Editor Takeover: My Father; The Hero

My name is Chris Chmielewski. Thanks to the lessons learned from the man we are gathered to celebrate I am also a Husband, a father of 3, a national speaker, an aspiring comedy writer and the Editor of a foster care magazine called Foster Focus.

I have had and still have only 5 role models or heroes in my life, since the age of 15 they are, in order; Richard Black, George Carlin, John Kennedy, Kurt Cobain and Ernest Hemingway.

I am fortunate to have lived with one of my heroes and to call him my father.

I came to his home when I was 14. I was cocky. I was a hustler. I was a lost kid.

I’ve told a few audiences full of foster care professionals this story, but I’d like to share it with you.

I was excited when I met Dick and Maxine Black, as they were introduced to me. They were old! I thought for sure this would be a foster care home I could run. I was wrong. They were firm but fair. Treated me like I was one of their own.

I really enjoyed making them both happy. I remember working an afterschool job and the fella couldn’t pay me that week but he gave me WWE tickets, nosebleeds. I rushed home and told Dad that I had gotten him two tickets to watch wrestling, it was a passion we shared. The show was held too late for me to attend and even though they were maybe the worst seats in the venues I was so proud to give him those tickets. And he smiled like he was happy to receive them. I hope he upgraded to better seats. I was so happy he went and bursting with the knowledge that I’d made him happy.

He’s been a constant in my life. I’ve tried to honor him as often as I can.

In the magazine, a few years ago, I wrote the following:

I have the good fortune of meeting and speaking with hundreds of truly loving foster parents each year. My affinity for great foster parents is well documented. My disdain for those who abuse the privilege of being the caregivers for the country’s most fragile resource is also well documented.

My story begins and ends with the quality of foster parents I was provided with.

I was an angry kid when I showed up on the doorstep of Richard and Maxine Black. I stood there judging them as day turned to night. Cigarette hanging from my mouth, torn Nirvana shirt on my chest and angry music blaring through the headphones that wrapped my face. I peered at them through the greasy strands of hair that covered my eyes. They smiled. I stared through them as they sat me down at their dinner table. They smiled. I sighed and rolled my eyes as they went over the rules of the house. They smiled. I kept quiet as they tried to pry information from me. They smiled. I stomped from the room and out the door when I was told I was dismissed. They smiled.

Then something happened. They handed me a basketball and told me what time to come back.

It was the dead of winter when I walked out the door. I asked for a shovel and directions to the nearest basketball court. I didn’t look back when I left that first day. I thought about running away. I thought about how I got to this strange place, this strange town. I thought about how damn cold I was. I shoveled off half of the court and warmed my hands. The music pumping into my head was angry but I was becoming less so. The ball bounced on the frozen ground and under the shine of a lone street light, I shot and I shot and I shot. I shot until my arms couldn’t support the ball anymore. I shot until the tears on my face had become icicles. I shot until I forgot who I was.

I walked back into the door of that foreign house, dirty, tired, and less angry but still not ready to talk to anyone. They smiled. I was shown my room that I would share with a kid who looked angrier than I did. I was shown the shower, my bed and a place to throw my garbage bag that contained what was left of my life. An insomniac slept that night.

The next day found me more susceptible to questions and more open to speaking to these new people around me. I got familiar with the two teen boys I’d spend the next couple of years with, there would be plenty more over my five years in the house. I began to feel the warmth of the matriarch of the household. The Blacks were in their mid-50s when I became their son. They were a warm, hardworking, robust couple with enough personality to keep the interest and respect of angry teenagers. Maxine was and is a boisterous woman with an ease about her that translated into an ability to knock down a person’s walls. She was attentive and caring. Prone to listening rather than lecturing. A friend after a while and someone you shared your problems with. Mr. Black was a solid man. He had worked hard his whole life and you could tell. He had a soft face and a barrel-chested body. I would tease him later that someone had put Kenny Rogers’ face on George “The Animal” Steele’s body. He spoke very rarely but when he did there was thought behind it and you took it to heart. At dinner that night he would say something that would change the course of my life.

“Because of where you are, the hand you’ve been dealt, you need to work three times harder than anyone else in the room.”

It was a simple, firm, direct message. No one was going to give me a thing. These people would be there to protect me and steer me in the right direction but the responsibility of becoming a quality person would fall on my shoulders. They taught me work ethic, they taught me patience, they taught me to care about myself. They taught me how to be a man I could be proud of.

That became what a good foster parent meant to me. It’s my measuring stick.

People seemed to like that. I was proud to have written it.

Before I leave you. I wanted to extend a thought I’ve had while trying to think of the right words to honor the man who taught me to live with integrity. Who taught me what a work ethic looked like. Who showed me what love for your wife and family looked like. The man that I would spend the rest of my life measuring myself against. “Would Dad be cool with this?” Is a question I ask myself at least 20 times a day. What do you say about the man who would be your moral compass? I think I will say what I feel.

My best friend died while I was in college. At his gathering, dozens of people spoke of him as if they were also his best friend. Because of moments and experiences, they had shared with him, they swore they were his best friend. I always thought that was a great testament to a life well lived.

I can see that Dad had that same impact. He was so many things to so many people.

Some of you knew him as a co-worker. I don’t need you to tell you about his work ethic.

Some of you knew him as a bowler. I’m sorry he beat you so many times but the man was nice on the pine planks.

Some of you knew him as a fishing buddy. Lucky you. I heard about all the arm length fish you’ve caught with him over the years.

Some of you knew him as a hunting pal. You too have amazing memories of mornings freezing your tails off. Sorry, not a hunter.

Some of you rode motorcycles with him throughout his life. My favorite Maxine story is one where she saw Dad pull up the big hill on Turbot Ave in Milton into their driveway and her stomach fluttered with butterflies. Isn’t that nice? They’d been married for a while at that point and still felt that way about each other.

I’m sure I don’t know all the aspects of this versatile man. He was, as I said, he was so many things to so many people. Not bad for a guy who could be found every night at the dinner table with us like clockwork.

Some of you are fortunate enough to call him family.

To his children, he adored all of you. I strove to be the type of people you were, in the hopes he would care about me the same way he cared for you. To his grandchildren, the joy you brought to his life is immeasurable. I was lucky to watch most of you grow up and I can tell you he beamed with pride when he spoke of all of you. To his many, many, many, many foster sons and I think one or two foster daughters, he loved us. He loved to teach us. Loved when we figured out things on our own. He loved when we did well, loved when we achieved things we went after. If you are one of us, you know he was one of a handful of people who believed in you when no one else did.

I’m sad my Dad is gone. I’m proud that he was proud of me. One of the last things he said to me was “I read your magazine. It’s good. I’m proud of you.”

I win awards. I talk to celebrities and government officials whose names you would know, I’ve had childhood idols tell me they like my work, but none of those things meant more the Papa Black taking the time to tell me he was proud of me. I will carry that with me always. Thank you for coming to say goodbye to one of the greatest men, you or I will ever know.