In most cities, “So, what do you do?” or at my stage of the game, “What did you do?” is a harmless piece of social lubrication. You trade resumes over lukewarm Pinot Grigio, nod politely at someone forty years in commercial real estate or orthodontics, and move toward the shrimp cocktail.
Washington, D.C. is different. In D.C., that question can quickly turn into an existential ambush.
I was reminded of this recently while making the rounds in the District. In an era defined by profligate waste and full-blown kakistocracy—rule by the least qualified people in the room—it is tempting to conclude that civic virtue has gone the way of the doctor’s house call.
Then you actually talk to the people standing next to you at the hors d’oeuvres table.
First, I met a retired Army officer who spent his career with USAID. While I was spending my thirties and forties worrying about office overhead and insurance reimbursement codes, this man was flying into the most corrupt, violent corners of the developing world—Somalia, Lebanon, Syria, Bangladesh— risking his personal safety on humanitarian missions. When an earthquake, flood, fire, or hurricane wiped out a region’s infrastructure, he was the guy on the ground figuring out how to get food and clean water to people before warlords could steal it. Now that he‘s retired how does he spend his golden years? Working on his short game? No. He volunteers with the American Red Cross, deploying straight into disaster-stricken areas whenever a catastrophe hits.
Feeling slightly smaller, I pivoted to my left and struck up a conversation with an energy consultant. He spends his days advising major corporations on the economic and technical feasibility of massive renewable energy expenditures quietly doing the unglamorous, nuts-and-bolts arithmetic required to keep the planet from broiling.
Seeking lighter fare, I wandered over to another D.C. denizen. His portfolio? Raising public and policy awareness to prevent global thermonuclear conflict. Try following that up with an anecdote about your recent HOA board meeting. (Nuclear winter sounds rough, Bob, but have you ever tried getting thirty homeowners to agree on a perimeter hedge?)
As if my ego hadn’t taken enough of a bruising, the conversation turned to the gold standard of public-spirited brilliance in this town: Dr. Francis Collins. Before stepping down as Director of the NIH, Dr. Collins led the Human Genome Project an achievement that literally unlocked the six-billion-letter instruction book of human life and transformed modern medicine for countless millions. Better yet, he did it with a rare synthesis of rigorous scientific leadership, deep religious faith, and an unshakeable respect for his fellow man.
And then, inevitably, someone turned to me, smiled warmly, and asked: “And what about you, Larry? What was your life’s work?”
I took a sip of my drink.
“I took polyps out for a living.”
Nothing puts your earthly legacy into perspective quite like realizing that while one guy was dodging mortar fire in Mogadishu to deliver grain, another was holding back the Doomsday Clock, and Francis Collins was decoding the blueprint of creation, I spent thirty-five years navigating five feet of darkened human plumbing in search of rogue mucosal mushrooms.
Of course, once you get past the initial humility, you start looking around at the other quiet giants walking among us the people doing the heavy lifting of civilization while the talking heads scream on cable news:
- The Epidemic Hunters: The infectious disease lifers who spend their careers in BSL-4 containment suits or sweltering field tents, tracking down filoviruses and drug-resistant bacteria so the rest of us only have to worry about seasonal allergies.
- The Wrongful Conviction Lawyers: The folks at the Innocence Project who spend decades sifting through dusty evidence lockers in basement courthouses to free people who have spent twenty years in prison for crimes they didn’t commit.
- The Public Defenders and Legal Aid Lifers: Armed with an overflowing briefcase, a Styrofoam cup of bad coffee, and a constitutional mandate, standing between the machinery of the state and someone who can’t afford a retainer.
- The Mine-Clearers: Organizations like the HALO Trust, whose staff walk inch-by-inch across former war zones in Cambodia or Ukraine with metal detectors so a kid can kick a soccer ball across a field without losing a leg.
It is easy to grow cynical when the loudest voices in the room seem devoted to self-aggrandizement and spectacle. Yet spending an evening among D.C. quiet heavyweights is a tremendous tonic. Moral seriousness hasn’t vanished; it just doesn’t hold press conferences. Good work is still being done, and it is still deeply admired.
Still, I can’t completely write off my own contribution to the human endeavor. Sure, I never stared down a warlord in Beirut, negotiated a carbon-offset treaty, or mapped Chromosome 17.
On the other hand, even a retired NIH director, a nuclear non-proliferation expert, and a USAID disaster veteran eventually turn fifty. And when they do, before they can get back to saving the free world, they all have to drink the same gallon of polyethylene glycol and report to a guy like me.
Saving humanity is noble work. Making sure the people saving humanity stick around long enough to finish the job? I suppose I can live with that.