To My Dad: A Fathers Day Tribute

(Author's Note: I originally published this post in 2011 upon the anniversary of my Dad's death. I've been talking alot about my Dad this Black History Month, so I decided to resurrect this entry. Enjoy)

This is my first Fathers’ Day without a father.  My father passed away this year, just before Mothers’ Day.

When people talk to me about a True American Hero, my thoughts automatically turn to my Dad.  At age 20, my Dad landed on the Korean Peninsula to help beat back the North Korean invasion into South Korea.  A “straight-legged Infantryman,” Dad ground-fought his way from the southern port city of Inchon to the Yalu River Valley in the northernmost corner of the peninsula.  Along the way, Dad managed to save the life of a South Korean general and his driver; this act earned him the Distinguished Service Cross (the nation’s 2nd-highest military honor)

In early December of 1950, Dad’s unit was fractured and scattered by the invading Chinese.  On the 16th of that month, after weeks of evading capture, my father became a prisoner of war.  As he was marched to the first of six POW camps he would occupy, Dad watched many of the senior enlisted soldiers removing their rank insignia from their uniforms.  Dad found such actions “appalling” and “cowardly.”

Upon arrival at their destination, Dad found himself the ranking man in a hut of 17 other prisoners.  After three years, six camps, frostbite, and enduring tortures too numerous and graphic to mention (to include having both knees broken personally by the camp commander), Dad brought 15 of his 17 charges out alive.  Dad would often tell me the story of the camp commander’s last words to him before crossing the Korean DMZ, hobbling along on his makeshift crutches:  “You were a Man, Sergeant Jones.”

They broke his knees, but they never broke him.

My father would go on to complete another 14 years of service to the nation.  During that time he would meet the love of his life and go back to Asia for two more years of warfighting in Vietnam.  When he retired from the Army he went straight back to work, entering the world of Boston banking where he would stay for 13 years before moving on to administration & management for a government contractor.  When he (finally) retired at age 60, he remained active in charities and community projects to the point where I would hardly catch him on the phone.

Despite his dedication, intellect, and work ethic Dad repeatedly found himself the victim of a myopic and hateful society.  Dad’s goal was to become a bank officer.  He was told that he would need experience and a degree in order to be considered.  Dad took every job imaginable in the bank, learning as much as he could at every step.  He took college courses at night and on the weekends to finish his degree at Boston University.  Finally, when he met all the qualifications, he asked his mentor at the bank when he could expect to be promoted to an officer position.

“Never,” was the simple, unqualified answer.

Undaunted, my Dad took his skills to a second finance institution that gave him the promotion and responsibility he sought.  As usual, Dad worked hard and tirelessly at his job.  He optimized processes, created efficiencies, and raised the standards of the Bank’s money room (where all – all – funds came and left the bank daily).

Three years into the job, several thousand dollars turned up missing.  My Dad’s processes allowed the bank to find the money and the person who stole it – in less than a week -- yet they fired my Dad as well for “failure to properly supervise.”  Several years and a contentious lawsuit later, we learned that the money was deliberately misplaced at the behest of a senior bank officer who felt that my Dad was getting “too uppity” for his own good and needed to be “put in his place.”  While Dad won that war eventually, as a teenager I watched the battle of a man who had worked since he was 15 dealing with being blacklisted by his former employer to the point where no one would consider him for meaningful work.  Still unbent/unbroken, Dad soldiered on; he found legal representation and took any job he could to keep food on the table.  After six months he managed to find meaningful work once again…but he vowed never to supervise anyone else for as long as he lived.  

There are days in my career when I can appreciate that sentiment.

Dad’s challenges were personal as well as professional.  Our family “block-busted” every time we moved.  This was not a set objective; rather, we moved to where the schools were good and the neighborhoods were safe.  Invariably, these neighborhoods were white.  Many nights Dad would stay awake in our home with a shotgun across his knees, keeping his family safe from those who burned crosses on our lawn (it happened twice – and remember, I grew up in Massachusetts) and sicced dogs on his very-young children.   Dad refused to leave or to bend; “I fought for the right to live where I want and raise my family,” he would tell me.

Dad was an “old eighty-something” when he died; the impact of the camps, three Purple Hearts and exposure to Agent Orange were things he felt daily.  My father had lived with and in physical pain for 61 years of his life…but he never complained about it and just worked through it.  

Dad had always wanted a big family; together with my mother, he sired 4 sons and a daughter.  By 1988, however, he had buried 3 of those 5 children…all at young ages, and all under tragic circumstances.  In 1995, after over 30 years of marriage, my father buried his soulmate and best friend.  That was the third of three times that I can remember my Dad publicly shedding a tear.  My only solace around my Dad’s passing is that he will be able to dance with my Mother and hug my siblings once again.

My Dad never taught me to fish, hunt, or play catch.  He never coached a sports team or led a Cub Scout pack.  He was not a Man you “hung out” with or who engaged in spontaneity.  He loved us all dearly and was always there for our milestone events, but his was a decidedly TOUGH love…a loved that was expressed daily via hard work and perseverance.  Dad’s lessons in Manhood were delivered by example and were deceptively simple.   Hard work.  Self respect.  Self discipline.  Tenacity.  Integrity.

Above all else:  live life on your terms…not those that someone else would dictate for you.

The grey in my hair continues to expand even as my hairline recedes.  It has been over a decade since I first heard my Dad’s words coming out of my mouth as I addressed my own son; now, if I listen closely, I can also hear his inflections and intonations.  Each morning more and more of him greets me in the mirror.

I am not as hard a Man as my Dad was, but I believe I have been at least as good a Man as he.  I truly hope that that has been Man enough to prepare my own son as he gets ready to make his way in the world.

I miss you, Dad…