My father came from a middle-class working family. As a part-Japanese little boy in Broderick (a poorer part of Sacramento which at the time was mostly white), he faced racism, classism, and yet managed, by his own merit to receive offers at dozens of prestigious colleges; accepting a UC Regents at UC Davis, to live at home...passing up Ivy Leagues.
He had worked the strawberry fields in high school to save money, gas stations and even after making it, during our great recession, working a second job (when he had an MBA) in the evenings, so my mom could stay home, and we had our two houses. And our very expensive private boarding school. And my golf. And my brother's music..
My Dad is funny, sometimes too loud, but I think in part, it is because he merely wants to be accepted. What he does not already know, is that he is. Every one who has met him, loves him. Every one who is his friend, has been for decades, and I as his daughter am only half as good as I am, because of him.
So to my father, who may never read this, thank you. Thank you those long hours, those millions miles you have traveled on American Airlines. The days when you think you cannot keep going, and keep that to yourself, know that Scott and I love you, and you deserved so much more in this world than you have gotten so far....
(On the Greatest Day of My Life, a trip to London's West End, to see for the first time, Les Miserables....with two bottles of Veuve)
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