My Dad was born one hundred years ago today. He was the son of immigrants from what is now Slovenia. He grew up poor in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. He worked a few jobs after graduation and at age 23 enrolled at the University of Michigan. World War II came and he enlisted in the Marine Corps, got married, and then finished his engineering degree at UM.
My Dad. 1936. Age 22.
I came along in 1947. He was in his early thirties and having gone through the war and started a family, he most likely was becoming the more reserved taciturn man I knew as I grew to manhood. He certainly didn’t appear to me to be the seemingly easy-going man pictured in the photos in this diary.
Despite his reserved demeanor, he was a good father. He read to my brother and I each night, a tradition I carried on with my own son. We played catch and he coached our little league baseball team.
Most importantly were the values that were instilled. As a child I was taught to be independent, to be principled and ethical, and to stand for what I believed was right.
As the 1960s evolved, I followed those values. By the time my brother and I were in college, our involvement in the major causes of the day – civil rights and the peace movement – had put us on a path that would challenge the established social structure. It would also challenge our father.
My brother and I grew up in a home which promoted tolerance and acceptance. Racist and ethnic slurs were verboten. Our friends were welcomed regardless of background. When I dated and later married a Mexican-American, she was welcomed as part of the family. (In fact my parents questioned why a young woman of her character would be attracted to me, a rather unrefined and non-conformist young man.)
My Dad as a student at the University of Michigan. 1940.
My Dad stood against racism throughout his life, even in South Carolina in the 40s. As a Marine at Camp Lejeune, he and my mother had confronted Jim Crow. He came out ahead in that confrontation but this was South Carolina. It could have ended up much differently.
Nonetheless, despite my Dad’s commitment to equality, civil rights issues were among the many issues that were a source of conflict between him and my brother and me. As we became more deeply involved in the struggle for equal rights, my brother and I moved progressively toward the more radical viewpoints of the time. We were not accepting of compromise and we were not willing to “go slow” to achieve the goal of equality.
My Dad applauded the passage of the 1960s Civil Rights legislation and thought that the problem was solved. Laws had been passed. Now it was all about hard work and perseverance. He had made it through extreme poverty. So could everyone else. He did not understand the anger in the black communities and he didn’t understand us when we espoused our radical views.
We could barely disguise our contempt for his “old-fashioned” views. I believe our disdain hurt him deeply. I remember after one contentious exchange, my Dad said as he left the room, “It’s easy for you. You are part a movement. It wasn’t so easy when I was standing alone.”
He was right and wrong. It was easier for us, but we still faced recriminations for standing on principle. My refusal to back down to my high school principal most likely cost me a $2000 a year scholarship. Standing by my convictions cost me a teaching job. My brother paid an even higher price when he was drafted and resisted during basic training. To his credit, my Dad didn’t openly criticize our actions, but I know he wondered why we had to be so confrontational. I wanted to tell him, “We are simply following what we were taught by you and Mom”.
Eventually I did get to tell him that. He was not an easy man to confront. While I lived at home, arguments often ended with, “If you don’t like it, you can move out”. During college I did move out, but conversations about the issues of the day were still difficult. But at age 26, I finally did confront him.
I was giving him a ride home and the subject turned to my youngest brother, who was openly gay. My Dad took this as a failure on his part. We talked and the exchange grew heated. He demanded that I take him home. I responded that he could get out of the car at any time. (Of course I refused to slow down.) He was forced to deal with me and we actually conversed as equals. I argued how both my of brothers had honored his legacy by their actions. I explained that my refusal to back down to my supervisor was simply following his footsteps. After we reached his home, we talked for another hour or two. The next day he thanked me. It was our last significant conversation. He died a month later.
I am pleased that I had the opportunity for that conversation. On the other hand, I didn’t ever thank him. As a teacher, I have spoken of how we stand on the shoulders of those who have gone before us. And yet I couldn’t see that I stood on my Dad’s shoulders. Without his values, I wouldn’t have been dedicated to issues of social justice and peace. Just today I spoke out against anti-Islamic bigotry. In doing so I continue to uphold the values he instilled in me.
So tonight I will lift a glass of locally brewed beer in my Dad’s honor. (Sorry Dad. There is no more Sebewaing beer available. I can’t find any Strohs either.) I will watch “Field of Dreams”. Like the protagonist in the movie, I often clashed with my Dad. Unlike the movie, however, he did get to know my wife and son, if only too briefly. I do wish he could have met his other grandchildren. Along with my son, they have grown into principled and ethical men and women. They reflect his values and I know he would be proud of them.
And yes, I would love the opportunity to play catch with my Dad one more time.
