When Dad's Get Even Smarter

“It’s What You Learn After You Know It All That Counts”

John Wooden

So, I’m writing on Labor day, mostly because I’m thinking about my dad. And I always knew my dad was smart, but I also spent some time thinking I knew it all.

My dad had Rain Man type skills when it came to numbers. Line up 50-numbers and Dad could total ‘em up in his head in a few seconds; and by the way, he never lost during our semester break trips to Las Vegas.

Dad wrote poetry to Mom. After my mom passed, then newly hired Financial Coordinator Dalila and Registered Dental Assistant Crystal volunteered to help me clean up things at home (Dad had lived long enough to see me open my dental practice and I’d committed to being there for Mom ever since.) So, I walked in the front door one day only to see Dalila and Crystal in tears and holding letters my mom had tucked away. The poems from Dad were at once timely, funny, and loving. I cried too.

Dad was a Los Angeles All-City high school baseball and basketball player. Dad lost a professional baseball career to an arm injury and a high school diploma to the Great Depression. Dad first had to help support his parents and then a young family of his own.

My dad’s father was 6’ 4” and born before the Turn of the Century; I knew him for only a few years. For me, Grandpa was a handsome, kindly, white-haired gentleman who called Mom “Sis.” In his day, Grandpa was a force to be reckoned with and an early Bay area union organizer who wasn’t beyond cracking a few heads to get management’s attention.

Dad’s mom was Native American and born into the Pechanga Band of Luiseno Mission Indians in Riverside County. Grandma edited the California Indian News and was a dedicated lobbyist for the California Indian Rights Association. Grandma was a kind, beautiful lady; I can still recall her expressive eyes, prominent cheek bones to-die-for, and an amazing backyard comprised of every vegetable I’d ever seen as a 10-year old.

Dad’s parents were activists. They were solidly committed to their social convictions and they were honest, fair, and completely empathetic to the cause of those in need of labor representation and civil rights.

Dad did whatever it took to support his family. He was a salesman, worked in warehouses, and even played company baseball and softball to help pay the bills. But for most of my life, Dad was a business representative for the Teamster’s Union. Grandpa would’ve been proud. Dad mentored workers and negotiated contracts and grievances with management; he was doing what he loved and following instincts that were expressed in his DNA. Dad was my hero.

And teenage me thought I was special. Maybe I didn’t know it all, but I was close. I was close right up until my 2.13 GPA first Quarter performance at Cal State, LA. Next thing you know, I had a warehouse job that I kept during the next three years of college. When I look back today, I can’t believe how composed and practical my dad was while he watched me maybe throwing away an opportunity he would’ve cherished.

I was accepted by all five dental schools to which I applied. My last interview was with the USC School of Dentistry Dean of Admissions; Dad waited for me in the car. The interview was informal. The Dean congratulated me on my work in the classroom and on the Dental Aptitude Test; he then asked about my dad’s work. I replied and heard, “Unions were good in their day.” Without skipping a beat, I asked for the Dean’s thoughts on slavery.

Back in the car, Dad shook his head and smiled; he said he was proud of me but added, “Sometimes you have to be smart.”

I was glad I hadn’t learned everything after I thought I knew it all.

Best moment of my life; standing up for my hero.