Born in Burkina Faso

I’ve been writing an annual report for an non-profit org that helps the absolute poorest people on earth take their first steps out of poverty by giving them grants to start a business.

It’s a f-ing brilliant idea, I tell ya.

In the process of working for this org, I’ve learned that I’m one lucky bastard. Top .00001% lucky. The valedictorian of lucky.

It’s hard to hear the conditions these people live in and not feel pangs of guilt. Especially when you’re hearing them over a $2 Starbucks coffee.

They live on 50¢ a day. They survive on one meal of fish flakes a day. They can’t put their kids in school, can’t buy medicine, can’t celebrate weddings, can’t even bury their dead. They have no safe water, no sanitary latrines. They live with crippling diseases (literally), they walk around with fist-sized goiters on their necks. They suffer from polio, rickets, malaria you name it, man. They are caught in the middle of political wars. And on top of all that, they can’t read or write.

Even more shocking: 1/3 of the world lives like this. That’s astonishing, frightening, and sad.

And the only difference between them and us? Geography.

As the president of the org says, “we’re members of the lucky sperm club.”