Dana lives in Seattle, and Tracie lives in Germany. We are businesswomen, writers and humorists. We write about life, dating, and today's modern women.
I don’t think a day goes by when my co-blogger and sister, Tracie and I don’t ask the question- What would Daddy do?
Yesterday evening as my mom and I huddled in the kitchen to watch the Republican National Convention, I kept wondering What would Daddy think?
Sometimes, you ask questions, when the answer is evident. I can without a moment of doubt visualize Daddy sitting next to me, his thumbs interlocked, leaning back in his chair, as The Donald and his wife, Melania perfectly poised and beautifully packaged stood before the Nation. Daddy would reason Good Game!
Good Game that they got to this juncture- as incredible as it is for many of us to fathom!
Good Game that imitation or immigration (lucky for Donald she made the cut!) is the best form of flattery. Good game that this beautiful specimen Listen to Michelle Obama’s speech in 2008 – the exact verbiage and sentiments were echoed out of Melania last night: You work hard for what you want in life. Your word is your bond. That you treat people with dignity and respect. That you do what you say you are gonna do. Wash this the National Convention or Millie Vanillie? “Girl you know it’s true!”
It appears that plagiarism is nothing new for the Trump tribe. As Tony Schwartz unveiled, he was the real author behind The Art of the Deal, and he referred to The Donald as a sociopath.
Watching all of this unfold, had me reflecting on a chapter in my not yet published Memoir, The Master Key. The year was 1987, and The Art of the Deal was a “new age” concept which took readers inside a boastful businessman’s drive, ambition and dogged determination to become a household name. With Donald’s well publicized problems with banks, he prevailed. It’s All Game…
Daddy kept them waiting approximately twenty minutes. “Good Morning gentlemen,”
he spoke cheerfully as he came down the stairs from his bedroom. He sat at the head of the
table between them. “Now, the reason I have called this meeting is to inform you that I want to
be treated like all the white millionaires. I can’t imagine Donald Trump running out of money.
Daddy nudged a copy of The Art of the Deal across the oak dining table.
“My business is continuously operating in a deficit because your lending practices still red line
and won’t allow me to bring money into this community.”
“Mr. Frank,” the Asian banker started, “I assure you, redlining is illegal, your loan denial
is not based on racism. The bank has been very generous to you in the past. Your payments have
become delinquent and we do not feel there is equity in your properties to justify you pulling
out more cash.”
Daddy displayed a cynical grin. “I think I can shed some light on the situation. Mr. Ohi,
where do you live?” Mr. Ohi cleared his throat, “Lynnwood.”
“Um hm,” Daddy chuckled. “And how many Blacks or Asians are on your block?”
“I don’t see the relevance.” Mr. Ohi responded irritably.
“My point exactly. You feel it is O.K. to move to some lily white neighborhood and
forget your ethnic responsibilities.” Daddy leaned forward and set his coffee cup down. He
pointed his finger to his chest, “I was born black, raised black, gonna die black and if there’s
reincarnation, I’m gonna come back black. Therefore, it is my responsibility to house black
people! I just can’t run and hide in Lynnwood, a white man’s suburb!”
Mama attempted to interrupt and offer additional coffee service, but the conversation
continued as if she were invisible.
Daddy rubbed the palms of his hands together. “Now, gentlemen, I would appreciate it if
we could take a short ride.”
Daddy had relieved Virgil from his duties of mowing the lawn on 21st Street that
morning. Although several sizes too big, Daddy had loaned him one of his old suits and a cap.
He was outside with the shiny ebony limousine fired up. Virgil was not aware Daddy was
acting pretentiously and that part of his duty was to open the door for the bankers.
“Virgil, get your ass up and open the door when we stop,” he said settling into the
back seat with the two bankers. “Now, drive by the building on 22nd.”
Nervously Virgil revved the engine and the car skidded out the driveway. “Virgil, slow
down, we ain’t runnin no race,” he grumbled from the rear of the stretch automobile.
As they reached the blue and white concrete thirty- unit building, Virgil stumbled out and
rushed to open the door, “How are you?” he said to the bankers after taking a partial bow.
“Don’t talk, just do as I say do” Daddy responded irritably. Then he walked the two
bankers through the cold halls with the section 8 subsidized and welfare babies screaming
through the doors. He looked at the bankers, shrugged his shoulders and said “If I don’t house
these people, who will?”
The bankers must have felt as if they were visiting the Robert Taylor Homes, housing
tenements from Chicago’s south side when fourteen year old truant Tyrese approached asking
for bus change. Daddy snapped at him to get his ass in school and he ran down the stairwell.
The strong aroma of southern cooking permeated the non-ventilated hallways. Daddy knocked at
unit #202, Velma with her three babies all under the age of five came peeping around the corner.
“Good morning, dear, “ he said in his most charming voice. “These uh, bankers here
want to talk to you about relocatin’ to Lynnwood. You see, they cut off my funding and I can’t
afford to keep goin.”
Mr. Arnold, the Caucasian banker was outraged. His follicle deprived scalp turned bright
crimson. “I’ve had enough Mr. Frank, please return me to my car.” Mr. Ohi nodded his
Daddy’s game was getting old, but these antics still worked. By the fall, Sea First Bank
had bailed him out once again.
Yes, Daddy would definitely concur- Good Game!-
And if that’s not enough to amuse you- get your souvenir Donald Chia Pet at WalMart!