My dad was the school janitor, and my classmates mocked him my whole life. When he died before my prom, I sewed my dress from his shirts so I could carry him with me. Everyone laughed when I walked in. They weren’t laughing by the time my principal finished speaking.
It was always just the two of us… Dad and I.
My mom died giving birth to me, so my dad, Johnny, handled everything. He packed my lunches before his shift, made pancakes every Sunday without fail, and somewhere around second grade, taught himself to braid hair from YouTube videos.
My mom died giving birth to me, so my dad, Johnny, handled everything.
He was the janitor at the same school I attended, which meant years of hearing exactly what people thought about that: “That’s the janitor’s daughter… Her dad scrubs our toilets.”
I never cried about it in front of anyone. I saved that for home.
Dad always knew anyway. He’d set a plate down in front of me and say, “You know what I think about people who make themselves big by making others feel small?”
“Yeah?” I’d look up, my eyes glistening.
“Not much, sweetie… not much.”
And it always, somehow, helped.
“Her dad scrubs our toilets.”
Dad told me honest work was something to be proud of. I believed him. And somewhere around sophomore year, I made a quiet promise: I was going to make him proud enough to forget every one of those nasty comments.
