Tim Cook: - 'If you hope to change the world, you must find your fearlessness', Duke University - 2018

13 May 2018, Duke University,

Hello, Blue Devils! It’s great to be back.

It’s an honor to stand before you—both as your commencement speaker and a fellow Duke graduate.

I earned my degree from the Fuqua School in 1988. In preparing for this speech, I reached out to one of my favorite professors from back then. Bob Reinheimer taught a great course in Management Communications, which included sharpening your public speaking skills.

We hadn’t spoken for decades, so I was thrilled when he told me: he remembered a particularly gifted public speaker who took his class in the 1980s…

With a bright mind and a charming personality!
He said he knew—way back then—this person was destined for greatness.

You can imagine how this made me feel. Professor Reinheimer had an eye for talent. And, if I do say so, I think his instincts were right…

Melinda Gates has really made her mark on the world.

I’m grateful to Bob, Dean Boulding, and all of my Duke professors. Their teachings have stayed with me throughout my career.

I want to thank President Price, the Duke Faculty, and my fellow members of the Board of Trustees for the honor of speaking with you today. I’d also like to recognize this year’s honorary degree recipients.

And most of all, congratulations to the class of 2018!

No graduate gets to this moment alone. I want to acknowledge your parents, grandparents and friends here cheering you on, just as they have every step of the way. Let’s give them our thanks.

Today especially, I remember my mother, who watched me graduate from Duke. I wouldn’t have been there that day—or made it here today—without her support.

Let’s give our special thanks to all the mothers here today, on Mother’s Day.

I have wonderful memories here. Studying—and not studying—with people I still count as friends to this day. Cheering at Cameron for every victory.

Cheering even louder when that victory is over Carolina.

Look back over your shoulder fondly and say goodbye to act one of your life. And then quickly look forward. Act two begins today. It’s your turn to reach out and take the baton.

You enter the world at a time of great challenge.

Our country is deeply divided—and too many Americans refuse to hear any opinion that differs from their own.

Our planet is warming with devastating consequences—and there are some who deny it’s even happening.

Our schools and communities suffer from deep inequality—we fail to guarantee every student the right to a good education.

And yet we are not powerless in the face of these problems. You are not powerless to fix them.

No generation has ever held more power than yours. And no generation has been able to make change happen faster than yours can. The pace at which progress is possible has accelerated dramatically. Aided by technology, every individual has the tools, potential, and reach to build a better world.

That makes this the best time in history to be alive.

Whatever you choose to do with your life…

Wherever your passion takes you.

I urge you to take the power you have been given and use it for good. Aspire to leave this world better than you found it.

I didn’t always see life as clearly as I do now. But I’ve learned the greatest challenge of life is knowing when to break with conventional wisdom.

Don’t just accept the world you inherit today.

Don’t just accept the status quo.

No big challenge has ever been solved, and no lasting improvement has ever been achieved, unless people dare to try something different. Dare to think different.

I was lucky to learn from someone who believed this deeply. Someone who knew that changing the world starts with “following a vision, not a path.” He was my friend and mentor, Steve Jobs.

Steve’s vision was that great ideas come from a restless refusal to accept things as they are. And those principles still guide us at Apple today.

We reject the notion that global warming is inevitable.

That’s why we run Apple on 100% renewable energy.

We reject the excuse that getting the most out of technology means trading away your right to privacy.

So we choose a different path: Collecting as little of your data as possible. Being thoughtful and respectful when it’s in our care. Because we know it belongs to you.

In every way, at every turn, the question we ask ourselves is not ‘what can we do’ but ‘what should we do’.

Because Steve taught us that’s how change happens. And from him I learned to never be content with things as they are.

I believe this mindset comes naturally to young people…and you should never let go of that restlessness.

So today’s ceremony isn’t just about presenting you with a degree, it’s about presenting you with a question.

How will you challenge the status quo? How will you push the world forward?

Fifty years ago today—May 13th, 1968—Robert Kennedy was campaigning in Nebraska, and spoke to a group of students who were wrestling with that same question.

Those were troubled times, too. The U.S. was at war in Vietnam. There was violent unrest in America’s cities. And the country was still reeling from the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King a month earlier.

Kennedy gave the students a call to action. When you look across this country, and when you see peoples’ lives held back by discrimination and poverty… when you see injustice and inequality. He said, you should be the last people to accept things as they are.

Let Kennedy’s words echo here today.

“You should be the last people to accept [it].”
Whatever path you’ve chosen…
Be it medicine, business, engineering, the humanities—whatever drives your passion. Be the last to accept the notion that the world you inherit cannot be improved.
Be the last to accept the excuse that says, “that’s just how things are done here.” Duke graduates, you should be the last people to accept it.
And you should be the first to change it.

The world-class education you’ve received—that you’ve worked so hard for—gives you opportunities that few people have.

You are uniquely qualified, and therefore uniquely responsible, to build a better way forward. That won’t be easy. It will require great courage.

But that courage will not only help you live your life to the fullest—it will empower you to transform the lives of others.

Last month I was in Birmingham to mark the fiftieth anniversary of Dr. King’s assassination. And I had the incredible privilege of spending time with women and men who marched and worked alongside him.

Many of them were younger at the time than you are now. They told me that when they defied their parents and joined the sit-ins and boycotts, when they faced the police dogs and firehoses, they were risking everything they had—becoming foot soldiers for justice without a second thought.

Because they knew that change had to come.
Because they believed so deeply in the cause of justice.

Because they knew, even with all the adversity they had faced, they had the chance to build something better for the next generation.

We can all learn from their example. If you hope to change the world, you must find your fearlessness.

Now, if you’re anything like I was on graduation day, maybe you’re not feeling so fearless.

Maybe you’re thinking about the job you hope to get, or wondering where you’re going to live, or how to repay that student loan. These, I know, are real concerns. I had them, too. But don’t let those worries stop you from making a difference.

Fearlessness means taking the first step, even if you don’t know where it will take you. It means being driven by a higher purpose, rather than by applause.

It means knowing that you reveal your character when you stand apart, more than when you stand with the crowd.

If you step up, without fear of failure… if you talk and listen to each other, without fear of rejection… if you act with decency and kindness, even when no one is looking, even if it seems small or inconsequential, trust me, the rest will fall into place.

More importantly, you’ll be able to tackle the big things when they come your way. It’s in those truly trying moments that the fearless inspire us.

Fearless like the students of Parkland, Florida—who refuse to be silent about the epidemic of gun violence, and have rallied millions to their cause.

Fearless like the women who say “me, too” and “time’s up”… women who cast light into dark places, and move us toward a more just and equal future.

Fearless like those who fight for the rights of immigrants… who understand that our only hopeful future is one that embraces all who want to contribute.

Duke graduates, be fearless.

Be the last people to accept things as they are, and the first people to stand up and change them for the better.

In 1964, Martin Luther King, Jr. gave a speech at Page Auditorium to an overflow crowd. Students who couldn’t get a seat listened from outside on the lawn. Dr. King warned them that someday we would all have to atone, not only for the words and actions of the bad people, but for “the appalling silence and indifference of the good people, who sit around and say, ‘Wait on time.’”

Martin Luther King stood right here at Duke, and said: “The time is always right to do right.” For you, graduates, that time is now.
It will always be now.

It’s time to add your brick to the path of progress.

It’s time for all of us to move forward.
And it’s time for you to lead the way.
Thank you—and congratulations, Class of 2018!

Ronan Farrow: "I knew I’d never be able to live with myself if I didn’t honor the risks those women had taken to expose this", Loyola Marymount College - 2018

5 May 2018, Loyola Marymount, LA, California, USA

Hello Class of 2018! Faculty, Administrators, Students… congratulations! Parents, you’re done! Tear down those childhood bedrooms and reclaim the extra closet space you’ve always yearned for.

Thank you President Snyder, Provost Poon and Chair Viviano, for that lavish introduction.

As you may have concluded from said introduction, a whole lot happened in my life this past year. And I am very, very… tired. I’ve been up so long President Trump called Chuck Todd a “sleeping son of a bitch” and I just felt jealous.

I’ve been up so long I feel like a side effect in one of those uncomfortable medication ads with scenes of old people dancing.

It was an honor, this grueling past year, to crack into a series of stories that—thanks to the brave sources who risked so much to talk to me, and thanks to the brave activists who continue to turn those stories into social change—seem to be having an impact. Due not just to me but to a whole group of reporters banging their heads against the wall, cracking the tough stories… we are hearing the voices of sexual assault and harassment survivors who were for so long silent. We are grappling, as a culture, with our collective failure to create spaces that treat men and women equally and that treat everyone with respect and dignity. And we are learning a lot about how powerful men, who did despicable things, were protected for so long.

I know that hearing a generous introduction like the one I just got…Hearing about people the way they’re introduced as commencement speakers…The way the media talks about them, after the work is done… it’s easy for it to all seem kind of fancy. Like it was always so neat and packaged, tied up with a ribbon.

I’m still tackling tough stories, involving unsavory characters, and fielding a fair amount of threats and incoming fire in the process—so I’m grateful for any kind introduction, any award, any shred of support.

But I wanted to take a moment to talk about what it’s like trying to do work you believe in *before* the moment of impact.

I’ve talked a little about challenges I faced reporting my stories on sexual violence. How the systems commanded by those powerful men I mentioned earlier came crashing down on me too. And how people I trusted turned on me. And powerful forces in the media world became instruments of suppression.

I get asked about that story a lot. And fair enough—those vast systems that conspired to keep reporting on sexual assault quiet for so long are important to understand. But there’ll be time for that later. That’s not the story I want to tell you today.

I want to tell you about a simpler and more personal side of the story. One that, without a doubt, each and every one of you will experience your own version of in the coming years. A story that could have happened not just to a journalist but to an engineer or a foreman or a teacher or a doctor or a professor or a miner.

The reality is, I was not celebrated when I set about breaking the stories I broke this past year. I was a guy doing a job at a time when few people thought I was a success story. And I don’t say that for any sympathy. I’d had incredible career opportunities. I’d done work I was proud of, which I don’t take for granted.

But the reality is my career was on the rocks. And as a result of my tackling this story as doggedly as it did, it fell apart almost completely.

There was a moment about a year ago when I didn’t have the institutional support of my news organization. My contract was ending. And after I refused to stop work on the story, I did not have a new one. My book publisher dropped me, refusing to look at a single page of a manuscript I’d labored over for years. I found out another news outlet was racing to scoop me on the Weinstein story, and I knew I was falling behind. I did not know if I’d ever be able to report that story, or if a year of work would amount to anything. I did not know if I would let down woman after brave woman who had put their trust in me.

I had moved out of my home because I was being followed and threatened. I was facing personal legal threats from a powerful and wealthy man who said he would use the best lawyers in the country to wipe me out and destroy my future.

And, if against all odds I got through that and found a way to publish this story, I did not know whether anyone would care. Because I had spent a year in rooms with executives telling me it wasn’t a story. Because this was before the extraordinary months of conversation and analysis and acknowledgment that the suffering of these women mattered.

I’m not being falsely humble. I was sincerely at a moment when I did not know if I would have a job in journalism a month or two months after, or ever again.

And I wish I could tell you I was confident. That I was sure of myself. That I didn’t care, or I said “to hell with it.” And if there’s ever a movie I’m sure there’ll be a moment where some actor smirks and lowers his shades and says “over my dead body I’ll stop reporting” and swaggers out of the room.

But the real version of this was that I was heartbroken, and I was scared, and I had no idea if I was doing the right thing.

There were so many people in my ear at that time making such good arguments that what I was doing was a mistake. Not because they were evil, but because they looked at the world as it was a year ago and concluded, “This isn’t worth it. You’ll tell one story at the expense of so many others.” They were being rational about what our culture would accept and what it would care about, based on the existing evidence. And these were people I trusted. My bosses saying “you have got to stop, let it go.” My agent saying “it’s causing too many speed bumps for your career, you have got to let it go.” Even loved ones, saying “is this really worth it?” Pointing out that I would risk my whole career for a story that might not even make a dent.

And I seriously considered those perspectives because I felt, “Well, what do I know?” I remember a low point last fall where I hadn’t slept, and I had lost a lot of weight, and I was on the phone with my poor, long-suffering partner who dealt with a lot of really annoying calls from me during this period… and I was in a cab going from one meeting with a source to another and I had just learned I might get scooped entirely and I just fell apart. I was sobbing, and trying not to sob (which made it worse), and I’m pretty sure there was some snot happening and it was not pretty. And I remember saying “I swung too wide, I gambled too much, I lost everything and no one will even know.” And my partner said “okay, we are going to talk about all of this but also you are going to tip that cab driver really well.”

(The driver’s name was Omar and he was very supportive. Thanks, Omar.)

I didn’t stop. Because I knew I’d never be able to live with myself if I didn’t honor the risks those women had taken to expose this. But also, less nobly, because I really had gambled too much and there was no way out but through.

But I did start to think I might have made the wrong call.

In hindsight, it’s always clear whether or not your choices were the right ones. In hindsight, you know whether it was right to stick to your guns, or right to turn the other cheek. Whether it was right to not give up on a story, or right to give a little to get along, and move on—not because you’re cowardly, but because there are other stories and there’s only so much you can do.

But, in the moment, you don’t know how important a story is going to be. In the moment, you don’t know if you’re fighting because you’re right, or if you’re fighting because your ego, and your desire to win, and your notion of yourself as the hero in your own story are clouding your judgment.

You can have a feeling. You can have an instinct. You can have a gut reaction: a little inner voice that tells you what to do.

But you can’t be sure.

I am so grateful for every story of every person who stared down that uncertainty and listened to that voice telling them to do the right thing, even if it wasn’t clear it was the smart or strategic thing.

A group of juniors here, including Vandalena Mahoney, got behind the hashtag #BlackatLMU this past September, sharing the kind of stories of everyday prejudice that sometimes make us uncomfortable but are important to hear, and meeting with school administrators about race on campus.

In October, when the DACA legislation allowing people brought to this country illegally as kids to stay here longer was rescinded, Hayden Tanabe, class of 2018, organized around-the-clock lobbying and rallied the 28 Jesuit Student Body Presidents to sign a statement on the importance of supporting undocumented students.

Michael Peters, who would have graduated today, died last year awaiting an organ transplant. Friends said he was shy and quiet, but he found it in himself to write a searing op-ed in the Loyolan, highlighting the good we can all do if we become organ donors. He taught me something, even in death.

“Pay close attention to yourself and to your teaching; persevere in these things, for as you do this you will ensure salvation both for yourself and for those who hear you.” That’s 1 Timothy 4:16.

The lessons of those students who stood up, and let their own strong senses of principle guide them, and tackled tough topics are important. Because this isn’t going to get easier as you go through life.

Right now, we are surrounded by a culture that tells us to take the easy way out. That tries to tip the scales in favor of getting paid rather than protesting. That tells us to kill the story instead of poking the bear.

A culture that tells us not to trust that voice that says to fight.

And the reason the culture sends us that message is that we look around and we see people taking the easy way out—doing the immoral thing, or the selfish thing—and being rewarded. And it’s easy to conclude that’s just the way the world works.

So here’s what I would say to you. No matter what you choose to do; no matter what direction you go; whether you’re a doctor treating refugees or a financier making money off of foreclosures…

And I genuinely hope you don’t do that.

…You will face a moment in your career where you have *absolutely no idea* what to do. Where it will be totally unclear to you what the right thing is for you, for your family, for your community.

And I hope that in that moment you’ll be generous with yourself, but trust that inner voice. Because more than ever we need people to be guided by their own senses of principle—and not the whims of a culture that prizes ambition, and sensationalism, and celebrity, and vulgarity, and doing whatever it takes to win.

Because if enough of you listen to that voice—if enough of you prove that this generation isn’t going to make the same mistakes as the one before—then doing the right thing won’t seem as rare, or as hard, or as special.

No pressure or anything.

Congratulations, class of 2018.

Jeremy Ludowyke: 'I think we need to talk about men', MHS Speech night, Principal address - 2017

28 November 2017, Melbourne, Australia

I think we need to talk about men.

It seems the world has finally had a gut full of the damage violent, abusive men do. Each day that goes by there is a new revelation in the media of their damage, particularly to women and girls.

It has been less than three months since the New York Times published allegations of sexual harassment and assault perpetrated by Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein and in this time mostly women have come forward with reports of predatory sexual behaviour that run the gamut from unsolicited lewd texts to sexual assault by over 60 men in the movie industry.

There have also been allegations of sexual misconduct perpetrated by 3 of America’s past 5 Presidents. In the case of Bill Clinton and Donald Trump, these allegations were widely canvassed prior to and during their election campaigns yet both were elected regardless.

Public figures who until then had been universally admired such as Rolf Harris, Bill Cosby and Jimmy Saville have been charged with systematically preying on young women and girls over decades. Their predatory behaviour was no secret to many of their colleagues yet these colleagues remained silent and allowed the abuse to continue.

This wave of disclosure and exposure exemplified by the #MeToo movement has also reached these shores, as inevitably it would and should. In the past month, 500 Australian women have come forward naming 65 men as abusers in the media industry alone. The first high profile case of Don Burke was broadly in December. No doubt here will be many more.

I have no doubt that a culture of systemic and pervasive misogynistic abuse of women is not confined to the media industry alone. Let’s consider a uniquely Victorian industry.

In the past decade, the Police have instigated investigations into sexual misconduct perpetrated by over 30 AFL footballers. Most recently this has included a Richmond player distributing an explicit image of his girlfriend to his mates immediately after the Grand Final after assuring her he had deleted it.

Earlier this year, two of the AFL’s most senior executives were sacked following revelations of predatory sexual behaviour towards young women in their workplace. This is the same workplace where a list of the Top ten hottest female staff members had been circulated amongst most of the male staff.

There are three very hard truths we must confront about this as men.

First, we can no longer dismiss this as the behaviour of a few bad apples. There is a false comfort in confining and defining this problem as the despicable acts of an evil few. If this were true we just pluck out the bad apples and the problem goes away but unfortunately the core of this evil lies much deeper.

The second hard truth is that these abuses were enabled and perpetuated by the systems of power surrounding these men. The senior managers of Children’s hospitals in the UK welcomed Jimmy Saville’s charity visits to their wards in full knowledge that he would use those visits to sexually assault the young children in their care. 

When a woman made a police report of sexual assault by an AFL footballer, senior officers intervened saying they needed to make the complaint disappear.  A young actress’s publicist sent her to Harvey Weinstein’s hotel room in full knowledge of what she would encounter, alone.

It’s not just the apples that are rotten. There is something very rotten in the systems that overtly and inadvertently protects these men and moves to marginalise and silence those who speak out. In the words of one Hollywood insider who had heard ‘stories’ about Weinstein’s predatory behaviour:

Since this story broke last week, I have been struggling with my shame. It shouldn’t matter what my place was, my level of success, my degree of power. It should only matter that I knew this was happening and I stayed silent.

We all stayed silent.

The final hard truth is that there is something rotten about the way we men think and act towards woman and the way we think and about ourselves as men.  You only have to look at the raw statistics to understand the magnitude of violence and abuse towards women in Australia.

Every week at least one Australian woman is killed by her current or former male partner. One in every 3 Australian women over the age of 15 has been physically or sexually assaulted by a man they know. Almost every Australian woman has been subjected to some form of sexual abuse or harassment.

These women are our sisters, our daughters and our mothers. But they are not defined their relations to men. They are every woman.

But there is another way of looking at these statistics.

Every week at least one Australian man kills his current or former partner. One in every 3 Australian men will physically or sexually assault a woman they know. And almost every Australian man will subject a woman to some form of sexual abuse or harassment or at least be complicit in this.

These men are our brothers, our sons and our fathers. These men are us.

To all of the men out there who want to say back that is not me, I have never done any of these things, I sincerely hope that it true. But let me ask you this.

Were you ever in a group of men when someone made a disparagingly sexist or misogynistic remark or joke about a woman?  Did you do anything about it? Did you snicker uncomfortably about it but otherwise let it pass?

Have you ever witnessed a woman being wolf whistled or leered at in public? Did you do anything about it or did you decide it wasn’t your business? Well it is your business.

I want to light upon street harassment for a minute to illustrate why it is your business and I do so deliberately because I am guessing and hoping that there are not too many wolf whistlers in this audience.

A 2015 US study found that 85% of women had experienced sexual harassment in the street by the age of 18. I wonder how many men have been subject to sexual harassment in the street by the age of 18?

What is the motive, the message and the impact of street harassment? 

This is how one woman has described it.

The words of street harassment fall on a spectrum of disrespect. They are not just words, they are a threat. The threat of implied violence lies behind every word. The words are nothing compared with what they could be and they are intended that way, as a smirking warning to all women.

It is our responsibility as men to face this uncomfortable truth about our own culture, about masculinity.  Men are not inherently violent or abusive but we make ourselves so by our silence and inaction and permit others to be so.

Not all men will abuse or assault women but it is the responsibility of every man to call out both friends and strangers when they perpetuate the sexist and misogynistic attitudes and behaviours that allow abusers to go unchallenged. Unless you speak out, your silence will be taken as complicit support by perpetrators.

The research clearly shows that allowing everyday low-level sexism and sexual harassment to continue feeds the climate and attitudes that perpetuate sexual violence. It is the seed from which the rot grows. The research also suggests that if a man is called out for using abusive language by their peers the risks of them progressing to more serious forms of abuse drops by 80%.

It will take a critical mass of good men to turn around the male culture that allows the rotten seeds of sexual violence to propagate.

It will take a critical mass of good men to change the way their peers think about and treat women. It will take a critical mass of good men to root out the rottenness in the hearts of men that engenders violence and harassment of women.

Every year this school will send out into the world 330 good men to add to that critical mass.

 I hope sooner rather than later, the tide will turn.

As Edmund Burke said, The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.