son is two months early. Three pounds. Not expected to live.

His wife Evelyn refused. She walked into the street, found a soothsayer. The woman said: “This boy will live. He will travel the world. Walk with kings. Carry your name.”

Evelyn went home. Fed him. Three months later they sailed to Cat Island, Bahamas. No electricity. No roads. Just ocean.

Sidney didn’t see a movie until 10. Didn’t see a mirror until 10. At 15, his parents sent him to Miami. First time America told him his skin was a problem.

At 16: New York. Bus stations. Dishwashing. Arrested for vagrancy. Army. Then Harlem’s American Negro Theatre. Director hears his accent: “Go be a dishwasher.”

So he did. Propped a newspaper by the sink. Taught himself to read. Mimicked radio announcers for six months. Killed the accent. Walked back in. Got in.

His understudy? Harry Belafonte. Brothers for life.

1950: Hollywood. No Way Out. He plays a doctor treating a racist. For the first time, a Black man on screen was brilliant, calm, and angry. Not a servant. Not a fool.

He made a vow: “I will not shame my people. No clowns. No criminals. No bowing. If the role asks me to shrink, I walk.”

1958: The Defiant Ones. First Black man nominated for Best Actor. Lost. Kept going.

April 13, 1964: Anne Bancroft says his name. Oscar. Lilies of the Field. She kisses his cheek. Southern papers print it in fury.

Backstage: “I don’t think this is a magic wand,” he told press. “Hollywood loves having one. It hates making room for many.”

He was right. 38 years until the next Black Best Actor.

Four months later: Mississippi calls. Freedom Summer is broke. Chaney, Goodman, Schwerner just found in a dam. Belafonte raises $70K. Calls Sidney.

“It’s harder to kill two Black stars than one,” Belafonte said.

They stuff cash in medical bags. Fly to Jackson. Drive to Greenwood. Pickups chase them. Ram them. Shots fired. SNCC cars save them.

Elks hall. Hundreds of young volunteers. Poitier speaks: “I’m 37. I’ve been lonely all my life because I haven’t found love. But this room is full of it.”

That night: one bed. Armed guards. Klan circling. The biggest Black star in America sleeps in Mississippi.

Three years later: the slap.

In the script, Tibbs gets hit and walks away. Poitier rewrote it. Endicott slaps him. He slaps back. Instant. No punishment. No death.

First time in American film a Black man hit a white man and lived.

Theaters gasped. Black audiences cheered. The DGA called it “the slap heard around the world.” And because of that clause, Mississippi saw it too.

1967: Sidney Poitier becomes #1 at the U.S. box office. Not #1 Black actor. #1 actor. Period.

He directed. Founded First Artists with Newman and Streisand. Ambassador to Japan. Knighted. Medal of Freedom from Obama.

2001: Honorary Oscar. Same night Denzel and Halle win. Denzel: “I’ll always be chasing Sidney.”

Died January 6, 2022. 94. Los Angeles.

The shoebox baby walked with kings. Met queens. Carried his mother’s name.

But remember the contract.

In 1966, a man once too small for a coffin wrote a sentence that forced the world to watch him stand up.

They planned to cut the slap. He put it in ink. The shoebox couldn’t hold him. Hollywood couldn’t either.

Digital Artwork | AI Generated Image by Fresh Mind |

©Sidney Poitier

In 1970, in a small house in Las Vegas, a former Olympic boxer named Mike Agassi hung a tennis ball from the ceiling above his newborn son’s crib.

He had immigrated from Iran in 1952 with nothing. He had worked as a casino waiter. He had decided, long before his fourth child was born, that this boy was going to be a tennis champion. He had run the numbers. He had read every article he could find about how the great players of the day had been raised. He had concluded that the difference came down to repetition, and repetition came down to starting young.

His son’s name was Andre Kirk Agassi.

He was four days old when the tennis ball began swinging over his crib.

By the time Andre was three years old, his father had built a backyard practice court behind the family home, complete with a custom ball machine Mike had modified himself to fire balls at higher speed than any commercial model could produce. He called it the Dragon. He aimed it at his small son and turned it on. Andre had to hit the balls back or be hit by them.

By the time he was seven, Andre was hitting more than 2,500 tennis balls a day. Every day. His father had calculated that if his son hit one million tennis balls in a year, he would be unbeatable. He pinned the math to the kitchen wall like a target.

Andre hated it.

He hated it the way only a child who has no other option can hate something — completely, secretly, every minute of every day, while saying nothing about it because there was nobody to say anything to. His father did not tolerate complaint. His mother was kind but powerless. His older brother and sisters were on the same path. By age thirteen, Andre had been sent to a tennis academy in Florida where the discipline was even more severe than at home. He attended a school for eight months a year that was, in his own words, more like a prison than a school.

He turned professional at sixteen.

By the time he was twenty-two, he was one of the most famous athletes on Earth. He won Wimbledon in 1992 in his first appearance at the tournament. He grew his hair long, dyed it blond, wore neon clothing, and became the face of tennis for a generation. He dated Brooke Shields. He married her. He divorced her. He won the U.S. Open. He won the Australian Open. He won the French Open. He became one of only eight men in tennis history to win the career Grand Slam.

He hated every minute of it.

He did not tell anyone. He did not tell his coach. He did not tell his agents. He did not tell his wives. He did not tell the millions of fans who screamed his name from packed stadiums on five continents. He won tournaments while privately wishing he could walk off the court and never come back.

In 2009, three years after he retired, he published a memoir called Open.

It was the most honest book a famous athlete had ever written about his own sport. He admitted, in the very first chapter, that he had hated tennis his entire life. He admitted that the hair he had become famous for had been a wig in the early years, and that he had once lost a French Open final because his wig was falling apart and he was terrified the world would see. He admitted he had used crystal methamphetamine in 1997 and had lied about it to the tour’s drug testers, who had quietly let it go. He admitted everything.

The book was a worldwide bestseller.

The most striking thing about it, the thing nobody could quite put down, was the way he wrote about his father. He did not condemn him. He understood that Mike Agassi had given him everything Mike had never been given. He understood that his father had loved him in the only way he knew how. He simply told the truth about what it had cost.

He also wrote, in the last third of the book, about something he had begun doing in the middle of his career that almost nobody had paid attention to.

In 1994, when he was twenty-four years old, Andre Agassi had started a foundation in Las Vegas to help children in poverty. He had run it for seven years out of an office above a hair salon. In 2001, he had taken eight million dollars of his own prize money and used it to open a school.

He called it the Andre Agassi College Preparatory Academy.

It was a tuition-free charter school in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Las Vegas, on the western side of the city where the violent crime rate was nearly four times the national average, in a zip code where only seventeen percent of high school students had been graduating before the school opened. He built it for children whose parents could not read. For children whose fathers had vanished. For children, in other words, who had nothing in common with him except that they had been born into circumstances they had not chosen.

The school was a longer school day than any in the district. Eight hours of instruction. Mandatory study halls. Mandatory uniforms. He hired teachers personally. He sat in on classes. He attended every graduation.

The first graduating class produced twelve seniors. Every one of them was accepted to college.

By 2024, the school he had built had sent over twelve hundred first-generation students to higher education. Ninety-eight percent of its graduates have been accepted to college. Most of them are the first members of their families ever to attend.

The total he has personally donated to the school and to related education projects is now over forty million dollars. He has spent the better part of three decades — almost as long as his tennis career — quietly raising more money for it, lobbying for more charter schools, expanding the model into Turner-Agassi Charter School Facilities Fund, which has now financed over a hundred and twenty schools nationwide serving over sixty thousand additional kids.

He has been asked many times why he did it.

He has given variations of the same answer.

“My whole life,” he said in one interview, “I felt like I had no choice. I just wanted to give some kids a choice.”

He is fifty-five years old now. He has been married for over twenty-three years to Steffi Graf, the German tennis champion he had quietly fallen in love with at the end of his playing days. They have two children together, a son and a daughter. Neither of them plays tennis. Andre has said publicly, many times, that this was a deliberate choice. He and Steffi told their kids they could do anything they wanted with their lives, as long as it was their decision.

His son Jaden became a professional baseball player. His daughter Jaz is a dancer.

Mike Agassi died in 2021. He was ninety years old. Andre was with him at the end. They had reconciled, in the slow careful way fathers and sons sometimes do, in the years after the book came out. Mike had read every word of Open. He had not been angry. He had been, his son said later, a little sad. He had told Andre, near the end, that if he had it to do over again he might have done some things differently. Andre told him that the school in Las Vegas was the only reason any of it had been worth it. Mike Agassi cried.

There is a thing Andre has said in interviews that almost nobody quotes.

He has said: my father gave me the wrong gift, but he gave it to me his whole life, with everything he had.

Then he turned it into the right one.

The kids at the Andre Agassi Academy in west Las Vegas are graduating this year. Most of them have never picked up a tennis racket. None of them will ever need to.

He did the hitting so they would not have to.

“Optimism is a happiness magnet. If you stay positive, good things and good people will be drawn to you.” – Mary Lou Retton, Gymnast (born 1968)

If you find yourself not being able to stay ‘up’ then have a read of this blog post. There will be something in there that works for you, I’m sure: https://www.tomgrimshaw.com/tomsblog/?p=14412

“The first rule is to keep an untroubled spirit. The second, is to look things in the face and know them for what they are.”
Marcus Aurelius (121 – 180) Roman Emperor and Philosopher

In the 1990s, if you flew first class from Hong Kong to New York, you might have walked past a rumpled man in coach.

Wrinkled shirt. Plastic watch. Papers stuffed in a grocery bag.

You wouldn’t have guessed he was worth billions.

You definitely wouldn’t have guessed he’d already given most of it away.

Chuck Feeney made his fortune selling what rich people wanted most: status without taxes.

In 1960, he and his Cornell buddy Robert Miller opened the first Duty Free Shoppers location in Honolulu.

The concept was simple: sell luxury goods in airports and ports where travelers didn’t have to pay import duties.

Whiskey. Perfume. Designer handbags. All tax-free.

When Japan lifted travel restrictions in 1966, everything changed overnight.

Millions of newly wealthy Japanese tourists wanted Western luxury goods. DFS was perfectly positioned.

Chuck learned Japanese. He hired translators. He made deals with every tour operator who’d listen.

By the 1980s, Duty Free Shoppers dominated global luxury retail.

Chuck Feeney was a billionaire several times over.

And nobody could figure out why he lived like he was broke.

His business partners started to worry.

Chuck wore the same ratty sweater with holes in it. He owned exactly one sports jacket—no tuxedo, ever.

When DFS executives traveled, they stayed in five-star hotels. Chuck stayed in budget motels.

They flew business class. Chuck flew coach—often on the cheapest ticket he could find, which sometimes meant three connections instead of one.

One colleague offered to upgrade him. Chuck refused.

“Why would I pay more for the same destination?”

He didn’t own a house. He rented. No car—he’d take taxis or the bus.

When he absolutely needed wheels, he’d rent the cheapest vehicle available. Usually a dinged-up Volvo.

His watch cost fifteen dollars. Plastic Casio from a drugstore.

Some partners thought he’d gone crazy. Others whispered he must have gambling debts or a secret family draining his accounts.

The truth was so much stranger.

In 1982, Chuck created something called The Atlantic Philanthropies.

It was registered in Bermuda. The paperwork was dense and deliberately obscure.

In 1984, he transferred his entire stake in DFS—worth over $500 million—into the foundation.

He kept less than $5 million for himself.

Then he started giving the money away.

Hospitals. Universities. Human rights organizations. Medical research.

Millions of dollars flowing out every month.

But here’s the twist: nobody knew where it was coming from.

Cornell University suddenly received massive anonymous donations. Administrators had no idea who their mystery benefactor was.

Universities in Ireland got similar windfalls. So did hospitals in South Africa. AIDS clinics. Research centers in Vietnam.

The recipients would ask: “Who’s funding this?”

Atlantic Philanthropies would respond: “We prefer not to say.”

Chuck had become a philanthropic ghost.

Why the secrecy?

Chuck had two reasons, both practical.

First: “Once people know you have money to give away, they never leave you alone.”

He’d seen it happen to other philanthropists. Every charity on earth sending proposals. Every fundraiser calling. Every gala demanding his attendance.

Chuck didn’t want to spend his life saying no.

Second: He believed anonymity kept the focus on the work, not the donor.

“It’s not about me,” he’d say. “It’s about what gets done.”

So Atlantic Philanthropies operated like a intelligence agency.

Grants went out through intermediaries. Contracts had confidentiality clauses. Even some of Chuck’s own children didn’t know the full extent of what he was doing.

His ex-wife found out during their divorce proceedings. She was stunned.

For 15 years, Chuck ran the largest private charitable operation in the world—and almost nobody knew his name.

The secret broke in 1996.

LVMH—the French luxury conglomerate—bought DFS for $1.63 billion cash.

The sale required public disclosure. Chuck’s name appeared in documents.

Reporters started connecting dots.

A New York Times business writer named Judith Miller began investigating.

Wait—this guy who dresses like a grad student owns half of Duty Free Shoppers?

And he gave it all away?

Fifteen years ago?

The article ran in January 1997, buried on page D4: “He Gave Away $600 Million, and No One Knew.”

Except the number was already wrong. Chuck had given away much more than $600 million.

He just hadn’t told anyone.

Once the secret was out, Chuck didn’t change much.

He still flew coach. Still wore the fifteen-dollar watch. Still carried papers in a plastic bag.

But now people understood.

He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t broke.

He’d made a choice.

He’d decided that watching his money do good was better than watching his money sit in a bank.

Warren Buffett called him “my hero.”

Bill Gates studied his methods.

In 2011, when Buffett and Gates launched the Giving Pledge—asking billionaires to commit to giving away at least half their wealth—Chuck was one of the first to sign.

Except he’d already given away 99% of his fortune. Thirty years earlier.

“Chuck was showing us the way,” Buffett said, “long before we knew we needed a guide.”

Between 1982 and 2020, Chuck gave away $8 billion.

Let that sink in.

Eight. Billion. Dollars.

Almost a billion went to Cornell alone. The university renamed a street “Feeney Way” in his honor. President Frank Rhodes called him Cornell’s “third founder”—as significant as Ezra Cornell himself.

But Chuck’s giving wasn’t scattered. It was strategic.

He focused on four areas: aging, children and youth, public health, and human rights.

He funded campaigns to abolish the death penalty. He backed the grassroots effort to pass the Affordable Care Act.

He paid for AIDS treatment in South Africa when governments wouldn’t.

He built hospitals in Vietnam. He supported peace negotiations in Northern Ireland—his advocacy helped bring about the Good Friday Agreement that ended the Troubles.

He didn’t just write checks. He got involved. Pushed. Strategized.

“Giving isn’t passive,” he said. “You have to make things happen.”

By 2019, Chuck was 88 years old and in declining health.

The foundation had one mission left: spend every remaining dollar.

Not preserve it. Not create an endowment. Spend it all.

“Dead people don’t give money,” Chuck liked to say. “Live people do.”

On September 14, 2020, Chuck logged into a Zoom call from his tiny rented apartment in San Francisco.

His wife sat beside him. Foundation board members filled the screen.

Chuck signed the papers.

Atlantic Philanthropies officially had zero dollars left.

Mission accomplished.

“We learned a lot,” Chuck said. “We’d do some things differently. But I am very satisfied.”

He paused, smiled slightly.

“To those wondering about Giving While Living: Try it. You’ll like it.”

Chuck Feeney died on October 9, 2023, at age 92.

He died the way he’d lived for the past 40 years: with almost no money to his name.

His estate was modest. No mansion to divide among heirs. No vault of assets. No fortune to fight over.

Just the satisfaction of knowing that $8 billion had already done its work.

Built hospitals. Educated students. Protected rights. Saved lives.

Here’s what makes Chuck Feeney’s story different from every other billionaire story:

He didn’t wait until he was dead to give his money away.

He didn’t create a foundation that would spend 5% per year in perpetuity while the principal grew.

He didn’t put his name on buildings or demand gratitude.

He spent it all. Fast. While he could still see what it accomplished.

And he did it so quietly that for 15 years, the world’s business press thought he might be broke.

His business partner thought he was broke.

His own children didn’t know until they were adults.

For 15 years, Chuck Feeney ran the world’s most successful secret operation.

And the only thing he smuggled was generosity.

Eight billion dollars of it.

All gone.

All exactly where he wanted it to be.