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Somewhere in time, he was transformed. After Mom dubbed him as the man who dreamed the impossible dream, he was known to us as Don Quixote. A social worker originally, and later an administrator for a mental health center, he was known to be remarkable. He was a dreamer, yes, but also a crusader for equality. At his funeral, I was stunned by the number of people who came to honor him. He was my father.
On days when I was fortunate enough to go to work with him, I glimpsed a different aspect of Dad with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled. He would eagerly introduce me to therapists, secretaries, custodians and patients in the crowded cafeteria with, “Hey, have you met my daughter?”
Though well-schooled at Columbia and Harvard, my father remained humble. He was the man I would greet soon after his train pulled into the station at 6 p.m. daily. I heard his familiar whistle and watched as he climbed the hill, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, and his arms filled with Betsy books he had borrowed for me from the library during his lunch hour.
We shared the same fiery passion for writing. It was Dad who would tirelessly listen to my new poem or story with rapt attention.
Once, when I had carefully constructed the surface of the moon with clay for a science project, Dad ventured out into the pouring rain to gather “moon rocks” from our backyard.
Some kids inherit their father’s belongings. They think nostalgically of songs, sayings, or memories. Dad left me searching for windmills. He taught me that common people are royalty. He instilled a belief that all things are possible with empathy and love.