San Antonio Express-News (Sunday)
Lucky to grow up in Dad’s home, happy now to hear him gripe
Several weeks ago, some high school graduates draped themselves with Mexican flags for their commencement ceremonies. They didn’t get their diplomas, but they got their 15 minutes in the spotlight when their stories went viral.
This really bugged my dad, a retired Navy veteran who spends his days making America great again by working on the yard, ferrying grandkids and listening to talk radio. We talk on the phone every few days, and he usually tells me exactly which handbasket we’re going to hell in at that very moment, but because I didn’t write about the flag wearers last week, he told me about a letter he wrote complaining to another columnist who did.
It isn’t surprising that high school students would do this, he said; some young people have the tendency to grandstand when they have an audience. Defending the action, however, is not right because flying another nation’s flag isn’t something any American — or at least anyone graduating from American public school — ought to be doing. Besides, do we really want to detract from the pomp and circumstance of commencement ceremonies with everybody wearing different flags and signs to make a point? Flags, like oaths and patriotism, mean a lot.
That a veteran would feel this way is predictable. But there’s more to it than military service; my dad was born in Mexico to an American mom. He grew up in Nuevo Laredo and has plenty of stories about how different life is on American soil, under an American flag. Those differences changed his life and provided a different future for his kids. The only Mexican flags we ever raised were the ones at the old Pancho’s Mexican Buffet, one of the two restaurants my dad would take us as a reward for good report cards. Appreciating what we had, as well as what we never had to overcome, was a big part of my Mexican American childhood.
So was speaking Spanish, the preferred language at my parents’ house. They always speak Spanish to each other and, as long as I can remember, my dad chose to socialize during nonworking hours in Spanish. But I remember my dad pushing me to speak both Spanish and English clearly, without an accent, because words are how we navigate. College wasn’t an “if ” but a “when,” because my dad believes education, along with hard work, will lead to a happy, fulfilled life. He shares this philosophy with his kids, grandkids, nieces and nephews, family friends and the kids of the family friends, because he takes his role in the extended family seriously. He’s big on walking the walk.
The opportunity to take that role seriously is his American dream realized. His singleincome family had enough of what we needed; our shoes always fit and the major appliances always worked. When my dad’s family went to bed, we rested easy because the door was locked, the bills were paid and there was a solid plan for breakfast. The circumstances that put people on the path to America were foreign to me, not just because I was born in Texas but because my dad is the kind of man who drove station wagons and never wore anything fancy other than the old tuxedo he donned for my wedding and still wears when he takes my mom on cruises.
Sometimes when he calls to lament the state of the union, I can tell he’s been spending a little too much time with Sean Hannity. But it isn’t long before he switches gears and offers to come over and fix something in my house or take my kid to buy a mangonada. I try to listen and understand, especially when I don’t agree with him.
I can do this better than anybody else, because I understand exactly where he’s coming from. I’m just that lucky.