By Their Bootstraps?

I've written several posts about my father since I've started blogging. Here's another.

Come November 25, my father will reach the ripe old age of 85. I can say with all honesty that he's probably been through more and worse shit before the age of 15, than I did in all my 45 years.

He grew up poor on a finca in the mountains of Utuado, Puerto Rico during the Great Depression. He told me on many occasions that his worldview was shaped by his experiences of doing without during that period.

Like many young men his age, he tried to volunteer for military service during World War Two. But he was rejected for medical reasons. Instead, he took a job in a mental institution in San Juan until the war was over, and migrated to the lower 48 like many of his compañeros in 1946. He packed his meager belongings and moved to New York City in the hopes of good jobs and opportunities. There weren't many; particularly for off-the-boat Puerto Ricans.

But Dad was a hustler. He worked in the sweatshops on Broadway near Broome Street, where he met my Mom in 1948. He drove cabs and cut hair. He even tried his hand at running a grocery store. He had help along the way; people who were willing to take a chance and give a job to a hard-working guy with a 6th grade education. It wasn't always enough.

It wasn't until he was employed by the New York City Housing Authority that his fortunes took off. I'm not sure when he exactly landed the job with the NYCHA, but not long after I was born in 1963, we moved from a shit-hole tenement on Broome Street to a huge four bedroom hi-rise apartment on the corner of Pitt and Delancy Streets. By 1969, we were on the road again; a short ride uptown to 6th Street and Avenue D, where in exchange for being an on-call employee, we got to live virtually rent-free in a three-bedroom apartment.

From what I can tell, my Dad was quite grateful for this opportunity. During the 1977 blackout he risked life and limb to pull people out of stuck elevators, walking up countless flights in pitch black stairwells in unbearable heat with nothing but a flashlight, a pocket knife, and a fireman's key to open the doors. Not only that, he had to stop on each landing to yell out to determine exactly where the elevators were stuck. Sure, he acted out of a sense of duty to his job. It was what he signed up for. But given the extraordinary conditions, I doubt any of his bosses would have blamed him if he had stayed home.

What I find fascinating is my father's generosity. He is a giving man, almost to a fault. My sense is that this trait has its roots in the opportunities he got when he first landed Stateside. His journey challenges to some extent the do-it-alone, lift-yourself-by-your-bootstraps mentality because the fact of the matter is that he had help. In fact, his plight is no different than many other immigrants that came before him who thrived on a combination of individual charity and government assistance.

This combination of assistance is what enabled him to save enough money to buy a really nice two-family house in Richmond Hill, (Queens) NY in 1978 and retire to a huge three-bedroom, two-acre ranch home in 1994. And to this day, his generosity still knows no bounds. He has taken in countless relatives and provided food and money to people with little expectation of getting anything in return. In his mind, I think it was an investment that gave returns not in interest-accrued monetary compensation, but in the notion that an investment in people is a good thing for this nation because it creates a cycle of economic prosperity that comes from a large middle class.

What troubles me is how the children and grandchildren of these immigrants have forgotten where they came from. These are the same people -- many with very ethnic last names -- who refuse to admit that their successes were built on the shoulders of their ancestors. These are the ones decrying the coming "socialism" of an Obama Administration because they feel they're being robbed of their hard-earned wealth, but who themselves are the direct beneficiaries of a Keynesian economic model. I ask them: Where would they be were it not for the breaks their parents, grandparents and great grandparents received along the path to middle-class prosperity?

From the Homesteaders who were given Indian lands to farm, to the Irish immigrants who were given jobs by Boss Tweed; From the turn-of-the-century Italian and Jewish immigrants who built the streets, subways and bridges of New York City, to the dispossessed who were employed by the New Deal; from the soldiers who benefited from a very generous GI Bill following World War Two, to men like my Dad who worked the menial public sector jobs that provided decent housing to millions of New Yorkers, all these "bootstrappers" could not have succeeded without getting a hand up along the way.

So, to all of you proponents of laissez-faire, trickle-down economics who like to point to the immigrant story as a testament solely to the spirit of unfettered, rugged individualism, I say this -- don't forget where you came from. Indeed, it took a great deal of individual sweat equity and effort to make the most of the opportunities given to your ancestors. But let's not forget that these opportunities were given by generous people both in and out of government, and you owe it to the nation and to yourself to pay it forward and give one to those who will follow you.

Stepping Up For Skippy

I was all set for a quite evening last night.

I had no races to run. No guitar lessons to take. No one to drive to this friend's or that friend's house. No test to study for. Nothing.

That is until Skippy called to tell me that she was headed for the dentist. She had been complaining about a toothache for the last few days which made her mouth and face sore. Being the smartass I am, I suggested that her pain may be because she talks too much. Oh, wait, that's my problem....

It turns out that Skippy's problem was much worse than she thought. She called me at work to tell me that she got an emergency appointment with our dentist and that it was at 5:15 p.m. The nerve underneath her tooth was infected and the it had to be pulled.

Me: So what are we going to do about dinner for the kids?

Skippy: I shouldn't be long. I'll make it when I get back.

Me: Don't be silly. What were you planning to make.

Skippy: Garlic pasta.

Me: I can take care of that. Leave me the instructions and dinner will be ready by the time you come home.

Skippy: You would do that?

Me: Sure. Why not?

Famous last words. I've always known that that the job of "mom" is no easy task, but I had forgotten just how hard is that task. Last night, the rust in my ability to play the role showed.

Before you beat me up about making an apparently, sexist remark about the roles of moms and dads. Please understand that our family structure is quite anachronistic. Skippy handles much of the day-to-day load of the household tasks like cooking and doing laundry, while I take care of things like fixing fences, painting basements, car maintenance...etc... It's just how things work best in our 6-member unit most of the time. I help out with her self-assigned tasks and she helps me with mine. Noodle, Zeb and Rick also pitch in by doing their daily chores of tidying up the kitchen, bathrooms and basement.



Here's the lazy one in our house. Eat, sleep, shit and bark at postal workers. What a life! I digress...







My offer to cook dinner last night was sincere, despite the fact that I hardly ever cook. On occassion, I'll fix something for myself. But sandwiches and scrambled eggs don't count, do they? I'm just not that into it.

I am fascinated by those who can cook and create culinary works of art out of any ingredient available. The Cunning Runt comes to mind at this point. The man is a genius in the kitchen and has pictures to prove it.

Me? I can barely follow a recipe, and drove Skippy nuts with my incessant phone calls on how to mix ingredients and the location of important utensils. Here's a partial transcript of our 6:30PM conversation:

Me: Uh...how much olive oil do I use to brown the garlic?

Skippy: Oh, you think I measure?

Me: What do I use to do this part?

Skippy: C'mon man. Use your imagination. My mouth is killing me and I'm still waiting to see the oral surgeon.

Click!

You get the idea folks. I'm clueless in the kitchen. I admit it. By the time it was all over I had yelled at Rick for only wanting plain pasta, and at Zeb for wanting his without garlic in it. (There are other ingredients added -- grilled chicken, broccoli and sun-dried tomatoes are in this concoction.) Thankfully, Noodle was hanging with her BFF, Rachel at her house, so she was spared my wrath.

My patience wore so thin that by the time it was all said and done, I had placed at least five calls to Skippy and swore at my boys at least 10 times, all of which ended with: "What do you think this is? A fucking restaurant?"

When Skippy finally returned home, I barely showed any interest in her condition. That made her cry.

"Oh shit," I thought. "I've done it now."

That's when I grabbed the dog's leash and harness and took him for a walk around the park. It was as much a therapeutic walk for me as it was a strategy session on what to say to her when I returned, starting with an "I'm sorry."

I got home 30 minutes later, gave her a big hug and kiss, apologized profusely for my actions. I then took her out to Friendly's for one of her favorite treats -- a vanilla/chocolate swirl sundae with whipped cream. I apologized again after we returned home. We ate our ice cream in our living room and talked about what happened. She accepted my apology reminding me that I am more than capable of managing the house in her absence. Her point? The drama was unnecessary. Point taken.

Before I close this, though...I need to say one more thing:

Skippy, I'm sorry I went off the deep end last night. You were the one suffering here. Not me. All I needed to do was step up and cook some dinner. I should have just handled things as best I could and not bother you as I did. I should have stepped up and done what other fathers in my placed the world over do on a daily basis.

If anything, days like this show how much I need you and how much the kids need you. We love you and, while we would manage in your absence, we are quite lost without you. There is nothing in the world we would not do for you.

Love.... Spartacus




Isn't she a beauty? I think so. Pick on me if you must. I deserve it. But, please, if you leave a comment, show Skippy some love. She's hurting now and could use a hug or two.