The Bluest Collar and the Biggest Heart

My father built houses, but never for black people. It started as a roofing and siding business. It was hard, big work in a soft, small town. My two brothers and I always had what we needed, and we knew better than to want more. The only thing I wanted was to stop hearing the n-word at dinner.

It wasn't really his fault, you could say. But is it ever anyone's fault, how they were raised? His dad was an Italian immigrant who landed in Brooklyn, New York. The streets were rough in that time. My dad was the fourth of four boys before two girls, so he was always trying to keep up. He says his brothers used him as a punching bag. His parents wanted nothing to do with the black people around the corner, or anyone who wasn't Italian, really. My grandfather had trouble getting a job on the railroad because he was so dark. You'd think this would give him some perspective on racism, but the dots never connected. My grandfather couldn't vote for Obama, he said so himself, "because Obama is a black man. I can't vote for a black man." All this is to say my dad's head was filled with the language and ideas of racists.

So by the time I was 16, I'd had enough of the n-word, and I was old enough to speak up about it. But he didn't see the harm. He thought the most racist people in our country were black people, not recognizing his own hypocricy. We'd argue about it again after college, when I'd had too many margaritas and he yelled something racist at the TV. "I've known you were racist my entire life; you don't have to show me now." The words ring in my head still, remembering myself stomping off up the stairs and him sitting in silence. In the morning, we never talked about it.

Because you didn't talk about feelings in our house. Sure, if you were a two year old having a temper tantrum, "You could cry." It was okay to cry, but you weren't going to get any consolation for it. No one was going to talk to you about why you were upset. You thought something wasn't fair? Well, "Life ain't fair. Birds eat worms. Dogs eat cats. Cats eat birds. Life's a bitch and then you die." The words were always so negative. Even just yelling at the news. "Same shit, different day," and so on. Did I mention I love my father with all my heart?

That seems an important point to mention here: I love my father with all my heart. Because everyone has flaws. My father no longer makes racist remarks, at least not in my house. People can change. And there are so many things to love about him. He'll talk to anyone at the grocery store, cracking jokes to make them smile. It embarrassed me as a kid, but I see the value now. And he worked freaking hard. Day in and day out, he climbed ladders, slung shingles, nailed boards. He found things to be proud of. "I can use a nail gun with both hands. It cuts the job time in half. I just go along the row and pass it from one hand to the other."

He taught me to find pride in my work, and he instilled a work ethic I carry with me to this day. I never would have made it through a graduate-level physics program if it wasn't for my understanding of hard work and perseverance. My parents gave up their entire life savings on my brother's first year of private high school. I went to the same school, on financial scholarships. They made sure we knew the value of education, and they made sure we worked hard when we got there.

So maybe we always lived in fixer-uppers, never had the coolest new toys, and went out to eat once a year--tops. We were lucky because we had a father who would do anything for us. The day after we had an argument, my dad said something to me I'll never forget. It was the first time I remember him really expressing a feeling, and it's something I make sure my kids know every day: "You know I don't think there's anything in the world I care more about than you kids. In fact, there isn't."