‘What Would My Father Think About Trump’s Fame and Fortune?’

By Joni Halpern

When the Donald Trump was elected President, he stood at a podium and said, “I wonder what my father would think of me now.”

We cannot know the answer to that inquiry, because we know little about the intricacies of the Trump family’s relationships within their own household.  The facts we do have suggest it was not a warm-hearted, nurturing household in which moral character was an imperative.  It seems to have been more of an intense training ground in how to triumph over all obstacles that threaten the achievement of riches, notoriety, class standing, and acclaim.

There were winners and losers in that struggle, the losers being abandoned to future irrelevance, the winners moving on to ever larger prizes of fame, glory and ardent followers.

What might be a better measure of what Donald Trump has achieved is what our own fathers would think if one of their children had achieved what Donald Trump has achieved — extreme wealth, political power, and millions of followers who have openly conceded that a complete loss of decency is a small price to pay for the political environment they seek.

I can’t speak for anyone else’s father, but I know what my dad would think of me or my siblings if we had risen to fame and fortune by the same means as Donald Trump. Like millions of other dads, mine was not perfect, but for all his mistakes, he never wavered in following a moral compass.

My dad grew up in Chicago.  He was one of six children of a low-wage factory worker and his wife who both came to America from tiny towns in Southern Italy.

My dad was accustomed to sacrifice, even as a kid. He was still in elementary school when he and his youngest brother took their small wagon in all kinds of weather to pick up produce from the local wholesale market, then retrace their steps, stopping at each apartment building to walk up several flights of stairs selling fruits and vegetables to housewives who came to the door with little kids peeking out from behind their aprons.

Then as now, it was typical of immigrant families to share the burdens of keeping a family going.  Children were part of the family economic mosaic; everyone had a job, paid or not, helping the family survive by doing whatever they could.

At eight years old, my dad and his brother learned about personal endurance and produce pricing. It was critical to their little enterprise not to be left with unsold produce, for it would quickly rot, and they would lose money. They covered their whole route every day, no matter how long it took. When they got home, they put their earnings in the family pot, along with the pittance their brothers earned selling newspapers on busy Chicago street corners. Their sisters helped with household chores, all of which were carried out in money-saving ways.

My dad and his brothers dropped out before graduating from high school. Their family needed the wages they could earn from full-time jobs.  They were all smart and had ambitions to become professionals, but family survival came first. My dad did not complete high school until he was 28.

He and his four brothers served in the military during World War II.  Two of them saw combat in some of the worst areas of the war. When they came home after the war, the entire family moved to California where some of them had been stationed temporarily.  It was a place that had weather reminiscent of Southern Italy.  The brothers shared the work and expense of building two small homes in Arcadia that were shared by extended family.

During and after the war years, my dad and his siblings married and had kids, always watching out for each other, helping each other’s families as life grew more complicated.

When my mom became ill with ALS in her early 30s, my dad took care of her.  He washed her, dressed her, carried her to the bathroom, prayed for a cure.  Extended family helped a lot.  But it was Dad who came home from work every day, fixed some semblance of a meal with a food budget that was never enough, oversaw household chores for kids who ranged in age from toddler to preteen.

He taught us how to watch over my mom, instructed us to run and get him at work if she had an emergency.  He sat us down every night and talked to us about the important things in life – decency, kindness, forgiveness, honesty, sharing. We had too little food, too few items of clothing, no money for toys or books.  “We still have each other,” he would say.  “And we have our faith in God.”

My dad always worked extra jobs on weekends.  He also donated his work to the church on many occasions so we could attend the church schools.  He never griped about working so hard, never whined that he was not able to afford even one night out with the guys.  His one luxury was to purchase a bag of his favorite cookies once a month when he got paid.  And even those became the nighttime target of his children when we figured out where he hid them.

One of his great joys was to have a glass of wine on a Saturday night and play his accordion, which he had learned as a young man to play by ear.  He could play almost any song we asked for.

He taught us all to love learning.  At dinner, he would offer a quarter to any of us kids  who was fastest at solving a multi-digit multiplication problem in our head.  He would ask puzzling questions: “A guy gives you a five-pint can and a three-pint can and tells you to bring him exactly two pints of water.  How do you do it?”

My dad spoke often of what he thought was important in life.  He said it was always important to do your best.  Be the best person you can be, he said, not just when someone is looking but when you are the only one who knows.  “Don’t follow the herd,” he warned.  “People are always going wrong when they give up their own conscience and do what everyone else is doing.”  He said we should share whatever we had, especially if we found ourselves with more than we needed, and that sometimes, we should share even if it cost us something we needed.  “People who suffer need hope,” he said, “and that is what you give them when you share.”

My dad worked for the state highway department.  Sometimes when the crews were working along the highways, they would find boxes of items that had fallen off trucks.  Once, his crew found several boxes of very expensive imported chocolate bars.  He was given a box to take home.  He gave each of us one chocolate bar.  They were heavenly, and we were ecstatic that there were many more in the box.  But he made us bring most of the remainder to several of our neighbors.  We objected, because we rarely had money for treats, while neighboring families had plenty. “We don’t need all of these chocolate bars,” he said.  “And our neighbors probably will enjoy them as much as we do.”

My dad used to buy crates of oranges when they were available from a friend at a discount house.  He would take us with him as he shared them with other families who also had a hard time feeding their kids.  He did not care what race or creed the families were.  He loved the feeling of turning into the driveway of one of those families and watching the kids pour out of the house, because they knew he had something special for them.

My dad loved looking deeply into ideas.  Sometimes when he could not afford it, he would cut back on paying the full amount of a bill and instead buy a book on a topic he wanted to know more about.  He loved to argue ideas.  He was not always easy to get along with, he sometimes made some decisions that hurt, but he woke up every day and gave his all to meet his responsibilities to his family, employer, neighbors and church community, even when he was broke, dog-tired, and wondering if God had forgotten him.

Even if one of his children grew rich and became President, my dad would be ashamed of them if they had achieved this by lying profusely, spewing hatred toward others, cheating workers and the government of their due, denigrating everyone who disagreed with them, and churning up violence against the very country my dad and his brothers had defended.

If Donald Trump’s father were here, maybe he would be proud of his son.  But that would say a great deal about his father.  It says even more about us that we acclaim and honor this man who is not even worthy to tie the shoes of many of our fathers.