As a kid, I'd wait at the end of the block for my dad. I'd eagerly anticipate his beater turning the corner, so I could wave him down to stop. I'd call to the neighborhood kids to say our ride has arrived, during which time we'd pile onto the hood of his car.
Yes, the hood.
Ten of us neighborhood kids sat on my dad's car as he drove us down the street. We'd wave like the pageant queens and future presidents we hoped we'd become. And my father honked his horn to herald the beauty of our dreams in the barrio.
Looking back, it's probably the dumbest idea to drive kids around on the hood of a car. Ever. But I thought it was incredibly cool and my dad made no apologies for making the rules up as he went along. People were drawn to his magnetism and his ability to take what he had in life and make the best of it.
If my father has given me anything, it's the ability to–in spite of the circumstances–find the bright spot and allow others to shine in the glimmer of their dreams.
