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by Yolanda Taylor

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My Dad gazed forlornly out the airplane window, watching the long expanses of open rice fields slowly fade away and change from distinct images into a greenish brown blur. He blinked away the images still too sharp in his mind, the bomb pits so numerous they clustered together to create single ravines, faces of friends lost in the war, the taught cold face of his wife, Phuong, now abandoned in her home country. He squeezed my hand tightly, willing his conscious back to reality. My cold hand awoke with a tingle and reflexive jerk; I shifted in my seat and repositioned my head on his lap, falling back into a peaceful state of unconsciousness. I was two, my Dad was thirty. He was a single parent, now faced with the daunting task of raising a two year old on his own. Parental instinct told him he had to escape my abusive mother. His journalist income was barely enough to cover the bills. All of his savings had been depleted on the complicated arrangements necessary to secure a safe and secretive exit out of Vietnam. We were headed to California with only several dollars to our name and no plan for survival.

The next six years shaped the backbone of my personality. We were homeless, at least by the true definition of the word. We spent several years living in a packing crate, an abandoned rusted box that had seen better years hauling freight for the local train company. The next several were in a leen-too, a wooden structure my Dad built in an effort to upgrade our living quarters. I lacked every luxury my children enjoy today. Our only spending money came from our monthly welfare check, barely enough to cover food. We hitchhiked the two-hour drive to the welfare office each month, an activity I came to love. I didn't think we were homeless. When I think of homeless people, I think of those without even a roof above their heads. I think of the uneducated. I think of those with mental disorders. While many of these biases are inaccurate and unfair, we had everything a child needs to thrive. We spent most days at the local library. I learned to read earlier than many of the children I see today in top private schools. I learned the value of money and to work hard earlier than most children are even asked to do chores. I invented creative ways to make money, challenging children in town to running races with a one-dollar bet. No one could beat me. I ate well and ate everything put on my plate, knowing it was all we had. Most of all, I had constant love and attention. My Dad devoted every minute of every day during our six years living homeless to my development.

My Dad was tough. At times I felt that I could never please him, only realizing years later that it was his way of challenging me. We checked seven books out of the library each week, one for each day of the week. I read the books out loud while my Dad listened intently, interrupting incessantly to grill me on word definitions. I was required to write down each word I didn't know the meaning of into a notebook, and each evening he would pull out the notebook, grilling me on word definitions and synonyms of the various words we covered. I valued and constantly sought his praise, as it was selective and only given when my answers were one hundred percent correct.

One of my favorite activities was walking to the stream in town. It took a good hour, and we'd walk hand in hand, with my Dad pointing out the names of plants and birds we'd pass on our way. We challenged each other to rock skipping contests. Sometimes we'd spend three or four hours down by the stream, all the while reviewing topics I was studying in school. To get to the stream, we had to pass a section of town where homeless camped out. I forever remember the images of the dirty men and women, dressed in tattered clothing, smelling of alcohol, sitting around a campfire staring off into space. I always felt fortunate to be with my Dad as we passed by, waving hello and saying good day to the group huddled together for comfort and warmth.

Although we did eventually move into a real home, we never had extra money. I was required to buy all my own clothes as soon as a paper route was possible. Life never seemed easy. I missed a year of school, testifying in custody court that my Father was not abusing me, an accusation my real Mother made after finding us nine years later. My Father pushed me to make up the classes, devoting time in the evenings to teach me the subjects I had missed. I borrowed the money I needed to pay for my Ivy League education, and again for my MBA. I achieved my childhood dream of making a million dollars before I hit age 30.

Now I have my own children. Now I have a very large house filled with every toy any child could ever dream of. I achieved everything I ever hoped for career success and a lot of money, wonderful husband, and healthy and intelligent children. Now I struggle with my upbringing more than any other time in my life. I want my children to also achieve everything they ever desire. We can afford all the toys they want, we can afford the best private schools, we can afford anything and everything offered in our current society to create successful children. But is this for sale? I had none of these luxuries growing up. I had love and a parent who devoted the time in his life to my development. I had a parent who believed in me and told me I could achieve whatever I desired. Love and devotion are not for sale, nor is instilling in children a desire to succeed. As much as we can buy fancy computer games to teach our children to read, send them to the best schools, and enroll them in extracurricular activities, nothing can substitute for the more challenging and more relevant aspects of parenthood.

I recently made the very tough decision to retire from my job of eleven years to also devote this time in my life to my own children. My father raised me to be incredibly driven and motivated towards success. I achieved all the success I ever dreamed of, and now am scared to death of translating my drive and motivation into something so intangible, the development of my children. I have constantly sought success with short-term rewards and constant feedback. Children give you little feedback, and their success is seen over years and years. I am reliving some of my childhood as my children are also learning to love our frequent trips to the library. I challenge them to repeat back the meaning of words they ask for the definition of, following up the next day with verbal quizzes. As they grow older, I will also have a notebook for them. I look forward to seeing a part of my Father in my own parenting style.

I haven't figured out what the right recipe is in raising successful children. The only thing I'm confident in is the value of love, the value of spending as much time as possible with your children while they're young, and the value of believing in them to give them the necessary self-confidence to succeed. I will work as hard as I can to give this to all four of my children. Whether they go to public or private schools, whether they are allowed to use video games, watch television, or eat sweets, I don't doubt that these are all relevant factors in a child's development. However, in my quest to instill in my children some of the values I learned as a child, I am choosing to focus on the day to day aspects of being a parent to give them that love and attention all children so desperately need.

Learn more about this author, Yolanda Taylor.

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