I remember my father telling us kids at the dinner table about his first day of school in America. He is now deceased, but this one story sticks in my mind. His father was a
proud Italian-American who instilled that value in all of his kids: Be proud of who you are and succeed in every endeavor you pursue You are just as good as anybody else.

That first day of school was an exciting event for my father. He was thoroughly scrubbed and got to wear his Sunday clothes. When he walked into the classroom, he was greeted
by a matronly lady who smiled, saying “And what is your name?” My dad hesitated, fidgeting with his clothing. With a large smile, he then blurted out his first name, “Cherico.”

“Pardon me?” the teacher said. Surely she was a saint of some sort or why would she want to teach school and put up with a bunch of kids that were not her own?

“Cherico,” he repeated with no less enthusiasm than the first time. Maybe she had a hearing disorder.

She then said, “No, no, no. This is America. We speak English here. I’m going to put your name down as Charles.”

My father protested, “My name is Cherico, not Charles.”

“What did you say?” she snapped as her demeanor quickly changed. This saint transformed herself in the space of a minute.

He waited a long time, but finally said, “Nothing, Ma’m. You are correct. My name is Charles.”

The rest of the day went by without anything eventful happening. But there was a sinking feeling in the bottom of my father’s stomach. The first lesson he received was the most valuable he was to learn all year long: Some people will not accept you for who you are. Such acceptance is not automatic in this world. When the day ended, he simply said “Good Bye” to his new teacher and hurried out because he knew couldn’t hold back much longer. Once outside the door, little rivulets ran down his cheeks onto his Sunday clothes.