Transcriber: Rhonda Jacobs
Reviewer: Peter van de Ven I'd like to thank Emory University
for asking me here to speak today. I'm really not here to give you a lecture, I'm here to tell you a story. The last time I was on this campus
was almost 26 years ago. I was here to watch my older brother,
Chris, graduate with honors. It was my first trip to the college. I remember watching Chris
stroll confidently across the quad lawn, accepting his diploma on stage. We were very close,
and I was a good girl but I wasn't shy. And Chris had made it very clear
that he had absolutely zero interest in keeping track of his little sister
around college boys. Of course, I had no idea that trip to Emory would be the last time
that I would see my brother alive. (Sniffs) Two years later, his body was found
in an old abandoned bus that had no engine, yet it was miles and miles
from the nearest road, in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness. He was only 24 years old. There was a lot of mystery
surrounding his death, and that intrigued an avid outdoorsman
and gifted writer named Jon Krakauer. And the world came to know
Chris's story as "Into the Wild," a powerful, best-selling book, and later, a critically acclaimed film. I knew the secrets that had caused
much of the mystery. I shared these with Jon in private, yet I insisted that he keep
these details out of his book - the reasons for my brother's
seemingly callous departure, the answers to all of the questions. Why did Chris leave the way he did? Why did he feel the need
to push himself to such extremes? Why did he cut off
all contact with his family? Why was he so angry with his parents? Chris was a great, big brother and always my protector. Our childhood home was far from peaceful - domestic violence, our father's gin-induced rages, combined with constant lies
and manipulations to keep secrets, made it a confusing place to grow up
and figure out who you were. This picture was taken
on a typical morning. The violence had erupted
over the breakfast table and continued until our parents realized
it was time for church. It was Easter Sunday. So, we were put
into our best suit and dress and marched into the backyard
for pictures. Look closely at our expressions. If you didn't smile for the camera,
threats ensued. I'm compliant, I've got my hand behind his back,
trying to get him to cooperate. Chris is only about six years old here, but he refused to be part of the charade. We went to church and sat in the Sunday
school class that our parents taught, and listened to them
tell our friends stories about God and to trust in him. But when we got back home,
behind closed doors, we were told that our father was God, and that meant nothing
that he did could be wrong. Our mother, usually through tears,
after being released by our father, told us that she had been trapped
when she became pregnant with Chris. We understood that she was suffering
because of our existence. Chris was three years older than me, so he grew up every day
with a lot of guilt in his young life. (Sniffs) That's a lot of pressure
to put on the shoulders of a little boy. Chris was drawn to nature
from an early age. He immersed himself in the peace, the purity and honesty
that those surroundings offered him. Our parents introduced us
to the Shenandoah mountains. That was a great gift,
and it was liberating. The energy that was given
to constant battles gave way to paying attention
to blaze marks on trees, to finding a safe place
to pitch a tent near a water source, to collecting firewood before dark. From a remarkably early age, Chris had an incredible sense
of his own identity, of what was important to him in life, and of his faith. And he always said,
nothing was more important than truth. Our mother rarely raised her hands to us, but she became a full partner
in the mental cruelty that was by far more damaging. Her fear of the truth caused her
to become an accomplice. She'd given birth to Chris and me while our dad was still married
and having children with his first wife. We knew our six brothers
and sisters growing up, and we spent time with them
during summer breaks. But as we got older and began to ask our parents
the tough questions about our family history, about our other siblings
and why our ages were intermixed, we were told one tall tale after another about how that history had been woven, and the web grew larger and more daunting
with every passing year. As Chris grew up, his ventures into the solace of nature
became more frequent, and he preferred to spend that time alone. So it came as no surprise
when he quietly informed me that soon after college, he would be divorcing himself
from our parents and heading west, to experience life raw and real. These were the days before emails
and text messages and iPhones, but being out of contact
didn't concern me; Chris was strong and he was good
at everything he tried to do. He was intelligent, he was confident, but he didn't have a big ego. I knew in my heart that my protector would never get himself into any situation
that he couldn't handle. On September 17th, 1992, I had to come to grips
with the unimaginable. Through a series of unfortunate missteps,
Chris's life was cut short. He'd promised
that he'd come back to find me, and he was always true to his word. Being told that Chris was gone forever was like being told that there
was no longer oxygen in the air. I'd also separated from my parents, and I still felt this duty
to remain compliant to them. (Sniffs) It should have been
the right thing to do - keeping quiet, protecting my parents,
protecting my family. Yet in truth, what I'd done
is perpetuate these same lies that caused Chris
to leave in the first place, and I'd given my parents the opportunity to not have to face the truth
nor learn from it. (Sighs) For years and years,
since Jon Krakauer's book was published, I received these impassioned letters
from people all over the world. I never expected Chris's story
to touch so many people and affect them so deeply. Jon's book eventually
was published in over 60 countries and translated
into more than 30 languages. About a decade later, during the production
of the "Into the Wild" movie, one of my other siblings
sent me this quote by artist and poet Kristen Jongen. It reads, "Perhaps strength doesn't reside
in having never been broken, but in the courage required
to grow strong in the broken places." I don't speak for my other siblings, but this quote always
makes me think about them and their mom who was strong
enough to save them. So I had a lot of time to think
about the consequences of my silence. As Chris went into nature and sought out his life lessons
away from human relationships, I found mine by choosing bad ones, and I was good at it. When I was 18, I'd left home,
and I married my new boyfriend. He was a sweet guy in his mid-20s, worldly, smart, hard working - he promised to take care of me. Two weeks after our tiny
justice of the peace ceremony, he started to beat me. I never saw it coming. With him I had financial security,
a place to stay. I told my friends that he was great, that everything was great. But after a few months, I decided I wasn't going to make
my mother's mistakes. With careful planning,
I made my second escape. I moved to a different city. I took business and accounting classes
at the local colleges while I was working full time, and two years later,
I started my first company. It hasn't been easy, but I have been successfully
self-employed ever since. During that time,
a lot more lessons came and went - important lessons of strength that I don't have time
to flesh out here today. But having to rely only on myself - it was empowering and comfortable. Now during this time
of Carine's great independence, along came the greatest lesson: that of unconditional love. A 2-year-old little girl
came into my life. Her biological mother
eventually abandoned her. And this little girl needed a mom. That was pretty much my reaction. (Laughter) Me? No. Now, I had explored a lot of trails
in a short amount of time, but I never planned to go down that one. I was absolutely petrified
about being a mom. I was afraid I'd be abusive. I was worried that the behavior
that I'd witnessed as a child was bred inside of me,
deep down in my DNA, just waiting for the opportunity
to show itself. But then in steps faith, and this overwhelming feeling that somehow moving in a scary
direction is the right direction. And I thought about Chris
and how he'd told me that the greatest experiences
are usually waiting for us far outside of our comfort zone. This is my daughter, Heather. I know, who can say, "No,"
to that face, right? (Laughter) She has been the greatest opportunity
that has ever come into my life. She taught me that I can be a mother, and I'm proud to say, I'm a good one. I can be a tough disciplinarian, but always a peaceful one. She knows every single day,
every second of every day, that I love her. So a few more years go by, and my new husband and I decide that we're going
to expand our little family. And nine months later,
out popped this little cutie. (Laughter) She didn't exactly pop out,
she was nine pounds. (Laughter) Yeah. Ouch. (Laughter) Whew! Don't be afraid if you haven't
had children; it's worth it. So we were fortunate enough
to have another daughter. We named her Christiana after my brother. Soon after Christiana's born, they whisk her off
to weigh her and clean her up, a little quicker
than I expected they would, and a few people start
entering the room, family members, and my little Heather,
who was one month shy of turning seven. A few minutes later,
a nurse comes into the room that I had never seen before. She asked someone
to take Heather out of the room. Heather looked over at me and I said,
"No, she can stay. What's wrong?" That's when we learned
that Christiana has Down syndrome. I was in shock. I had had no complications
during my pregnancy. I was super healthy;
I thought I'd done everything right. The doctor proceeded to explain that it happens
at the point of conception. It's part of her DNA. (Sniffs) So again, I was in shock,
and the nurse proceeded to tell us that Christiana was being taken to the ICU because she probably
had gastrointestinal disorders, and heart problems, and- at this point, for me,
everything for me was a blur. I looked around the room, to my husband,
to family members for strength. Everyone's staring at the ground;
no one knows what to say or do, except for, who do you think? (Laughter) Heather. All these years, I'm thinking
I have to be this rock for this little girl with a troubled past. And she walks over to me
and takes my hand, and she says, "Don't worry mommy,
she's going to be just fine because you're going
to take great care of her just like you take care of me." Heather saved me. And she's been a great little helper. Having a special needs child
certainly has its challenges, but it's well worth the extra efforts
and let me tell you, she really is too cool. I take total credit for that hair-do. (Laughter) Heather was right,
Christiana's doing just fine. She's happy, she's healthy,
she's very high functioning. She's got some delays, of course, but, she has the right name because she has her uncle's strong spirit. As I've watched my girls grow up, they remind me of Chris and me. I can sense that Heather
will always be Christiana's protector. (Hmm) Hmm, God, it just gets to me still. (Sniffs) She'll always be her protector, and I know that they're always
going to have each other's back. Now, about this time, my relationship with my own parents
had all but disintegrated. They didn't do everything wrong, and in some ways Chris and I
had a privileged upbringing. They absolutely deserve empathy
for losing their son. They're humans and they made mistakes. We all make mistakes. But I've come to learn what matters most
is that we learn from our mistakes. And you have to remain cautious
around those who don't. At all costs, you must protect
your own children. All of my siblings, in our own time,
and for our own reasons, have come to our final breaks
with our father and my mother. (Sighs) About, not long after that, when Christiana started
a full-day school program, I started accepting invitations where
"Into the Wild" was required reading. It had become required reading at about 3,000 high schools
and colleges around the country. It was an opportunity
for forced reflection. I began to understand what a disservice
I had done to my brother. I had insisted that certain blanks
be left in Chris's public story. People, understandably, inserted
their own answers into those blanks, that Chris was mentally ill, that he was just
another rebellious teenager whose story had been
romanticized by the media, that he was suicidal. None of these assumptions were the truth. And when I gave the honest answers
to the students I spoke with, safe inside the intimate walls
of the classroom, I saw the incredible impact
it had on them. The personal perspective
I was able to provide, took Chris beyond
that literary legend he'd become, and it made him more relatable. Now I understood that teachers
didn't assign "Into the Wild" so their students would
get a better understanding of Chris, it was so they would achieve
a greater understanding of themselves. Listening to their questions, I understood that these students
are at this age of opportunity where they're deciding who they are. They're choosing the paths
that will determine who they will become. As I listen to their questions, I realize that my brother's story
was no longer just an assignment, it became a real lesson
that they would take with them far beyond that campus, into their lives as leaders and lawmakers, and husbands and wives, and partners, and most importantly, as parents. And I saw that they learned far more
from what makes Chris human, than from what had made him iconic. I decided that it was time
for me to be accountable for all that had remained unsaid, to tell my story, to tell the whole story. Since we were kids,
Chris had always taught me to journal, and after three years of very hard work, those journals turned into a book. Which is fair to say was far more painful
than the nine-pound baby. (Sniffs) When I first began writing
"The Wild Truth," I did so with students in mind. I hadn't really intended for it to start a new conversation
about domestic violence, but taking a second look at Chris's story caused people to take a closer look at the stories
within their own communities. Not long after my book was published,
I got a letter from a friend from church. Her name's Catherine Miklos, and in her letter she noted, "The power of abuse is in the silence
its perpetrators demand. The cycle is broken by diminishing
that power through exposure." I haven't left one school, not one school, where at least one student
didn't come up to me to talk about their own experiences
and reach out for help for the first time. It made me think how Chris's story
might have been different if someone had spoken openly to us. Sometimes people talk about whether Chris's life
can be considered a success, because he died so young. I say they need to ask themselves
if life is more about quality... or quantity. One of the greatest things
you can hope to do in this life is to inspire someone, and Chris has done that
for so many people, even without intent. Now in the days of social media, I receive constant messages
from incredibly diverse people telling me how Chris has inspired them to make positive changes
in their own lives. I think that life is like a book. Now, unless someone
invents the cure for mortality, we all have the same first
and last chapter. What makes up the story of our lives
and the legacy that we will leave behind are the pages in between. Now for me, serious thoughts about legacy
have little to do with famous stories, books or movies. It has everything to do
with these two little girls, although I guess I can't really
call them little any more. Heather's now 16 and Christiana is nine. Both their lives had a rocky start. And I know they'll each have
their own adversities to overcome. But I want to empower them
to stay on their own true paths, even when the walking becomes rough. What I have to teach them, what I have to show them
through my own actions, is that their DNA will not define them. In closing, I'd like to read
a short excerpt from "Into the Wild," where Jon Krakauer describes one of the last things
Chris does before he dies. "He tore the final page
from Louis L'Amour's memoir, 'Education of a Wandering Man.' On one side of the page were
some lines L'Amour had quoted from Robinson Jeffers' poem,
'Wise Men in Their Bad Hours.' 'Death's a fierce meadowlark:
but to die having made Something more equal to the centuries Than muscle and bone,
is mostly to shed weakness. The mountains are dead stone, the people
Admire or hate their stature, their insolent quietness, The mountains are not softened or troubled And a few dead men's thoughts
have the same temper.' On the other side of the page,
which was blank McCandless penned a brief adios: 'I've had a happy life,
and thank the lord. Good bye, and may God bless all.'" Jon Krakauer continues, "One of his last acts
was to take a picture of himself standing near the bus
under the high Alaska sky, one hand holding his final note
toward the camera lens, the other raised
in a brave beatific farewell. His face is horribly
emaciated, almost skeletal. But if he pitied himself
in those last difficult hours, because he was so young, because he was alone, because his body had betrayed him
and his will had let him down, it's not apparent from the photograph. He is smiling in the picture, and there is no mistaking
the look in his eyes. Chris McCandless was at peace, serene as a monk, gone to God." Now, it's impossible for me
to look at that picture Jon talks about without crying, but in a way it's a good pain. I know that Chris died at peace because of the paths
that he had chosen in life that kept him true to himself. And in the end, whenever that end comes, isn't that the best
that any of us can hope for? Chris achieved eternal life certainly through the written pages
of "Into the Wild," but more importantly,
through his own faith. He loved life more
than anyone I have ever known, and he wanted to have a long one, but his main concern
was that it be purposeful. My brother's story is globally known, not because he died, but because he truly lived. And he lives on in the lessons. Thank you. (Applause)
