Alan Meredith Blankstein and Lyndal M. Bullock

As I lay in the hospital in the South Bronx with my eye bandaged up. I finally had a chance to reflect on my short 10 years of life. Once in a great while, if you're lucky, your whole world is shattered, and all the assumptions you had about life are up for grabs. This was my moment--and it gave me a chance to reconstruct the world of anger and despair I had come to know and, in a sense, to thrive in.

The sound of my father's footsteps was like a holiday. Although I could barely open my eyes, I was keenly aware of the sounds of people — especially my favorite visitors ! And my dad (a real live gigolo whom I hadn't met until a few months before my accident) was at the top of that list.

It's hard to express how wonderful it can be to finally meet your dad at age 10. The warmth of his smile and his flashy fun ways were such a contrast to the stepfather who spent most of his time beating me verbally and physically. This abuse was a metaphor for his desire to beat me where it really counted-in my spirit. But I escaped that one devastating blow.

My dad laughed at the many nurses who had formed a circle around my bed to tell jokes and play cards with me. They, along with the doctors and interns there, somehow knew what a special moment in life this was for me. This outpouring of affection and love from total strangers was amazing.

One night, the entire hospital staff came back to my room after hours to cheer me on in a game of Stratego with one of the top doctors in the city. They broke out the Monopoly money from the game lying on the floor, and most of them bet on me, even though they probably knew I was no match for this seasoned physician. I think they were betting on me for the long run for putting myself back together again, for making something of my life.

When I got out of the hospital — with one eye fewer than when I went in — I had many challenges ahead of me. I began experimentation with drugs beginning at age 13, and at 15 was once again placed in a group home for boys run by the Jewish Child Care Agency. (I had spent ages one to four in foster homes.)

The doctors and nurses, my mother, even my father were gone now. But at this decisive moment, a new, more enduring pillar of support re-entered my world. one who would "bet on me" in ways that changed my life.

My grandmother, with whom I was reunited at age 15, had a way of putting things. She would belt out in her heavy New York accent, "What are you talking about, you don`t want to live? Even that little cockroach over there runs like hell for his life! And you, a big lunk, you talk about giving it all up?!"

Grandma used to traipse across two or three boroughs in the sweltering New York heat just to use her many-colored coupons on her food shopping sprees. In one hand she brandished coupons good for 25 cents (and more!) off bread and cereal at a store in Queens, while in the other hand she had a collection of data on sales going on in Manhattan stores that was worthy of the CIA. I was sure she would sometimes spend more money on subway tokens from one borough to the next than she saved at the grocery. All this to get the best for me and whatever other family members happened to be present (and sober enough to eat).

I used to dream about having the money to send her on her shopping trips in a limousine. I would send her to all her favorite sale sites, to use all the coupons her heart desired. Then she wouldn't have to work so hard!

This dream, and my grandma, were a big part of what got me through the tough times and on to college. Later, determined to go to graduate school, I shared my plans with the proudest grandma imaginable. But the first semester at graduate school was so hard and so inhospitable, I almost gave up. While contemplating throwing in the towel. I finally got up the nerve to pose this question to her: "Grandma, what would you do if I decided not to finish school and instead traveled around the world with a backpack?"

I knew she would be shocked, maybe even angry with me. She would probably tell me not to give up, that she knew I could finish school, knew I could make all her dreams for me come true. She thought for a long moment while my insides churned. and finally said, "Alan, if you decided to travel around the world, I could probably save $50 a month and send it to you."

After that, there was no way I could give up. I finished school and I haven't turned back since. After graduate school, I worked at a large educational association for several years and then founded the National Educational Service, whose mission is to help create environments where all children and youth can succeed — especially ones who are challenged, as I was. In the 10 years since we began, I've been fortunate enough to work with most of our nation's educational leaders, as well as numerous luminaries from business and government. And although we support some 30,000 people annually and have produced award-winning publications and videos, I know it's just the beginning of what we can do on behalf of young people.

Grandma left this world before she could see all this come to pass, but her spirit is still in me, cheering me on. Betting on me.

Alan Meredith Blankstein is president of the National Educational Service and one of two senior editors of Reaching Today's Youth, along with Lyndal M. Bullock. Having grown up in a variety of group home and foster care settings in New York City, he has been an ardent advocate of young people (is a presenter, author, and developer of C-SPAN and PBS-ALSS programs involving leaders in education, business, and government. Lindal M. Bullock, co-editor of this journal, is past president of the Council for Children with Behavior Disorders and the Regent's Professor of Special Education at the University of North Texas.

Note: The beginning of this article was excerpted from an article to be published in the next edition of Chicken Soup for the Soul.