My dad's daughter

Photo credit: Ebbw Vale Works Archival Trust

I grew up in a family of blue collar workers with no one exceeding a high school education. My dad worked at the local steel mill for nearly 50 years, mostly as a scarfer which was one of the toughest jobs in the mill by many co-workers’ accounts. His sturdy 5’10” frame housed a fluctuating tummy and unquestionable strength. His genetically bald head and an often furrowed brow became a sort of trademark. He often had a beard and a mustache that I loved to run my fingers through anytime I sat on his lap. I also loved when he would kiss me goodbye before going to work and how his soft bristles smelling of both fresh toothpaste and Old Spice brushed against my face. When I was 4 years old, he shaved his whole face clean, and I cried the minute I saw him. As soon as nature allowed, the beard and mustache returned in full force.

One of my 7th grade friends once remarked when meeting my dad, “Wow. He is beastly and awesome.” Although I knew my dad was strong, I saw him even stronger then. I can’t remember him ever lifting weights or going to the gym, but after some thought I realized what his job must be like. It was his tough work ethic and unfaltering motivation that kept him going to work each day, not to mention his devotion to providing his family with as much as he possibly could. The hot, tin mill with its lacking air conditioning became its own oven in the summer. In Chicago, the summer temperatures were frequently above 90 degrees, causing the mill temperatures to easily exceed 100 degrees for multiple days in a row. On top of the sweltering air temperature came the layer upon layer of safety clothing made of retardant materials to keep my dad safe from sparks or stray pieces of fiery metal that flew off while he held his torch with a 3000-degree flame. He often did this insane job 6 days a week with multiple double shifts. Thankfully, overtime paid very well. That was the definition of hard work that I was raised with. And my dad never complained.

Poverty and no solid prospects for the future, plus a mother pregnant with her fourth child, propelled my dad out of tiny town Hickman, Kentucky toward the Chicago-area steel mills. Hickman was once a small, but active ferry boat town on the Mississippi River in far Western Kentucky. My dad’s parents were poor and uneducated. As a result, meals were simple and cheap, such as ketchup sandwiches, because anything else would have cost too much. The day after his high school graduation, my dad made his great escape from a doomed and impoverished life to a bright future where employment and a possible college education awaited. After one semester of balancing the university and a part-time position, the mills offered my dad a healthy income if he would commit to full-time work. The decision was easy: he opted for the working man’s life.

Sometimes I think about what it must have felt like for him to wake up at 5:00am each morning knowing that the day was undoubtedly going to be long, there was no way to avoid the extreme heat, and he would expend all of his energy before he got home. He must have been motivated by the money, not that he was greedy. In fact, he barely knew what some basic things like food and clothing cost because my mom handled that. We would sometimes quiz him after a shopping spree to see if he could guess how much our average-priced jeans cost or what the sale price for leather high tops for basketball would be. He never adjusted his ideas according to inflation or higher quality. A pair of jeans should always cost $30.

Money for him was important so that he could be sure his family was provided for. We had nice clothes and lived in a nice house. We didn’t take many family vacations, but eating out was never frowned upon. My friends were often invited to join us, and my parents generously picked up their tab as well. My dad never bragged about his earnings or anything he had. However, in the eyes of many of his family members he had made it. That boy who bagged groceries at the local E.W. James to buy himself a bike and later a car was now living the middle-class suburbia dream. Over the years I heard some subtle and not-so-subtle remarks from relatives talking about how rich my family was and how spoiled Chris and I were. In their eyes, we had everything we could ever want. I guess it is all relative. My dad knew exactly what people thought of him, and he always kept his feet on the ground. He did, though, make sure that any gifts from Uncle Gerald were just a little bit more than necessary. It was usually my mom’s suggestion, but one that he never contested. This gifting style remained even after my mom passed away.

As kids, my dad would tell my brother and me to work hard with our brains so that we did not have to work hard with our bodies. I listened and appreciated his advice. I was also grateful that he provided us with a life where this distinction was possible. My dad never understood why I researched address pronouns in German and did not even bother to ask about my dissertation. However, he never stopped telling me how proud he was of my accomplishments.

In recent months I have taken time to reflect on my own work ethic and what motivates me to give my best each day. My life looks very different than my dad’s ever did. However, he instilled in me the idea that showing up, giving your best, and providing for your family was a requirement in adulthood. His encouragement led me to explore many fields that I have enjoyed and excelled at. Because I am my dad’s daughter, I learned to love working hard.