Dear John,

I never figured out how to say No to Ady Barkan.

His first big ask came over a decade ago, during my first term on the City Council. He had drafted the “petition to discharge” to push the bill for paid sick days for all New Yorkers onto the City Council floor, even though it did not have the support of the Speaker. Ady expected me to be the first to sign it—a big risk for a Council freshman.

I tried to trick him, by signing first, but in the third block on the list, hoping that the Speaker’s ire would be drawn to the people who wound up signing ahead of me (thank you Gale Brewer and Donovan Richards). Ady was a little disappointed in my trying to be too-clever-by-half—but he accepted my promise that I’d help get the remaining signatures needed to move the bill.

That was back before his diagnosis with ALS when, as the New York Times wrote in Ady’s obituary this week [[link removed]] , he was “an energetic but relatively anonymous foot soldier for progressive causes, including rights for immigrants and workers, ending mass incarceration, and reforming the Federal Reserve."

In those days, I had the blessing of working with him and our friend Sarah Johnson to launch and build Local Progress [[link removed]] , a national network of progressive local elected officials now nearly 1500 strong—that helped pass legislation like paid sick days and the Fight for $15 all across the country.

After his diagnosis with ALS in 2016, Ady struggled with the darkness of a death sentence. But he then found more courage and organized more relentlessly than anyone I’ve ever known.

Before his diagnosis, it wasn’t Ady’s instinct to make himself part of the story. But afterwards, he built from the story of his own dying body to help catalyze fights for health care justice. He founded Be A Hero [[link removed]] to involve others in those fights. In that work, he took on elected officials regardless of party, inspired others to take action, testified before Congress, and put his body on the line many times. And he was always fighting for care workers [[link removed]] to have the pay and dignity they deserve.

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A photo from the day Ady and I were arrested together at the U.S. Capitol, as part of the fight to save the Affordable Care Act from the Trump tax cuts.

Ady died last week, seven years after his diagnosis. While I know in hindsight it sounds foolishly hopeful, we really believed we had a lot more time with him. So it’s a hard loss. But his memory and legacy is a much greater blessing.

You can read the tributes to Ady from President Biden [[link removed]] , VP Harris [[link removed]] , Majority Leader Schumer [[link removed]] , Speaker Pelosi [[link removed]] , Elizabeth Warren [[link removed]] , Bernie Sanders [[link removed]] , Pramila Jayapal [[link removed]] , AOC [[link removed]] , and many many others. There are moving obituaries in The New York Times [[link removed]] , Washington Post [[link removed]] , NPR [[link removed]] , Huffington Post [[link removed]] , and The Guardian [[link removed]] .

One of my favorites is Jon Favreau's clip on Pod Save America [[link removed]] , which captures both his witty and sarcastic sense of humor, his insistence on using every opportunity to fight for change, and his deep joy in organizing for justice, even in the face of his death sentence.

You can read Ady’s story in his own words in his memoir, Eyes to the Wind [[link removed]] , or watch the documentary Not Going Quietly [[link removed]] . And I still find his rewriting of Reinhold Neihbur’s Serenity Prayer in this op-ed in The Nation [[link removed]] to be one of the most profound reflections on the boundary between courage, acceptance, and wisdom.

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Ady and I ✊

We gathered yesterday in Santa Barbara—on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, in a park he loved, and had imagined many years of walks and runs in—to comfort Rachael, Carl, and Willow, Ady’s parents, and each other. We remembered his impish smile, his wry and bawdy jokes, his inexhaustible energy, his brilliant strategic wisdom (and ok, his confidence in his brilliant strategic wisdom), his commitment to organizing, and his profound belief in all of us and the people we organize with.

Ady’s last big ask came earlier this year. One of Be A Hero’s current campaigns is fighting against the form of health care privatization known as Medicare Advantage. Earlier this year, we passed the point where more than half of Medicare enrollees have been shifted to private plans. We’ll never get to Medicare for All through Medicare-for-Fewer-and-Fewer.

Ady weighed in, urging me to reject the Medicare Advantage contract for New York City—bringing not only moral clarity, but strong legal arguments for why the procurement process was flawed.

In these often heartsick times, there are plenty of days when it’s hard just to get out of bed, much less to keep organizing. On those days, I think about Ady’s courage and persistence. If he could find hope and joy through collective action, in the face of his mortality and brutal reality, we can too.

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Sharing a moment with Ady, Rosa, and Meg.

Thankfully, because I said Yes to a much easier ask, I was able to join him a few weeks ago, when he received the “Freedom from Want” Medal [[link removed]] from the Roosevelt Institute at the FDR Library in Hyde Park. He was typically brilliant, and funny, and inspiring.

After that, we had a great day at the American Museum of Natural History, where he got to watch Carl and Willow’s wonder at dinosaurs and insects and the stuffed animals in the gift shop. By fighting to live for the past seven years, he’s gotten to raise them with Rachael (who was college sweetheart, intellectual and organizing partner, confidante, and infinitely more to him). I love that they will carry those memories of him.

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With the whole crew in California, including Carl and Willow :-)

We ended that last visit just a few hours before Yom Kippur, and Ady wished me a meaningful fast.

I wished him one day of eating again.

“Next life,” he eye-typed back.

I really hope so.

—Brad

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