Making American Dreams

Kumar Pradanesh comes from India. He is a little rough around the edges. No, Kumar has the social graces of a rabid rhino suffering from hemorrhoids. He managed to save up enough money to come to America from his poor village in India. Once here, Kumar worked some lousy jobs. His dream? To one day own his very own hotel. Kumar scraped, saved, and then got married. As opposed to looking at this as a blow to his dreams, Kumar incorporated his wife into his goals. Granted, coming from a poor village in India, Kumar wasn’t one much for women’s rights. His wife, Paani, eventually bore Kumarh six children. While he loved his kids, Kumar remembered a hard life of poverty in India, and vowed his children would have better.

Pradanesh worked hard, and eventually, after cutting some deals and doing a shady thing or two, he got his hotel. He worked 18 hour days. His wife worked the desk, he did all of the maintenance, and as his children grew old enough, they were given jobs to do around the property. Not chores. Jobs. Kumar didn’t play. When they weren’t working, he had them studying. Kumar didn’t suffer grades below an A, and there were times that old school Indian discipline came out. You can do damage with a bamboo cane, the Pradanesh brood learned.

Eventually, from that hotel, Kumar sent all of his children to Ivy League schools. They all poses graduate degrees, and four of them have formed a consortium that purchases and manages hotels. Their property portfolio is worth hundreds on millions. Whenever they are asked to speak, the first thing they do is talk about their dad’s example of discipline, dedication and following a goal at all costs.

Jaime Rodriguez grew up on the wrong side of Ciudad Juarez. That’s like growing up on the bad part of the low end in the Chi. Or the west side of Hell. He came to the US legally and worked as a migrant worker, then decided to get into lawn care. Rodriguez bought an old lawnmower and signed himself up to cut lawns in the wealthy Caucasian areas miles from his home. He shoveled snow in the wintertime. Jaime married Sonia, and they had a multitude of kids in a short period of time. Jaime was not a nice guy. He got up early, worked long hours, and spent what little time he had coaching his sons’ baseball team. Very competitive, Jaime wasn’t above a jolt to the head or two to reinforce that losing sucks and keep order in his home. Once, when fifteen year old Julio came in late, drunk, and decided to tell Jaime about himself, Jaime showed Julio the difference between growing up in Ciudad Juarez and East LA. East LA lost. Terrified of Ciudad Juarez after that, Julio spread the word to the rest of Jaime’s boys the Latin gangs had nothing on Pops. The kids never joined up. The old man was gang enough. Baseball, anyone?

Jaime pushed his boys hard, and extra money went to baseball camps, equipment and the like. Jaime didn’t miss a game, and was at every awards banquet. The umps and scouts knew him, the coaches respected his opinion. When Julio signed with the Yankees, the first person he thanked was his dad, Jaime. He also thanked his big brother, who signed with the Astros two years earlier, for making him the catcher he became. The other brothers didn’t make it to the majors. Medical school, law school and a high school principalship called. Oh dang.

Roy’s family in Appalachia made white trash look like the Rockefellers. Abuse of every kind, and alcoholism is a given on both sides. Ray watched his father shoot his mother over the last of a pint of corn.

Roy grew up a hard man. He supported himself working in the coal mines and married young. Patterns repeat. Roy never beat Amy, his wife, but he was hard on Lil Zeke. He had to be. The area where they lived was poor, and dangerous. Black gangs make the television and get cable shows made detailing their existence. White gangs become “militias” and blow up federal buildings. Zeke had potential. He could read, something his father couldn’t do, and he was captain of the debate team. If he had to, Roy would keep a foot in Zeke’s ass as long as necessary to get him up outta their West Virginia town and into somewhere respectable.

Ezekiel Roy Hawkins eventually grew to respectability. When he took the oath for the United States Senate, his father stood beside him, tears in his eyes.

Mothers are necessary. Nothing can compare to the love and compassion a mother shows a child. No, I take that back. The love of a grandmother surpasses that, but not by much. Mothers show a child how to love, accept and understand. Some mothers have to do fathers’ jobs, and that’s hard. Part of being a man, and especially a father, is putting love and compassion aside and being able to make those hard decisions, realizing what hurts today can motivate tomorrow and catapult to success the following week.

We always lionize mothers, and we should. We often forget fathers, forget the sacrifices they make, and trivialize their importance. It’s kind of funny, though: when the kid wins a scholarship, it’s mom’s doing. When he goes to jail, it’s Dad’s fault.

As a society, though, we acknowledge that when kids, especially boys, come up from nowhere, make it through rough times and rougher areas, that balding dude in the shiny suit who resembles Junior gets his props. We happily embrace those men, not for doing what they should do anyway, but for beating the odds and living to tell the tale. When that tough love and discipline and pure drive help push kids to heights few attain, we can’t help but look at that father and be proud.

So what’s with the double standard? We can applaud every nationality whose kids do the impossible, we can thank that Almighty those fathers were fathers, but we get mad when Black fathers do the same and achieve the same results? Other races can celebrate the achievements and share the credit between the genders, but in too many cases, Black fathers who do their job (and yes, there are plenty out there) are treated like, “How dare you say something to my child?” As the prison rolls continue to swell? As our Daddyless daughters continue to keep getting pregnant earlier and earlier in life. And our sons value sneakers made in sweatshops more than human life.

Starting with Joe Jackson and ending with the Williams sisters’ dad, Richard, and cats all in between, apologies are in order.