THE MEASURE OF A MAN

For the past few months, I have had to spend a lot of time at my parent’s home since they are both rapidly losing their autonomy. My mother, 83, is more and more confused and needs help with her medication. My father is weak and has trouble walking. It isn’t fun to see them deteriorate but in many ways it is a great time in our relationship. This is because I get to have a glass (or two) of my father’s home-made wine every weekend and listen to his stories of the old-country. We have never been so close.

I have heard enough horror stories throughout my career about parents and family relationships that I fully appreciate how lucky I’ve been. Neither of my parents are educated beyond two or three years of elementary school. They can’t read much more than a flyer from the grocery store (and that’s because they have pictures of the sale items along with a price). Yet somehow they managed to have three sons who became professionals.

When I was still in high school, my father had to have his first bypass operation (a triple). Then in 1989, he had a quadruple. He’s been hospitalized at least twenty times in his life. Having had to face the possibility of losing him for so long, when he turned 70 I said to myself, “OK, now if he dies at least he lived to a decent age.” But somehow, he made it to 80. How did that happen? And now he’s 88! Remarkable.

Having thought so often about his death, I have almost come to peace with it. I know it is only a question of time now – months, perhaps a couple of years. As a result, I’ve been thinking of what kind of eulogy he deserves. Most importantly, I didn’t want to wait until he died before delivering it.

My father the janitor (Voir plus bas pour version Française)

(Source: Mon père, ce concierge. Journal Métro, February 14, 2012) When I was young I was embarrassed by what my father did for a living, and by extension, him. My father was a janitor. Not only did he spend most of his days sweeping floors and emptying ashtrays at the airport, but he also mopped out a tavern every night after his shift. He even involved us in his moonlighting. On Sunday mornings my family went to clean the China D’Or Restaurant and the Brasserie Orly in Dorval. I always came back smelling of beer, cigarettes, and fried wontons. I hated it and made sure no one I knew ever found out what I did on weekends while they slept in. In CEGEP and University the contrast really hit me. I started meeting people whose parents were lawyers, authors, and physicians. It was hard for me to even imagine parents speaking the same language as their children. But something else started to happen at about the same age. The more I interacted with people, the more I was struck by how independent personality is of job title, education or financial success. Once you get past the inevitable first impression and intimidation caused by the weight of the title or symbol the real person starts to emerge. You discover personalities that are generous or selfish, self-effacing or boastful, closed-minded or accepting, confident or fearful. In short, it doesn’t take long to see that people are people, and that no profession has a monopoly on good ones.

The measure of a man

So what metric are we to use in measuring a life? The standard yardsticks of title and wealth remain appealing but do not stand up to real-life scrutiny. The true measure of a man is in his heart and his character. The character defined by his generosity of spirit, by what he makes of the lot life hands him, and by the maturity with which he faces adversity and accepts misfortune. I still get that ‘I’m from the wrong side of the tracks’ kind of feeling when I’m surrounded by lawyers at a board meeting, or by wealthy people at a fundraiser. But I also know that I have had it pretty good. My father weighed 39kg while imprisoned in a German Stalag during WWII, he emigrated with no money nor education, he survived a near fatal fall from a balcony, two major heart bypass operations, bladder cancer, and countless other adversity. Through it all, he smiles, tells his stories, and takes genuine pleasure in the success of others. By any measure, my father is a great man who simply did not have the same opportunities as his children. What he did for a living has become a symbol of his work ethic and strength, and a symbol of what he had to face as a young immigrant and child of the war years. My father was a janitor. Of that fact I cannot be more proud.

Voici la version Française:



Mon père, le concierge Quand j’étais jeune, j’avais honte du métier de mon père, et par extension, de lui. Il était concierge. Non seulement consacrait-il le plus clair de son temps à balayer les planchers et à vider les cendriers à l’aéroport, mais il passait également la vadrouille dans une taverne à tous les soirs. Il nous faisait même participer. Le dimanche matin, toute la famille l’aidait à nettoyer un restaurant chinois et une brasserie, à Dorval. J’en ramenais une odeur de bière, de cigarette et de wontons frits. Je détestais ça et je faisais tout pour que personne ne découvre à quoi je bossais la fin de semaine pendant qu’eux faisaient la grasse matinée. Au cégep et à l’université, le contraste m’a frappé. J’ai rencontré des gens dont les parents étaient avocats, écrivains et médecins. Il m’était difficile d’imaginer des parents parlant le même langage que leurs enfants. Mais j’ai découvert autre chose, à peu près au même âge. Plus j’avais d’interactions avec les autres, plus je me rendais compte que la personnalité a peu à voir avec le titre, les études ou la réussite financière. Une fois que l’on a passé la première impression et l’intimidation causées par un titre, la vraie personne commence à émerger. On découvre des personnalités généreuses ou égoïstes, effacées ou vantardes, étroites d’esprit ou tolérantes, confiantes ou craintives. Bref, il faut peu de temps pour découvrir qu’aucune profession n’a le monopole des bonnes personnes. La mesure d’un homme

Alors, quels paramètres utiliser pour mesurer une vie? Le titre et la richesse gardent leurs attraits, mais ils ne supportent pas un examen en situation réelle. La vraie mesure d’un homme réside dans son cœur et son caractère, qui se définit par sa générosité d’esprit, par ce qu’il fait de ce que la vie lui envoie et par la maturité avec laquelle il fait face à l’adversité et accepte l’infortune. J’ai encore cette impression de « provenir du mauvais côté de la voie ferrée » lorsque je suis entouré d’avocats à une réunion du conseil ou de gens fortunés dans une soirée-bénéfice. Je sais aussi que j’ai eu la partie facile : mon père pesait 39 kilos lors de son emprisonnement en Allemagne, pendant la guerre; il a immigré sans argent ni études; il a survécu à une chute quasi-mortelle d’un balcon, il a subi deux pontages, a eu le cancer et d’innombrables autres malheurs. Et pendant tout ce temps, il sourit, conte des histoires et se réjouit du succès des autres! Mon père est un grand homme qui n’a simplement pas eu les mêmes chances que ses enfants. Ce qu’il faisait pour vivre est devenu un symbole de son éthique du travail, et de ce qu’il a dû affronter en tant que jeune immigrant et enfant de la guerre. Mon père était concierge. Et je ne pourrais en être plus fier.

Tagged as character, Giuseppe Zacchia, the measure of a man.

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