By Herbert Hadad

Not so many years ago, we used to sit around the tape player listening to Mel Brooks perform a character called the 2,000-Year-Old Man, the oldest person alive. Recollecting his life as a cave dweller back in ancient times, the Old Man would describe the thrill of discovering fire or women, then say, "Who knew, in those days?" We'd tumble out of our chairs with laughter.

In a way, Northeastern was my cave. I went in uninformed and inexperienced, and emerged five years later a pretty smart guy. Recently, though, I've been thinking about some things I wish I had known when I left college and entered the world. Pretty simple stuff that nonetheless took me a long time to figure out.

Let me share a few hard-earned nuggets. They're not quite as exciting as fire or women, but they may still be useful.

Trust in your talent, whatever it is. I wish I'd known in college that I had talent. Instead, I often retreated to the dubious comfort of self-doubt. If you're surrounded by people who encourage or support your self-doubt, shake them off. I didn't always do that.

No matter what you look like, you're good-looking. It's a fact. Even if you don't attract a flock of belles or suitors, there are people longing to meet you. I didn't believe this for years and years. Spare yourself the anguish. You look just fine.

Never board a sailing boat unless it is securely fastened to its mooring and the skipper, who is mixing cocktails, has no intention of shoving off. My wife, Evelyn, and I were once invited for a weekend at a well-groomed village near Kennebunkport, Maine. On Saturday morning, our host invited us onboard his sailboat to take part in an annual race. "You're our ballast," he said. Being good sports, we went along.

Five hours later, sick beyond description, exhausted from praying for relief or death, we were removed to a dory and returned to land. "You're really green," said our host. Curiously, we were never invited back.

Greet strangers in the street, no matter how different from you they might be. Overcome your shyness for the moment. Sure, they might glare at you and keep going. But, on city streets and country roads around the world, I've found an exchange of waves and a "hi" in any language opens a door, invites a gentle moment, and helps make a day. And, remember, if someone is exotic-looking to you, that's a two-way street.

An important corollary for men: Never hesitate to nod a greeting to a woman, no matter how beautiful she is. When I was at Northeastern, the better-looking the woman, the more tightly my tongue got tied. But now I know better. Even beautiful women appreciate a moment of unobligatory attention. Chances are, those moments don't come along all that often, precisely because they are so beautiful.

I am far from bold, but in the company of my twenty-seven-year-old son, Charles Aram, I often strike up a brief chat with the women we meet on the subway or standing in some line. Doing so, I accomplish two things. I've made a momentary contact that, I hope, offers some pleasure to all parties involved. And I've provided a lesson in bravery to my son. Afterward, he often says admiringly, "I am learning from the master."

In my single days, I dated a girl who lived in a Greenwich Village tenement walk-up with a large kitchen sink that served as the bathtub. One bitterly cold Christmas, I went to Lord & Taylor on Fifth Avenue and picked out what I imagined was a very thoughtful gift. When I presented it, she smiled wanly, then grimaced and said,"Is this what you think of me?"

The heavy-duty pink flannel pajamas weren't quite cutting it. I asked her what I should have gotten. "Lace and frills," she said.

In the same vein, never visit the humor section in a card shop. Don't even walk down the aisle. A goofy card is fine for your fishing buddy, not your girl. Trying to be hip and contemporary, I once bought a funny card for my wife. Even with her innate kindness, she couldn't hide her disappointment at not receiving a sentimental, loving message.

Some career advice: When the sun rises, get dressed. Nothing is accomplished in pajamas or underwear.

Feel lonely. If that's the way you are, accept it. Put it to work for you. A lot can be accomplished in solitude that can't be done amid the most congenial crowd. Loneliness can be its own reward.

My wife and I live in an exurban hamlet north of New York City called Pocantico Hills. As it happens, more than a hundred descendants of the original John D. Rockefeller reside in the environs. One dropped by my house the other night. As we chatted, I told him that I was compiling a list of things I wished I'd known when I was younger. Instantly reflective, he began talking about the privileges and independence he had been given early on, about his desire to live every day with passion.

Then Mr. Rockefeller said, rather suddenly, "There is no value in wealth, fame, or power." An astonishing admission, but obviously heartfelt.

Two nights later, his wife called. She and her husband had been hashing over his report of our conversation, and she had quite a different opinion to relay. "Buy real estate," she said, laughing. She said she couldn't be more sincere.

I asked a few others to weigh in with their life lessons. Sheldon Stick, LA'60, a fellow rowdy from the streets of Roxbury, now a professor of education at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln, said, "I wish I had known how to plan for the future beyond the next day. I wish I had known about the responsibilities of having a pet. I wish I had known about the responsibilities associated with having children."

Although I, too, am notorious for not planning ahead, I've thrived on the responsibilities of helping to raise three children. And since they owe me, I asked the eldest, twenty-eight-year-old Edward Salim, what he's learned since leaving college. Edward is an investment banker and a fledgling standup comedian, with a Manhattan club appearance under his belt.

"Compare yourself with no one," he said immediately, "except the person you were and the person you want to be."

I was bowled over. "I've got more," he said. "There are no failures, just lessons to be learned. Every difficulty sows a seed of opportunity. And don't believe in luck. Luck is the residue of design." He smiled and added, "That one came from my comedy teacher."

Edward and Charles have a sister, Sara Jameel, age twenty-five. One day when she was fourteen, as I drove her home from a voice lesson, she stuck a cassette into the tape player. It was a recording of her singing an Italian aria, sweetly and confidently. I started to cry. "Oh, Daaad," she said.

What I know: If your daughter's voice can move you so dramatically, it's not parental pride. You're in the presence of great music.

This leads me to a relatively new finding. If you become a parent, your children are likely going to be much smarter and much more talented than you.

I've been around. As a newspaperman, I interviewed senators, celebrities, cops, military officers, and people watching their house burn down. I advised a U.S. presidential candidate (not well enough for him to win) and big corporations. I climbed a mountain, ran a marathon, and faced other men across a boxing ring. I became a husband and a father. Today, I speak to the media on behalf of the U.S. Department of Justice. I write, and I teach a writing workshop. These are my credentials.

In a sense, though, none of that matters. Because even when you're completely green and just starting out, you already know everything, as long as you listen with your heart.

Just a few months ago, I was impatiently stuck at a traffic light on my way to a busy day at the office. I glanced over and saw a couple snuggled close and holding hands, waiting for the walk signal. I could tell they had developmental disabilities. I could also tell they were completely in love. The way they looked at each other said, "Right now, we are the happiest two people on earth." Until the light changed, I couldn't stop watching them.

This moment, small as it was, taught me so much. It taught me we're all the same. No one—absolutely no one—is any better or more important than anyone else.

I didn't know that when I graduated.

Herbert Hadad, an award-winning writer who holds a BS in economics from Northeastern, is the first to admit he still has a lot to learn.