A Mop and a Bucket

        The teacher slammed the textbook onto the back of his head, knocking him onto the cold floor. His classmates turned and looked at him, laughing loudly, while the teacher stood above him, asserting his dominance. 

“What are you stupid, Cestaro?” he exclaimed. 

My dad, mortified but used to the treatment, gathered the papers that fell on the floor and scurried back to his chair. His failing grades in school, undiagnosed processing disorder, and constant bullying from the kids and teachers slowly turned him into a truant student. But these moments also shaped him into the man he is today. 

Most of my dad’s qualities, such as his determination and inability to accept criticism are a result of the home he grew up in. Although I never had to endure the devastation of his childhood, I find that I resonate with many of his attributes. My mother reminds me of mine and my dad’s resemblance, in part because of our tenacity, but also because of the hurtful actions we can impose on others. I rarely internalized the conversations concerning my father, until I started to observe that our coping mechanisms, thought processes, and values aligned more closely than I realized. 

My dad grew up in Morris Park in the Bronx, during the 1960s, along with two sisters, his dad, and his mom, who was an immigrant from Italy. He was a dark-haired, brown-eyed, short-statured kid who had bowed legs. He grew up poor, in a city divided by racism, with reckless friends, who negatively affected his already low self-esteem. Meanwhile, I grew up in Westchester County, and attended a private institution for the last eight years of my life. I had all the support that one could have, and yet, our similar qualities still persist.  

His mom stood in line for government cheese, and would come home to scrub dirty dishes and mop the paltry two-story house. Meanwhile, my dad never had to do chores because he was the only man among his siblings; housework was for the women to handle. My dad is surrounded by women in his life, each one fulfilling a distinct role, whether that be a best friend, a lover, or a daughter that admires him. 

Most people in my dad’s childhood believed he would amount to nothing. Imposter syndrome haunts him now, convincing him he’s a fraud, all because of barely being pushed through to receive his diploma. Like my father, I find the need to constantly prove that I am worthy, not just to others, but to myself. It becomes an internal battle, where looking at my weaknesses feels criminal. In his early teenage years, he showed no direction in comparison to the people around him. My dad’s parents could never help him, whether with struggles to do homework or simply guiding him in the right direction. They did the best they could given their circumstance, but their attempts were inadequate. His mom hadn’t graduated middle school, and his dad worked until after dark. 

At 16-years-old my dad started working for a janitorial company, where he learned the trade of the cleaning industry from his employer Joseph Ricevuto. He worked for his employer for two years, on top of doing part-time painting in order to earn more money. At the age of 18, after two years of waxing floors and washing windows, my dad was painting the side of Joseph’s gazebo when he boldly stated, “I can’t live on the money you're giving me anymore. I need a raise.” 

Joseph didn’t bother to look him in the eye, but rather laid still in his chair suntanning.

“You’re not worth a raise. You’ll never amount to anything, Cestaro, ” he retorted. 

Perhaps, he thought Joseph was right, and thought about surrendering to the person everyone thought he would be. Regardless, his thoughts, if true, never stood in the way of his future desires. My dad climbed down from the ladder, and laid the paint brush and tray on the floor. 

“I quit,” he said. 

At 19-years-old he took two-hundred dollars his dad lent him and bought a mop and bucket. He hauled his cleaning supplies from store to store for nine hours a day searching for customers. He mostly experienced rejection; even his parents would emphatically inquire what he was doing with his life cleaning windows and scrubbing toilets. But the few potential clients that said “yes “propelled him forward. When he garnered enough money, he purchased a wood-paneled station wagon in order to take his company out of Morris Park. His drive and tenacity allowed doors to open and connections to form, and, eventually, week after week, he discovered a gradual increase in his earnings. Forty-eight years and four-hundred employees later, he still runs the same successful company that he built from his mop and bucket. 

I’ve always been intrigued by my dad, and I wonder if that’s because I’m confused about myself. My mom has told me the phrase “you’re just like your father,” in both a negative and positive connotation, and I often become indignant when she lumps us together. I’ve continued to put him on a pedestal for the majority of my life, which is why this phrase brings me to a conflicting reality, forcing me to examine us as two equal entities that feel intertwined.

The issues we have had to overcome, such as our processing disorder, we feel we face alone. My dad still struggles to accept criticism today because his intelligence was questioned constantly as a child. Naturally, when someone points out one of his shortcomings, he becomes defensive. It hurts to think his childhood thoughts still lurk in the back of his mind.

However, I have no reason to feel this way. Being raised by two loving parents and having all the support in order to succeed should be bound to boost my confidence. It puzzles me why I relate so much to my dad, when in truth I shouldn’t have much of a reason besides my persistent approach to life. The disparity in our childhoods could not be larger, and yet I feel as though I innately mimicked his mannerisms and characteristics from a young age. In our similar gestures, actions, and unspoken thoughts, I observe a singular canvas, painted with two different brushes, and although I ponder why we share characteristics, I feel some comfort in knowing that there is an inexplicable bond that connects us.