The world said goodbye to my grandpa, Tom Fitzpatrick, after whom I was named. He lived an incredibly full 89 years.
My grandparents fulfilled the America Dream, with each contributing to ensuring a comfortable life and raising six successful children. Life wasn’t always comfortable—necessitating frugality that, like so many other traits, passed along to their progeny.
A dream manifested through hard work, above-average intelligence, the benefit of the GI Bill, a supportive partner, and no doubt a bit of providence. Religion was a complicated subject and a topic I delighted in talking to him about.
He was raised as a Roman Catholic, and although I don’t think he wavered much from his belief in a higher power, the same cannot be said for the teachings of the church. His recollection of this spiritual journey taught me more about morality than any scripture ever did.
At the age of 34 he became the president of the local Human Relations Council he helped establish to address discrimination in the area. At the time, White Bear Lake, was a small homogenous suburb north of St. Paul, MN.
A local reporter asked him if the Council’s actions would make it more likely for black families to settle in this predominantly white community.
“We hope so,” he replied. “Right now our children are being raised in a sterile environment in some ways. They are being raised among other children of the same race, same income bracket, same culture, same interests, and same problems. They are completely unprepared for the cultural shock that comes when they enter the outside to mix with all kinds of people.” He was woke in 1965.
And expose his kids he did. He brought the whole family to Mexico to live for a year. While he was both an English and Spanish teacher, he told me once that it wasn’t until the year of true immersion that he became fluent and fully comfortable teaching Spanish.
He used the story of the Human Relations Council to teach me at an early age that as Fitzpatricks, we fight for the underdog -- a lesson I took to heart.
The council first started meeting at a local church. But antagonism toward their mission of racial justice caused the priest to no longer welcome their efforts. Their initiatives were not deterred.
He told me these lessons and so many others, often while also teaching me how to fix things around the house.
Grandpa had a gift for communication. He enjoyed writing limericks and other rhymes. His precision in thought even made his prose poetic. Stories were always told with the same demeanor, with no smile to distinguish a tall tale from truth. I quickly learned how to discern the two and appreciate his dry wit.
Last month, as I replaced a bathroom faucet with my son Gideon, I thought of Grandpa Tom. While I was gifted his name, I was also gifted with many enduring life lessons that I look forward to imparting to the next generation.