For dad.
As great as you are, man
You’ll never be greater than yourself
Leadership is in my blood, literally.
My father was a leader in the truest sense. He was often out in front even when he did not have a title or position to put him there. He spent his life leading, and his example still inspires my leadership philosophy.
Dad’s early life was rough. Unlike my father, his father was not a warm and loving man, and his mother made it clear that dad was neither expected nor wanted. He spent a lot of time at his Aunt Laura’s around the corner in Philadelphia’s Overbrook neighborhood where his older female cousins doted over him. That’s probably where he learned to love.
He was drafted into the infantry in 1953 and was on a ship headed to the Korean War when the armistice was signed. He stayed in Korea until 1955 — a time when the war was no longer hot, yet the fighting continued. He made corporal and was given a contingent of men. One time his men had been on patrol for days without a break. After a short rest in camp, a sergeant ordered them back out. My dad knew they were at the breaking point and argued that there were other units that were well rested and ready to go. The sergeant refused to accommodate this 21-year-old corporal, so dad did what dad always did. He put himself on the line to protect his people from this bully. He detested bullies.
He went around the sergeant to get his men the rest they needed and had earned. The sergeant was furious, of course, and vowed that my father would never make sergeant. Despite leadership duties that were in line with the higher rank and several recommendations for promotion, dad left the army still a corporal. He was neither proud nor ashamed of his service, but he rarely spoke of it. His reward, though, was that he married mom that September.
I got an important lesson from my father on how to take on the world when I was in fifth grade at St. Chuck’s Catholic School near Philadelphia. One of our nuns, “Mean Jean,” was a sadistic whack-with-a-ruler type and loved to give us meaningless homework punishments. Almost every night we had to write out several pages of a textbook because of some trumped-up infraction. One time she gave the class a take-home punishment because a kid said “God bless you” when another kid sneezed. Another time we got a punishment when a kid sneezed and we were silent. You see how this was.
Once I was among a few kids who admitted not studying for a science quiz on which I had the highest grade. Mean Jean forced us to carry home our books, all our books. That was not a big deal for kids with rides or who lived nearby, but I lived outside the parish boundaries — a full mile trek — and I had my bike that day.
My parents were beyond furious. As luck would have it, there was a parent-teacher meeting that week. Toward the end, Mean Jean tried to slither out of the room but my father confronted her, loudly, and gave her what-for in front of everyone. You have to realize that other parents were overawed by the nuns — terrified of them — but my father merely smelled a bully and went after her.
I only learned of the incident the next day when kids were all abuzz with the story their parents had told them. For one gloriously freakish hour or so, I was the popular kid, and we never got a punishment from Mean Jean again. That’s how my father taught me that bullies deserve no protection no matter their status.
Around that same time, dad stood for election to head up his large printing pressman’s union local in Philly. He really didn’t want the job, but he hated how the local was being managed and had a vision. He won, twice, and he made a bunch of reforms and presided over several tough negotiations at an extremely volatile time in his industry.
Soon after he took office, he received a call from a gentleman who offered his services and support. Apparently dad’s predecessor was communicating with this upstanding citizen, which explained some of the goings-on during that time. Dad knew right away he was talking to a mafioso and told the guy to never call back. That took some guts — particularly for an Italian-American in the 1970s — but the mob never called him again.
Even at his senior living community, where mom and dad moved in 2006, dad was an active leader. Despite chronic and worsening pain, he organized charitable activities. He also took on injustices as he saw them, even advocating in the dining facilities to make things better for everyone. When he entered assisted living after mom died and numerous physical setbacks, he had a rough time. It was at the height of Covid, so lockdowns were regular. The staff was pretty much on its own. While some aids were wonderful and most okay, a few were nasty, even cruel.
Bullies.
It’s funny. As hard as it was for dad in recent months with his cognitive faculties slipping and confined to his bed, he still had it. He was vulnerable and afraid, but it only took explaining to him that he was protecting others to get him to report the vicious aids to me. Now it was my turn to advocate for dad and, by extension, the others at the facility. Here he was, all-but helpless and still taking on bullies.
And that was dad. Always standing up when others sat quietly even when he could not even sit up on his own. He was not a tall man, but he towered over so many of his supposed betters. He was incredibly generous — to a fault my mom would tell you. He was not wealthy, but he filled others’ lives with riches.
Throughout this piece there is a thread. It’s not just how tough dad was or how he loathed bullies. It is that he loved people, particularly his family. He abhorred bullies because they hurt others. He helped others because they needed help. He fought injustice because it was unjust. He loved us all enough to stand up for us even when he could no longer stand. He put others first, and the desire to try to live up to that example every day is in my blood.
People love to say when eulogizing, which is what I am doing, that so-and-so was great — a titan of achievement or a muckety-muck of consequential title. How often, though, are those great ones any good? Dad had his greatness too, but dad was something rarer than great. He was truly good. And now you know that good can be greater than great.
A version of this piece will be read at dad’s memorial service on April 17th, 2023.
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