Acknowl­edg­ments often serve as a qui­et trib­ute to the indi­vid­u­als whose pres­ence shaped a project, even if they nev­er appeared on the page. This sto­ry began with a deep admi­ra­tion for Sy Friend, a man whose lega­cy in dis­abil­i­ty advo­ca­cy remains deeply per­son­al to me. Dur­ing my col­lege years at Ober­lin, I spent four sum­mers at the Vari­ety Club Camp for Hand­i­capped Chil­dren, where Sy’s lead­er­ship was defined not by lofty speech­es, but by the dai­ly dig­ni­ty he extend­ed to every child.

His actions spoke of a time when inclu­siv­i­ty was not a buzz­word but a per­son­al mis­sion car­ried out qui­et­ly and con­sis­tent­ly. He was nev­er the­atri­cal, but always present—his kind­ness root­ed in real, observ­able impact. I learned there, among the pine trees and bunk beds, that true lead­er­ship is best mea­sured by the rip­ple effects it leaves on oth­ers, not by acco­lades or atten­tion.

I remain indebt­ed to the extend­ed camp fam­i­ly, who exem­pli­fied Sy’s val­ues in ways big and small. Leo and Vera Posel gave more than land—they laid the foun­da­tion for gen­er­a­tions of heal­ing and dis­cov­ery. Bill Saltz­man saw some­thing in me at nine­teen that I hadn’t yet rec­og­nized in myself, nudg­ing me toward men­tor­ship when all I want­ed was a pay­check and kitchen work. Then there’s Vin­ny Caris­si­mi, who showed that loy­al­ty tran­scends profession—his legal coun­sel saved many of us more times than I’d like to admit.

Sy’s life was a mas­ter­class in ser­vice. He embod­ied vital­i­ty, pac­ing through camp in spot­less white sneak­ers, opera arias seem­ing­ly guid­ing his every move­ment. He had an uncan­ny mem­o­ry for names—campers, their fam­i­lies, their stories—because peo­ple were nev­er back­ground char­ac­ters in his world. His staff was inten­tion­al­ly diverse before any­one asked for it, and though the days were long and the pay mod­est, we left with a kind of wealth that only char­ac­ter-build­ing can offer.

The mem­o­ry of Sy’s night­ly rit­u­al remains crys­tal clear. At bed­time, he’d play an old record­ing of taps, his voice gen­tly fol­low­ing with “Good night boys and girls.” Those few words car­ried weight, spo­ken not to the mass­es, but to each child, as if it were meant just for them. As night set­tled, you could hear their hushed replies from inside the cab­ins: “Good night, Uncle Sy,” echo­ing soft­ly across the trees.

He nev­er allowed air con­di­tion­ing, insist­ing that the chil­dren deserved to feel the wind on their skin. It was more than practicality—it was his way of remind­ing every­one that life should be expe­ri­enced ful­ly, even through its dis­com­forts. To him, these kids weren’t frag­ile beings to be shel­tered, but whole indi­vid­u­als capa­ble of strength, expres­sion, and joy.

Sy was more than a sum­mer fig­ure; he was a prin­ci­pal in the Philadel­phia school sys­tem dur­ing the aca­d­e­m­ic year, and a sum­mer leg­end to us. One sto­ry that cap­tures his qui­et pow­er came from Lam­ont Gar­land, a deter­mined kid from North Philly who relied on crutch­es his whole life due to cere­bral pal­sy. Lam­ont worked at the Philadel­phia Elec­tric Com­pa­ny for over two decades, proof that per­se­ver­ance is not bound by diag­no­sis.

He once told me about Sy vis­it­ing his school, the Widen­er Memo­r­i­al School, a his­toric insti­tu­tion known for its ded­i­ca­tion to edu­cat­ing stu­dents with dis­abil­i­ties. Lam­ont was no more than eight at the time, and his face lit up as he remem­bered it. Sy had no offi­cial rea­son to be there. He wasn’t a speak­er, teacher, or par­ent that day. He sim­ply walked into their school assem­bly unan­nounced.

And the chil­dren, instinc­tive­ly, stood up. No cue was giv­en, no intro­duc­tion nec­es­sary. Just the pres­ence of some­one they admired and trust­ed. Lam­ont described the moment with the rev­er­ence of a man who, decades lat­er, still held onto that sense of won­der. It wasn’t about what Sy said—it was about who he was.

This memory—this unspo­ken acknowl­edg­ment from chil­dren who need­ed no prompting—is the most pow­er­ful endorse­ment any­one could ever receive. I think about that scene often: a crowd­ed audi­to­ri­um filled with wheel­chairs, walk­ers, and resilience, ris­ing in uni­son for a man who saw them not as dis­abled, but as com­plete.

These acknowl­edg­ments are not mere­ly a for­mal nod at the close of a book—they are my attempt to pass along a torch. To remem­ber those who taught me what real equi­ty looks like, not in the­o­ries or slo­gans, but in action. To those who build spaces where every­one feels seen and val­ued: this is for you.

If you’ve ever sat beside a child and lis­tened more than you spoke, if you’ve ever made some­one feel less alone sim­ply by show­ing up, then you under­stand the lega­cy Sy left behind. He was a cham­pi­on of pos­si­bil­i­ty, a believ­er in sec­ond chances, and a qui­et archi­tect of futures that might nev­er have exist­ed oth­er­wise.

May this book car­ry just a frag­ment of the empa­thy and resolve he instilled in those of us lucky enough to cross his path. And may read­ers be remind­ed that the most pow­er­ful sto­ries we leave behind are often the ones we live every day—without need­ing to be told.