Beyond Dad’s Broken English

Once I thought Dad’s values were not practical in my America.  Now, years later on what would have been his 80^th birthday I write this to honor his memory and his broken Italian/American voice that still rings clear in my ears.

        

“You shou’da been a boy, JoJo.”  That meant he recognized strength in me. 

“Learn music.  We make wedding band.”  It never happened.  But for a while we shared a dream and passion.    

I hated school and quit at age sixteen.  “You work in the store now.”  I got something money couldn’t buy; motivation.  I got my GED, enrolled in college and in time graduated.      

On my fairytale day, just before we walked down the isle, he said, “You can still change your mind.”  He hid his fears well. 

Years later, he knew he could lean on me as we walked with dignity and unspoken hope to the chemotherapy ward.       

The First Interview

Armed with my skimpy resume and a two year business degree, I was ready for the corporate world.  Unfortunately, the corporate world wasn’t ready for me.  Finally, I landed an interview with a prestigious company.  I primped my look and packed my briefcase with everything needed to make a good impression. 

It went all downhill from there.  First, I got lost.  Then, I fell as I rushed to make the appointment, skinning my knee on the offending cracked concrete.  Frazzled and mourning my torn, bloody hosiery, I met with Mr. Smith. He reminded me of Mr. Cotter except he looked as unkempt as the parking lot.  He focused more on the huge zit in the middle of his forehead (which he felt needed popping in my presence) instead of me.  I narrowly dodged the projectile.  Mercifully, the interview was quick and thankfully, I was not offered a job.