A Forum For Community Issues : Celebrating Black History Month : Muddy Water, Hollow Logs and a Father’s Love : A steelworker who started life as a sharecropper’s son teaches his children and grandchildren the importance of education.

Much has been written on African American mothers as significant figures in the black family. As grandmother, mother, sister and aunt, they are seen as strong, resilient forces who sometimes single-handedly hold the family together. While this is true in too many cases, this image minimizes the role of African American fathers.

But African American fathers are nurturers, too. I praise those fathers, who despite being the victims of racism and poverty, continue to provide stability, hope and love for their families. They are the grandfathers, fathers, uncles and brothers who are unsung heroes in American life. They are men like my dad, David Nash Sr.

As a child, I knew that next to God, the greatest powers in my life were my parents. And central to my life was a father who loved his family more than himself. We were very poor, so poor that we had holes in the bottoms of our shoes by springtime. We lived in the projects of Los Angeles. Our daily meals were beans, greens and cornbread. Yet we were rich in pride, confidence and love.

We Nash children--all eight of us--knew that our father would work with all his might to make sure our dreams were not deferred. No drinking or gambling away his paycheck on Fridays. No resentment in having only one good suit and a pair of Stacy Adams shoes to wear for weddings, funerals, lodge meetings. Dad’s entertainment was family oriented: Dodger games (Saturday was ladies night--50 cents); Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm chicken dinners once a year; family picnics, holiday feasts and drive-in movies ($1 a car). Every four years, we drove across country in a crowded station wagon--three of us to a seat--to visit relatives in Hope, Ark. Family meant a lot to Dad. We were his life.

As a sharecropper’s son in Hope, Dad was allowed to go only as far as the sixth grade. Dad knew what racism had denied him, and he wanted to make sure it would not steal his children’s future. Therefore, he preached education to us day and night. When I was a little girl, Daddy told me that he would “drink muddy water and sleep in a hollow log” if I wanted to go to school. I did not know then how much you would have to love someone to make such a promise. But I made good on Dad’s promise, graduating at the top of my high-school class, becoming a Woodrow Wilson fellow and receiving a Ph.D. from UCLA.

Everything associated with school received Dad’s highest consideration and sacrifice--science projects, speech contests, awards programs, college night, SATs. With only one car in the family, Dad often got a ride to work with a friend so that Mom could take us to school and church functions. (Recently, Dad went without a car so his grandson could attend a better high school in Los Angeles and not be worried about gang violence on the way home from school.)

Dad’s job in the steel mills of Los Angeles did not afford him the benefits of paid time off for personal business. So every high school graduation cost Dad half a day’s pay, and he never missed a one of the eight. Everyone at his job knew when it was one of his kids’ graduation because it was the only time Dad requested time off. These were Dad’s proudest moments.

In so many ways, Daddy provided the support I needed to attend school and not be worried about tomorrow. When I got my first part-time job, my Daddy gave me a long talk about the insignificance of my job in relationship to my long-term goals. He said if it interfered with school, I should quit.

Dad did more than make me feel financially and emotionally secure. He was my greatest fan. Once, while attending UCLA, I spent an entire night studying for a final exam in Greek and Roman oratory. Surely my Dad could not help me study. But he paced the floor from his bedroom to the bathroom, peeping into my room periodically saying, “Haven’t you finished yet? You need some rest.” I would promise to go to bed in just a few more minutes. Eventually, I went to bed around 5 a.m. so that I could get two hours of rest before my 8 a.m. exam. Around 6:30, I was awakened by the smell of bacon and eggs. My Dad was cooking my breakfast. He said I needed my strength to do my best. When my grade of “A” came to my home the next week, I placed it over the fireplace near his mail because I realized it was really his achievement too.

Dad is retired now. A few years ago, when I called him early in the morning and he wasn’t home, I later found out that he was caring for a sick 2-month-old great-granddaughter because he didn’t want his granddaughter to miss her class at Trade Tech College. At 75, he still preaches education, attends his grandchildren’s graduations and continues to provide us with the stability, security and confidence we need to face the world. He has never forsaken us. We will never forsake him.

There are many fathers like David Nash who give their children the hope, stability, security and love they need to blossom. They are not listed in Who’s Who, chairmen of any boards or leading marches for freedom. They simply and quietly love their children in a powerful, nurturing way.