The Gift of Fire (19 page)
There was something stirring deep within me, and I knew that I was transitioning to a new phase of my life. I took long walks along the waterfront and looked out over the harbor toward the Statue of Liberty, or across the river at the cosmopolitan beauty of the Manhattan skyline. The enormity of New York gave me an unfamiliar sense of anonymity and a great deal of time to be alone with my thoughts.
I was able to do a lot of soul-searching during this time, spending many hours reflecting on the journey I’d begun on March 17, 1982, the day I was burned. Looking back at where I’d come from—all that I’d suffered through and accomplished—I realized that the only thing I truly owned was my unique life experience. I thought I could help others by sharing it … so I decided that’s what I’d do next.
I was excited by the thought of telling my story to as many people as I could. Hopefully, I’d help someone else struggling with the type of challenges I’d dealt with most of my life—and perhaps I’d even be able to inspire others. Yet I had no idea how to get my story out into the world. Helping people had been my motivation when I agreed to appear on
The Montel Williams Show
more than a decade earlier, a show that had reached millions of viewers. But it wasn’t as though television producers were currently calling me up trying to book me as a guest.
I told myself that maybe one day I would get that call. And if playing the drums had taught me anything, it was to practice and be ready when opportunity knocked. So I resolved to learn how to best tell my story and be ready for the day when someone asked to hear it.
I enrolled in a workshop taught by a hugely successful public speaker and author named Steve Siebold. Talk about inspiring! After one good conversation, he told me that I should become an inspirational speaker. “Start telling your story,” he advised. “People will listen.”
Steve was patient with me and taught me how to get to the core of what I had to say. After a few meetings, he even offered me the position of president at a local speaking club he was forming in New York City. I was hugely flattered, but I didn’t think I was ready for that kind of responsibility. I told him that I’d just keep studying the tips he’d given me. I was certain my life was changing direction, and I wanted to learn as much about public speaking as I could. More and more I was feeling the call to pass along my message of how to live life positively, no matter what the hardships were.
It was around this time that I began thinking seriously about becoming a Shriner. This seemed like one of the best ways I could give back and repay that amazing group of people who’d taken such good care of me all those years ago. Without the Shriners, I would have died at Charity Hospital in New Orleans within a few days of my accident. Without question, they’d saved my life.
The Shriners do a lot of good for people, but they’re mostly known for coming to the aid of kids who are hurt, suffering, and in desperate need of help. They did that for me, and I wanted to help them keep doing it for others. As it turned out, I’d soon get some firsthand experience helping others in need, experience that hit very close to home.
T
HE CALL CAME LATE ONE NIGHT
while I was reading in my Brooklyn apartment, and it was the kind of call no one ever wants to receive.
When I picked up the phone, I heard the shaky and troubled voice of my father, who is not the kind of man who lets his emotions carry him away. “Danny, it’s your brother Paul,” he said. “He’s sick and needs help. Can you come home right away?”
“What is it, Dad? What’s wrong with Paul?”
“I can’t believe it, but it’s drugs … heroin. He’s hooked. Your mom and I are so worried, and we just don’t know what to do.”
I tried to calm my dad down and find out what was going on with my kid brother. It turned out that Paul was another victim of Katrina—the death and devastation he’d witnessed had hit him hard, and he’d turned to hard drugs to cope. He’d been living at home, but then he drifted away from the family after the storm’s devastating aftermath. My parents had done their best to make my brother happy and keep him healthy, but they couldn’t get him off drugs. Mom and Dad had tried to reason with him, but the dope had a very strong hold on Paul.
I knew there was no reasoning with an addict, but I also knew I had to get home to be with my little brother. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I said, knowing how much my parents loved their sons and how freaked out they must be. “Paul’s a good kid, and he’s going to be fine. Tell Mom not to worry … I’ll be home by supper tomorrow, and everything’s going to be okay.”
The truth was that I was worried sick about Paul. I knew he was a sensitive kid, and I could only imagine how shaken up he must have been in the wake of Katrina.
When I hung up after talking with my dad, it was nearly midnight, and I spent the rest of the night booking an early-morning flight and arranging for a friend to take care of Dixie. Soon after sunrise, I was in the air and headed back home, back to what was left of New Orleans and to my troubled family.
I didn’t know exactly what to expect after talking to my father; I just knew I was scared. But when I got home and knocked on the guest-room door, my worst fears evaporated. Paul’s face lit up like a thousand-watt bulb as soon as he saw me, and I knew he was going to be all right. Of course, it was going to take a lot of work and a lot of love, but that’s exactly what I came to give.
I didn’t leave my brother’s side for the next two weeks. I took him to AA meetings three times a day, for walks outside in the park to reconnect with nature, and to play basketball and go bowling. I wanted him to see what I’d learned over the years: that negative energy can be rerouted into positive activities that are physically healthy and emotionally fulfilling.
Paul and I would talk late into the night about philosophy and spirituality because I wanted him to begin his own spiritual journey—one that was guided by light, not haunted by the darkness of drug abuse. I opened up to him about my own struggles, as well as the way Johnny V and Wolf had helped me come to understand my spirit and awaken the best parts of me.
A couple weeks later, Paul was looking much better, so I brought him to New York for a change of scenery. I hoped that the city would be invigorating and rejuvenating for him; indeed, not long after we arrived, I could see him beginning to flourish, which made my parents ecstatic. Still, drug addiction is a serious problem, and I knew that my brother was going to need professional help to beat it permanently. A friend of mine who was a former cocaine addict suggested I take Paul to a very good rehabilitation facility in Georgia that my buddy knew about. We discussed it, and my brother agreed to go in order to put the cap on his own recovery.
T
WO YEARS AFTER
K
ATRINA HIT
, I decided to head back to Louisiana so I could be there for Paul when he returned from rehab. I promised my brother that I’d always be there for him, and it was a promise I was going to keep.
Today, Paul is clean and sober and thriving in a new career, and our bond is even stronger now than it was before. I’m honored that he let me help him deal with his challenges, and I hope he knows how much
he
helped
me.
Thanks to him, I knew for certain that it was time to start focusing my energies on helping others. Among other things, I did decide to become a Shriner. So when Mike Andrews, the executive vice president of Shriners International, called a few months later and asked me to become one of their ambassadors, my answer was an emphatic
yes!
The first time I’d spoken to Mike was back in 2003. He’d called me at home in New Orleans and asked if I’d be willing to be featured in a short documentary titled
Without Limits,
which would promote the good works of the Shriners Hospitals for Children. The filmmakers wanted to chronicle how the Shriners had helped me survive and, through countless surgeries, made it possible for me to live a relatively normal and successful life.
Mike told me that the film would premiere at the Shriners International convention in Minneapolis that summer, and he asked if I’d speak to the audience and play the drums for them. I happily agreed to it all, telling Mike that it would be an honor to help in any way I could.
A few weeks later, the film crew arrived at my home and spent several days shooting footage of my family and me. They even followed me to some of my gigs and filmed me playing like a madman at a jazz club in New Orleans. That July, the Shriners flew my parents and me to Minneapolis, and we watched the debut of
Without Limits
with thousands of Shriners from all over the world.
As promised, I went onstage after the screening and began playing the drums. It turns out that I had to play louder than I’d ever done in any club—because in the middle of my brief set, I received the largest standing ovation of my life. After I finished, I gave a short talk about my journey from burn victim to professional musician, all thanks to the Shriners.
Later, Mike told me he thought I’d done so well that I should consider a career as an inspirational speaker. While I shrugged off his suggestion at that point, Mike planted a seed in my head that ended up blossoming a few years later when I was in Brooklyn, looking for a new direction after Hurricane Katrina.
M
Y FATHER HAD HEARD
Mike’s suggestion at the convention in 2003. He agreed that I’d be a good speaker, if only I could overcome my debilitating shyness. So, that same year, I joined the New Orleans chapter of Toastmasters International, a worldwide group that helps members improve their public-speaking skills. In essence, they teach you how to speak in front of large groups of people and not be scared to death!
I tagged along with Dad to a series of meetings, but at first I was too timid to speak. I wore dark, baggy clothes to try to hide myself; and when I was called upon to give a presentation, I’d tense up and my heart would pound so hard I thought my ribs would break. And when I tried to talk about being burned and the challenges I’d faced, I’d get too emotional. Instead, I’d hook up a VCR and pop in the
Without Limits
video and let that tell the hard parts. When the movie was over, I’d talk about learning to play drums and then let those drums speak for me.
It took about a year, but I did get over my fears and learn to enjoy my presentations. In fact, as I got more comfortable, I became more daring. For example, one evening I wanted to say something about the importance of persistence. I thought,
What better example could I possibly use than my seven-year struggle to tie my shoelaces?
Instead of telling the audience about my struggle, I just showed them. I started my talk with my right foot perched on a stool and my shoelaces untied. I lifted my arms away from my body, allowing everyone to see that I basically had no hands. Then I bent down and silently tied my shoe. When I looked up, I could see tears in the eyes of at least half a dozen people. It was the first time I really thought I could touch people’s hearts.
That night I met Kevin and Amity Carriere, a husband and wife who went on to become good friends of mine. They approached me after my “talk” and told me that watching me tie my shoelaces was one of the most inspirational moments they’d ever experienced. I was flattered and thanked them for their kind words. We then began to talk about people who had inspired us throughout our lives.
“Have you ever heard of Wayne Dyer?” Kevin asked.
“Yes, I have,” I said with a smile. “I haven’t read any of his books, but you’re the third person to mention him to me this week.”
For me, that was the signal that a new chapter of my life was about to begin.
In the spring of 2004, I arrived at my parents’ house for dinner. As I opened the door, I was nearly knocked over by my dad, who rushed toward me and enthusiastically waved a book in my face. “Danny, you’ve got to read this,” he insisted. “Really, you’ll love it!”
I think I laughed at his exuberance—as I’ve said, my father is the even-keeled type. But he was always trying to convince me to read books he’d enjoyed, and since he’s a devout Catholic, our tastes are quite different. So I just replied, “Sure, Dad. Whatever.”
“No, I’m serious, Danny. This book is so good, it could change your life.”
I took a quick glance at the book my father was holding in front of me and saw a very kind-looking man on the cover. I assumed that Dad had picked up a religious book at church in the hopes that I’d read it and start going to Mass again.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly not closed off to reading about religion per se—quite the opposite. My friend and former teacher Johnny V had turned me on to all sorts of books dealing with spirituality, and I’d read countless volumes on Eastern religions and philosophy at Loyola University. I just didn’t like Christian dogma, since I’d grown up with it and knew it inside out. There were so many other books out there for me to discover that I didn’t feel like going over such familiar territory.
“Just leave it for me by the door and I’ll take a look at it later,” I said to indulge my father, planning to do nothing of the sort. Even though I didn’t take the glossy hardcover with me as I left the house that night, I did glance at the cover again on my way out. I saw that the book was called
The Power of Intention,
and it was by a writer I’d never heard of before: Wayne Dyer.
