Bruce was using the process of building to heal, not just for those who were sick, but for the entire community as a whole.

We call this the locally fabricated way of building, or "lo-fab,"and it has four pillars:

hire locally, source regionally, train where you can and most importantly,

think about every design decision as an opportunity to invest in the dignity of the places where you serve.

Think of it like the local food movement, but for architecture.

And we're convinced that this way of building can be replicated across the world,

and change the way we talk about and evaluate architecture.

Using the lo-fab way of building, even aesthetic decisions can be designed to impact people's lives.

In Butaro, we chose to use a local volcanic stone found in abundance within the area, but often considered a nuisance by farmers, and piled on the side of the road.

We worked with these masons to cut these stones and form them into the walls of the hospital.

And when they began on this corner and wrapped around the entire hospital,

they were so good at putting these stones together, they asked us if they could take down the original wall and rebuild it.

And you see what is possible. It's beautiful.

And the beauty, to me, comes from the fact that I know that hands cut these stones,

and they formed them into this thick wall, made only in this place with rocks from this soil.

When you go outside today and you look at your built world, ask not only: "What is the environmental footprint?" -- an important question --

but what if we also asked, "What is the human hand print of those who made it?"

We started a new practice based around these questions, and we tested it around the world.

Like in Haiti, where we asked if a new hospital could help end the epidemic of cholera.

In this 100-bed hospital, we designed a simple strategy to clean contaminated medical waste before it enters the water table,

and our partners at Les Centres GHESKIO are already saving lives because of it.

Or Malawi: we asked if a birthing center could radically reduce maternal and infant mortality.

Malawi has one of the highest rates of maternal and infant death in the world.

Using a simple strategy to be replicated nationally,

we designed a birthing center that would attract women and their attendants to come to the hospital earlier and therefore have safer births.

Or in the Congo, where we asked if an educational center could also be used to protect endangered wildlife.

Poaching for ivory and bush meat is leading to global epidemic, disease transfer and war.

In one of the hardest-to-reach places in the world,

we used the mud and the dirt and the wood around us to construct a center that would show us ways to protect and conserve our rich biodiversity.

Even here in the US, we were asked to rethink the largest university for the deaf and hard of hearing in the world.

The deaf community, through sign language, shows us the power of visual communication.

We designed a campus that would awaken the ways in which we as humans all communicate, both verbally and nonverbally.

And even in Poughkeepsie, my hometown, we thought about old industrial infrastructure.

We wondered: Could we use arts and culture and design

to revitalize this city and other Rust Belt cities across our nation, and turn them into centers for innovation and growth?

In each of these projects, we asked a simple question: What more can architecture do?

And by asking that question, we were forced to consider how we could create jobs,

how we could source regionally and how we could invest in the dignity of the communities in which we serve.

I have learned that architecture can be a transformative engine for change.